pocketful of sunshine

“No.”

“What—?” Clark followed you into the kitchen, hands grasping at the air in desperation, “Honey, come on!”

You turned on your heel, face soured as you went through the motions of the conversation at hand that had lasted all of ten minutes before it shifted into the shallow end of a brewing argument.

The topic being: where to live.

Clark stood with his shoulders rounded and wore an incredulous look that—in your humble opinion—was a little dramatic given what he was asking you. You both stood in his Ma and Pa’s kitchen, both parents long retired to their beds when the housing topic arose at the dinner table.

It was time to combined two homes into one. And, neither of you felt like budging.

“I’m not moving into that…that thing.” You crossed your arms across your chest.

Clark’s brows raised into his hairline. “That thing? You mean to say, my home—your husband’s home?” When you threw your hands up in the air and moved past him to get into the living room and save yourself from being cornered, Clark followed hot on your heels. He then added, “Come on, honey. It makes sense. It’s safe, far enough away from…well, everything.”

“Yeah. That’s why it is called the Fortress of Solitude. Alone. Secluded.” You piled onto the description of the place, shivering at the memory of the last time you had visited. Mainly because it was freezing amongst other factors.

(Clark soon found out you might be one of the only humans on the planet that didn’t like the Fortress of Solitude.)

As the slander left your mouth, Clark pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “We can call it the Fortress of Unification. Two hearts unified. Together.”

“You can’t just change the name of something once it’s been named, Clark. Just ask the creator of the Bean in Chicago, who desperately reminds everyone it’s actually called the Cloud Gate.” You bent at the waist to pick up a blanket from the floor and chucked it back into the basket next to the sofa you and Clark had been cuddling on. You mumbled, “So dumb. It’s clearly a bean.”

Clark dropped his head back, his eyes closed as his nostrils flared in frustration from getting nowhere with you. When you turned around, you watched him openly, molars grinding out of your own frustrations and guilt rising in your chest.

It was a silly argument. Something that could be squashed in a less juvenile state, but you really needed Clark to realise you had just wrapped your head around the Metropolis Subway, and you didn’t want to undo all your hard work by living in the middle of nowhere with a bunch of robots to keep you company on the weekends.

“Look. If it’s the cost of apartments in Metropolis, I can find another job.” You said quietly.

Clark dropped his gaze to you. A full pout on his face. “Money isn’t the issue for me. I just think, I’ve got a perfectly good place to live!”

“You sound like a mother.” You argued with a laugh. “I’m going to bed. We can sleep on this. I love you.” You stepped into Clark’s space and kissed the pout on his lips before sauntering down the hallway to the spare room.

Clark rubbed the wrinkles on his forehead and broke into a speedy walk to catch up with you.

“Is that Mister Terrific?”

You peered over the cubicle in the office you were sat in to look in the direction of the large glass doors that led out onto a balcony. It was a rather mundane and repetitive office job that had you concealed in a box, packed like sardines with one hundred other people, at least. You had snagged the spot of employment since you hauled yourself from the safe space of Smallville, Kansas, to the city of Metropolis; where the buildings were taller than the sky.

The giant move from the humid air of Smallville to the polluted one of Metropolis was down to the lark of your heart: Clark Joseph Kent.

It seemed his absence in his hometown felt more like an immovable object than something you could roll with whenever he upped and left to return to the city. And, after a three week turn around in your friendship-gone-relationship, you began to realise that the motto of ‘home is where the heart is’ meant that home didn’t necessarily mean a place, or building you had grown up in. It was a person.

So, you followed Clark Kent to Metropolis and within two years you had been married in Spring and nestled in a one bedroom apartment in the heart of the city.

(There was no way that you could be convinced to stay in the Fortress of Solitude.)

Being married to Clark Kent, meant you were married to Superman. The protector of Metropolis—despite what some of the public would say—and the man that tried his best to make things right. To make things good. So, from time to time, when the metaphorical sand began to tip into the bad end of the hourglass sand timer; Clark would have to uproot himself and leave on short notice.

Which led you to that very moment, with Mister Terrific hovering outside your building with a stoic expression as he awaited action.

Everyone had begun to shift in their seats, low chatter that a member of the Justice League—no, Justice Gang? You weren’t sure—was loitering out a skyscraper for no apparent reason.

That’s when heads began to turn to you. You were more on the confrontational side, to the people you worked with anyway. And, that meant they were looking to you to resolve the new addition to the scenic views from the nineteenth floor of the skyscraper you all worked in.

What your co-workers hadn’t realised was, they had put you in the position you always intended to be. You knew why Mister Terrific was there, but they didn’t have to know.

If anything, you were just going to ask him to leave the premise and go ask the Mayor to fill in some potholes.

You stood with little need for encouragement and walked over to the glass doors, quick to open and shut it behind you so the eavesdroppers of the workplace wouldn’t be able to hear anything but a muffled exchange of pleasantries.

“Do you need to appear like this?” You turned to Mister Terrific and crossed your arms.

He shrugged. “You want the USB?”

“Yes. Please.”

“Then, I’ll keep turning up this way.” Mister Terrific responded nonchalantly and made enough discreet movement that the USB you required reached your hand with minimal theatrics that would raise questions later.

You gave him a curt nod and a smile you reserved for people you didn’t really know well. “Thank you…Is—Is he OK?”

Mister Terrific blinked and it was at that point that you almost missed the small nod he gave you before his finger gestured to the USB tucked into the palm of your hand, “Check that and you’ll know.”

He then left without another word and you went back inside the building with multiple voices calling over their own cubicles, curious as to what the member of the Justice League needed. You responded by waving off their questions with reassurance that he was just doing the rounds of the skyscrapers to ensure all citizens were safe, before snatching your laptop from your desk, scurrying off to the bathroom for some privacy.

The cubicle door slammed shut and you sat with your knees pressed together atop of the toilet with a sense of newfound giddiness. With one earphone pushed into your ear, you opened up your laptop and plugged the USB into the side of it.

A file popped up in the middle of your screen.

HONEY FILES.

(How incredibly cliche of your husband. You’d prod fun at him upon his return.)

Without another second wasted, you opened the file up to see a short list of videos dated from the first day Clark had to leave for Jarhanpur.

You bit down on your fingernails as you clicked the first file in the chronological order that had been made.

“Hi, honey.” Clark’s voice was heard before you could see him. The camera wobbled around until his face appeared. He wore a smile that wasn’t as genuine as the one on your wedding day. He exhaled deeply, “Just as I promised. A video for you to keep you updated. I’m not sure when it’ll get back to you, but I finally got Mister Terrific to agree to delivering it after some silly bickering—”

You muffled the small laugh that escaped your lips behind the palm of your hand. The idea that Clark had spent his energy on convincing Mister Terrific to deliver a USB to his wife back in Metropolis was amusing in itself.

You would store that mental image whenever you needed a little laugh.

Clark continued in the video, “I miss you already, and it’s only been…” He mulled the calculations over, “At least six hours. I guess that’s when you know we were destined to be together.”

(He was right.)

“I’m sorry our honeymoon plans got postponed. Well, part of me isn’t sorry, because the people of Jarhanpur need help. I wouldn’t be able to enjoy the honeymoon entirely with that thought in the back of my head…Anyway, here—” Clark jostled with the camera to show his Superman garb. He patted the space just below where his heart would be, “Ma sewed in a pocket, just here, so I could have my wedding ring on me at all times. She’s a hopeless romantic, I suppose. Oh, and also,” The camera swished about for a moment as Clark removed one red boot from his foot, “I have my favourite photo of you in my boot. I hope you don’t mind getting stepped on for the time being.”

His shoddy camera work made you feel a little dizzy as he brought it back to focus on his handsome face. He gave a shy smile to the camera and you could practically see the cogs turning in his head.

“I’ll be leaving here in a moment. I hope work isn’t too bad, and Mark minds his business.” He sniffed, “I love you. Bye.”

Click. The screen went black.

The rest of the videos taunted you to open just one more. Something about it felt like catnip to you. Addictive, sent your heart soaring at the sight of your husband. But, alas, you decided that your gluttony for Clark Kent could wait until you clocked out of work…or whenever you could take intermittent bathroom breaks without question as to why you had to take your laptop every time.

Laptop tucked beneath your armpit, you sauntered out of the toilet with your chin tilted upward to evade any worry of suspicious onlookers.

“You were in there for ten minutes.” Mark—the guy who refused to bite his tongue—called out to you as you reached your office cubicle.

You glared at him. “Did you want to fish out the tampon for me, Mark?”

“No.” Mark said quietly, his face aflame.

After that, your willpower prevailed and you managed to withhold any further trips to the bathroom to lap up the videos Clark had recorded for you. With your bag packed before the clock struck 5PM, you raced out of the building. Not missing the small ache in your chest that Clark wasn’t leant up against a column in the lobby of your workplace, ready to take your bag with a smile and a quick kiss.

The trip back to the apartment went slower than necessary, with one train cancelled and the elevator up to your apartment out of service. It was as if fate was purposely toying with you.

Curtains drawn and one pack of instant noodles thrown into a bowl, you slumped into your sofa after connecting your laptop to the TV so you could watch Clark on a bigger screen; you clicked onto the second video with baited breath.

“Hi, honey. It’s me.” Clark waved at the camera awkwardly, “Again. I just finished my first video to you and then realised I needed to remind you to take the food I had made you out of the freezer. Just so you don’t have to eat those cardboard tasting ramen noodles.”

You blinked at the TV, mouth packed with the noodles he was referring to.

“OK. I love you. Bye.”

Click.

You went to the next one below it.

Clark’s brows were furrowed in this one. He scratched at his temple before he spoke, “Hi, honey. Well, I stopped the military—illegal military—invasion of Jarhanpur. Hooray.” He scoffed, “I’m OK, no real injuries aside from the headache I have. I, uh…I spoke with the President of Boravia about going forward.”

You winced at that. Knowing your husband’s temper that flared from time to time, the likelihood of a simple conversation was minimal. It put a pit in your stomach for the outcome that would undoubtedly follow.

Fork stabbing at the noodles, you sighed as Clark continued to speak. “For what it is worth, I’m glad I stepped in. I think the U.S. Government will have something else to say. People were going to die, right honey? This is what I was sent here to do.”

“Well, I love you. It’s been—what—seventy-two hours now since we’ve been apart?” He looked desperate to return to you, “Seventy-two hours too long. Seventy-two kisses to give you when I get back. Plus however many more. OK, I’m going. Bye, honey.”

Click.

You suddenly felt the same absence you felt when Clark left Smallville for the final time without you. An empty hollow in your chest that, seemingly, was Clark Kent shaped.

They told you marriage would be hard. You had presumed they meant it took work to make things last. Not that it would be almost impossible to be without him.

You finished up your noodles, dissatisfied with the taste—as predicted by Clark—and leant over the bundle of blankets to click the last video Clark had made for you.

This time, instead of the camera panning to Clark’s face, it was the scenic view of the Kent Farm at sunset.

Your breath hitched.

“Hi, honey. It’s me. Obviously.” Clark mumbled as he moved the camera across the horizon, “I stopped by Ma and Pa’s on the way back. I know you miss this, so I thought, why not capture it? If you close your eyes, you can pretend you’re here with the ambient sound of those gosh darn cicadas.” He chuckled behind the camera, “We had our first kiss over there, remember?” His finger came to point out to the lake, “And, over here—” He turned the camera to the front of the Kent’s house, where Ma and Pa waved in the distance, “Are Ma and Pa. They miss you, but not as much as me.”

The camera then pointed to Clark who wore a warm, reminiscent smile, “Thank you for giving this up for me. You’re braver than you know.” You openly laughed at that statement. As if he hadn’t jetted to Jarhanpur to put himself between a military invasion and innocent citizens. He continued, “I made a wish list of sorts on the fly over to Smallville. Some of it already completed, like marrying you. Maybe, if we would like, a couple of kids that all look like you. The world will leave us alone when it happens. We can even come back to the Kent Farm, build a house. You deserve to get what you want.”

Your vision blurred at his topic of conversation. Clark was always one for articulated speeches, and this one had caught you off guard.

His blue eyes softened at the thought of the domesticity of it all, “I just want you. Wherever you want to be, I’ll be there.” Clark swallowed and nodded, “I’ll see you soon. I love you. Bye.”

There’s always a point—somewhere between the deepening breaths and the small, punched-out sounds you can’t help but swallow against his mouth—where Spencer’s rhythm falters. You feel it before you see it: the subtle tension bleeding into his shoulders, the way his clever fingers tighten, then freeze, like a clockwork mechanism seizing up. His eyes, half-lidded and dark, flicker with something caught between want and worry—a war he’s been fighting longer than you’ve known him. And then, softly, almost apologetically, he’ll ask you to stop.

You always do. However hard it is—and God, it is hard, your pulse hammering between your thighs and your lips swollen and slick, your body singing with a need that doesn't understand the word stop—you pull back without question. You untangle yourself gently, press a steadying palm to his chest, feel the rabbit-fast beat of his heart beneath his ribcage. Because crossing Spencer’s boundaries isn’t something you’re willing to do. Not for this. Not for anything. Not ever.

You’ve told him as much, more times than you can count. We don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for. And he’d nodded, relief softening the sharp lines of his face, and kissed your temple with something like gratitude. You’d meant it then. You mean it still.

So when tonight's make-out session stretches past its usual breaking point—when his hips roll up to meet yours instead of faltering, when his breath comes in sharper, hungrier gasps and he still doesn't say the word—you're the one who pulls back first.

You blink down at him, chest heaving, your own body thrumming with a need you've gotten very good at setting aside. The absence of his mouth against yours feels almost cold. "Spencer." Your voice comes out rougher than you intended, scraped raw at the edges. "Do you… want to take a break?"

He doesn't answer right away.

His lips are reddened, kiss-swollen in a way that makes your stomach ache. His hair is already mussed from your fingers—dark strands falling across his forehead, endearingly dishevelled. And for a moment, he just looks at you like you've asked him a question he's been rehearsing an answer to for weeks. There's something fragile and fierce warring behind his expression, something that makes your heart pick up for an entirely different reason.

You can practically see the gears turning behind those dark eyes. Cataloguing. Calculating. Deciding.

Then his hands slide from your waist to your thighs. Slower than usual. Deliberate. As if he's crossing a line he's drawn in his own mind a hundred times before and only now mustering the courage to step over. His thumbs press small, warm circles into your legs, just above your knees—right where the hem of your shorts ends, skin meeting skin—and the gesture is so tender and so unexpected that your breath catches and holds.

"No," he says quietly. And then, even quieter, like a secret he's only just admitted to himself: "But there is something I want to try."

Your stomach flips. Every nerve ending in your body seems to wake up at once, pulling taut like piano wire. You should ask what. You should slow this down the way you always do, give him an off-ramp, make sure he's sure. But his hands are still warm on your thighs and his gaze hasn't dropped—he's looking right at you, steady and certain in a way you've never seen before—and the word leaves your mouth before you can think better of it.

"Anything."

That one word hangs in the air between you, heavy with implication. You mean it. God help you, you mean it in ways you didn't fully realize until just now.

And then Spencer Reid—your sweet, shy, flustered-by-eye-contact Spencer—slides off the couch.

It happens so smoothly you barely register the movement at first. One moment he's beneath you, all long limbs and hesitant hands, and the next he's lowering himself to the floor. His knees press into the worn carpet. His palms come to rest on the tops of your thighs, grounding himself. Grounding you.

He settles onto his knees in front of you, looking up with those dark, clever eyes, and the world seems to tilt sideways.

For a second, you forget how to breathe.

He looks up at you from the floor, and there's something new in his expression. Something you've never seen before. Not hesitation. Not the familiar, flickering worry that usually clouds his eyes when things go too far. Instead, you see the same focused, methodical attentiveness he brings to a cold case or a complicated text—except softer at the edges, warmed by something that looks almost like reverence. Like you're not just someone he wants. Like you're someone he's been trying to find the courage to worship.

You watch, frozen, as his hands move to your knees. He's gentle—he's always gentle—but there's a new confidence in the way his fingers curl around the curve of your legs, parting them just enough. Not rushed. Not hesitant. Deliberate.

He leans in like he's approaching something precious and terrifying all at once—like you're a first edition he's afraid to breathe on, or a butterfly whose wings he doesn't want to bruise. And then he presses his lips to the inside of your bare leg, just above your ankle.

Your breath stutters.

Then higher. His mouth finds the delicate skin behind your knee, soft and warm. Then higher still—your calf, your kneecap, the sensitive inside of your thigh where the muscle jumps beneath his touch. Each press of his mouth is softer than the last, barely there, like he's tasting the air around you more than your skin. You can feel the soft whisper of his exhale through the thin fabric of your shorts, warm and unsteady.

He stops just shy of where you're already aching.

So close you can feel the heat radiating off his lips. So close that a single shift of your hips would close the distance. His breath fans over you—deliberate now, you realize with a jolt. This isn't hesitation. He's waiting. He's learned that this does something. That anticipation is its own kind of touch. That the things left unsaid, untouched, unfinished can burn hotter than anything else.

When he looks up at you with those wide, earnest eyes, your heart nearly stops.

His pupils are blown wide, dark swallowing the warm brown. His lips are parted, slightly shiny from the trail of kisses he's left up your legs. And there's a flush climbing his neck, spreading across his cheekbones—not the embarrassed pink of someone caught off guard, but the deeper color of someone who knows exactly what he wants and can't quite believe he's allowing himself to have it.

"I haven't done this before," he admits.

His voice is steady—steady in that way he gets when he's reciting something he's memorized, facts and figures and dates locked behind that beautiful, brilliant brain—but you can hear the vulnerability underneath. The slight crack at the end of before. The way his throat works as he swallows. The quiet fear that you might say no. That he might get it wrong. That he might disappoint you.

Your chest clenches so tightly it almost hurts.

Every instinct screams at you to ask. Are you sure? We can wait. You don't have to do this. You want to make sure his first time going down on someone is for the right reasons—because he's ready, because he wants it, not because he feels pressured by some invisible clock he's invented in his head. You want to protect him from himself, the way you always have.

But then you really look at him.

Not at the Spencer who stammers and looks away. Not the Spencer who freezes mid-kiss and asks you to stop. This Spencer—the one on his knees in front of you, hands steady on your thighs, gaze unwavering—is someone you've only ever glimpsed in fragments. A version of him he's been hiding, maybe even from himself.

The flush climbing his neck. The way his fingers are trembling just slightly against your skin—not from fear, you realize. From want. The raw, open hunger in his expression, the kind he usually hides behind blinks and book spines and sudden changes of subject. The kind he's been suppressing for so long that finally letting it surface looks almost painful.

And you realize: he's already thought about this.

Probably researched it exhaustively. Probably read articles and watched videos and memorized techniques like he's studying for an exam he desperately wants to pass. Probably lay awake at night running through every possible scenario, every way it could go wrong, every way he might fail. Because that's who he is. That's how his mind works.

But he's here anyway.

On his knees. Looking up at you like you're the answer to a question he's been asking himself for months.

"I did some research," he confirms, as if reading your mind. One corner of his mouth lifts—almost shy, almost smug, a combination that shouldn't be as devastating as it is. "I'd like to test that knowledge out. If you're amenable."

A laugh escapes you, breathless and half-disbelieving. Amenable. Only Spencer Reid would use the word amenable while kneeling between your legs with his mouth inches from where you need him most. Your fingers curl into the couch cushion beneath you, knuckles going white, because if you don't hold onto something, you're going to float away entirely.

"Statistically," he adds, tilting his head slightly—and God, the way the light catches his eyes, the way his tongue darts out to wet his lower lip—"the success rate of practical application following targeted research is significantly higher than trial and error alone. For most skills, but particularly for—"

"Spencer," you interrupt, because if he keeps talking in that low, measured voice while looking up at you like that—like you're a problem he's desperate to solve, a text he's dying to decode—you're going to combust. Right here. On his couch. And then neither of you will have to worry about what comes next.

He stops. Blinks up at you, those dark eyes suddenly uncertain, like he's worried he said something wrong. "Yes?"

You cup his face in your hands. Your palms cradle his jaw, thumbs brushing the sharp angles of his cheekbones, and you tilt his gaze up to meet yours. His skin is warm beneath your palms—warmer than usual, almost feverish—and you can feel the slight tremor in his jaw where he's holding himself back. Holding himself together.

"Who am I to deny a man of science?" you say softly.

For a heartbeat, nothing happens. Then his smile widens—just for a second, bright and boyish and so achingly him—before his expression softens into something more focused. More intent. The shift is almost physical, like watching a camera lens click into focus. He's not Spencer-who-stammers anymore. He's Spencer-who-solves, Spencer-who-observes, Spencer-who-memorizes-every-detail-and-doesn't-forget.

He lowers his head again.

And this time, when his mouth meets your skin, there's no hesitation.

The first touch is just his lips—a gentle, almost chaste press against the damp fabric of your shorts. You gasp anyway, hips jerking involuntarily, and his hands tighten on your thighs to steady you. He doesn't pull away. Doesn't apologize. Doesn't ask if you're okay—not yet, anyway. Instead, he does it again, slower, like he's testing the texture, the taste, the exact sound you make when he applies pressure just there.

Your head falls back against the couch cushion.

He hums. Thoughtful. Curious. And you feel him catalogue your reactions—the way your thighs tensed, the way your breath hitched, the way your fingers tightened in the cushion. Filing it away in that brilliant mind of his for later reference. For optimization.

Then his fingers hook into the waistband of your shorts. He tugs gently, not pulling yet, just testing—giving you time to stop him if you want to. And when you don't, when you just lie there trembling and waiting, he looks up at you one more time.

His pupils are blown wide now, dark as coffee, nearly swallowing the warm brown. His lips are parted, slightly shiny, and there's a flush creeping down his neck that you can see even in the low light. He looks wrecked already—and he hasn't even touched you yet.

"Can I?" he asks. Softly. Earnestly. Like he's asking for something far more significant than permission to take off your shorts.

You nod. "Please."

He pulls them down—slowly, so slowly, like unwrapping something precious, something he's been saving for months. The fabric slides past your hips, your thighs, your knees. You lift your hips to help him, and the movement makes you acutely aware of how bare you are beneath him now, how exposed, how completely at his mercy.

Your shorts pool around your ankles. He sets them aside carefully—folded, you realize distantly, he folded them—and then his hands return to your legs. Palms flat against your bare thighs now, skin to skin, and the warmth of him seeps into you like honey.

You're trembling. Actually trembling, in a way you haven't since your own first time years ago. And Spencer must feel it, because his thumbs stroke slow, soothing circles into your inner thighs, and his voice is impossibly gentle when he says, "You're shaking."

"So are you," you whisper back.

He looks down at his hands. They are shaking—just barely, a fine tremor running through his fingers where they press against your skin. He stares at them for a moment, almost surprised, like his body is betraying a truth his mind hasn't caught up to yet.

His fingers spread across your inner thighs, holding you open with a gentleness that makes your throat tight. There's nothing clinical about the way he touches you now—no detachment, no careful distance. Just Spencer, trembling slightly, looking at you like you're something sacred.

And when he leans in—when his mouth finally, finally makes contact with nothing between you but air and want—the noise that leaves your body isn't quite a moan and isn't quite a sob.

It's relief. It's disbelief. It's the sound of months of stopping and starting and pulling away finally breaking open into something that feels like coming home.

He starts with broad, experimental strokes of his tongue—tentative at first, then more confident as he maps you in real time. You can feel him learning you with every pass of his mouth: the way you gasp when he flattens his tongue, the way you arch when he circles, the way your thighs try to close around his head when he hits a spot that makes stars burst behind your eyelids.

He's paying attention. Of course he's paying attention.

This is Spencer Reid—the man who can read a thousand-page case file in an afternoon and remember every detail months later. Every hitch of your breath, every involuntary clench of your fingers in his hair, every whispered there or like that or God, Spencer—he files it all away, adjusting pressure and pace and placement like he's running a diagnostic. Like he's determined to get an A+ in this particular subject.

And God, he's going to.

"You're doing so good," you breathe, because he needs to hear it, because his hands are shaking against your thighs and you know him well enough to know that somewhere behind that focused expression, he's terrified of messing up.

You feel him shudder against you. A full-body tremor that travels from his shoulders down to where his mouth is still moving, still working, still worshipping. His rhythm doesn't falter. If anything, it sharpens—like your praise hit something deep in his chest and lit a fire there.

He finds a spot that makes your vision go white at the edges. Your back bows off the couch. A sound tears out of you that you don't recognize—high and desperate and loud—and he stays there, relentless and focused, his hands anchoring your hips to keep you from squirming away from the overwhelm.

You can't squirm. Can't think. Can't do anything but feel—the hot slide of his tongue, the soft scratch of his stubble against your sensitive skin, the way he moans against you like he's the one being touched.

You're close embarrassingly fast. Minutes, maybe less. All that built-up tension from months of stopping short, all those nights you went home with your pulse still hammering between your thighs—it's all rushing to the surface at once, unstoppable now, inevitable.

"Spencer," you warn, voice cracked and desperate. "I'm—I'm gonna—"

He doesn't stop.

He doubles down, moaning against you like he's the one coming undone, and that sound—that low, guttural, hungry sound—sends you over the edge with a cry you don't bother to muffle. Your hips buck. Your thighs clamp around his head. Your fingers twist so hard in his hair you're half-convinced you'll pull some out.

And through all of it, he stays. He stays. His mouth stays soft, his hands stay steady, and he works you through every wave and aftershock until you're twitching and gasping and completely, utterly wrecked.

"Too much," you pant, finally, pushing weakly at his head. Your arm feels like jelly. Everything feels like jelly. "Spence, too much."

He pulls back immediately. Instantly. Like a switch flipped.

And when he looks up at you—chin slick, lips swollen and shining, eyes dazed and dark and impossibly proud—you've never seen anything more beautiful in your entire life. His cheeks are flushed high and pink. His hair is a disaster—tangled and sticking up in seventeen different directions from your fingers. There's a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, soft and wondering, like he can't quite believe he got to do that.

"How was that?" he asks, and his voice is hoarse. Cracked at the edges, raw in a way that makes something warm curl low in your belly all over again. "For a first attempt."

You laugh—breathless, disbelieving, giddy—and tug him up by the collar of his rumpled sweater. He comes willingly, collapsing half on top of you in a tangle of long limbs and warm weight, and you wrap your arms around him before he can even think about pulling away.

"Spencer Reid," you say, pressing a kiss to his forehead. Then his nose. Then his mouth—God, you can taste yourself on his lips, salty and sweet and him, and the way he sighs into the kiss makes your toes curl. "You are not allowed to call that an attempt. That was a masterclass."

His smile, when it comes, is shy again—the return of the Spencer you fell in love with, the one who blushes when you hold his hand too long in public. But his eyes are bright. Glowing, almost. Like you've given him something he didn't know he was allowed to ask for.

"So you'd be open to more research?" he asks, and there's a hopeful lilt to his voice that makes your heart clench.

You pull him closer, legs wrapping around his waist on instinct. The movement presses his hips against yours, and you feel him—all of him, the hard evidence of just how much he enjoyed himself pressing against your thigh. He's aching. Has been this whole time, apparently. And instead of asking you to take care of it, instead of even mentioning it, he just... gave. And gave. And gave.

Your chest feels too full for your ribcage.

"Dr. Reid," you murmur against his ear, smiling when he shivers. "Write the grant proposal."

He laughs—a real laugh, bright and surprised and so wonderfully him—and buries his face in your neck. His breath is warm against your skin. His weight is solid and perfect on top of you. And when he presses a kiss to the spot below your ear, soft and lingering, you feel him smile.

“Ugh, Clark,” you try to shove him off with a groan. “You’re like a hundred kilos and super warm. Get off.”

“Nope.” He just closes his eyes, humming happily. “Smell too good.”

“I’m sweaty and gross.”

He just shrugs, enjoying the smell of you like your his own personal vape while you boil under him.

He also likes your PERIOD. Sure, it can sometimes get in the way of sex and put you out of the mood, but he’s not with you just for that. He likes knowing that your body is functioning like it should. He tracks your cycles. Checks that you’re not too stressed or eating enough so there’s no risk of it stopping. For him, it’s just another sure indicator that you’re fine and healthy. He also keeps track of your PMS symptoms so he can make the most of it with chocolate and cuddles.

Clark has a soft spot for your GOOSEBUMPS. He doesn’t get cold. Well, very rarely. So when his fingers run over your arm at the end of a date night, his arm slung over your shoulder as you walk across one of the city’s bridges, he smiles. Little bumps on your skin that he thinks are adorable. You’re cold before you even know it, your body reacting on instinct. So does his because he’s taking off his jacket and helping you in it.

Another thing he likes are your STRETCH MARKS. With pristine, solid, Kryptonian skin made of steel, he doesn’t even have a single scratch on him. It’s very annoying. But on you, he thinks that the lines decorating your chest, legs, ass, and any other parts of you are extremely cool. He thinks you look like a tiger. A description which isn’t far off from when the two of you end up in the bedroom. There’s just something he likes about how powerful they make you look, like a strong animal.

Clark Kent can’t help but laugh and coo when you get the HICCUPS. Another point on the endless list of things he finds cute about you. He likes the way you get embarrassed and try to hold your breath to make it stop. He likes seeing your entire frame shake from the hiccup. How annoyed you get when your body jerks you out of whatever you were doing.

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"should i get it cut?" he offers, cheeks pressed against his pillow.

your ministrations stills, "hmm. dunno." you answer honestly, pulling at the curled edges to make them stick out more. "it's sort of…hot. gives you a dishevelled…rugged look." you lower yourself, resting your cheeks onto his traps.

"…"

his arm wraps around your lower back. and with a swift movement, you feel your vision tilt as he plops you beneath him. "ack!" you gasp, steadying a palm by his thick bicep, which he flexes, for your enjoyment.

clark shuffles to cage you in his arms, favouring his weight with his left forearm. one side of his head is visibly styled out in a messy swoop from where you were combing through. though a shorter, unruly strand curls past his forehead.

"i'm not sure if it's good for the hero image. to look unkempt," he ponders seriously, palms pressed against his cheeks as he lays on his side.

you blink up at him. still thrown by the sudden adjustment."…i'm just saying." your knuckles graze past the stray lock, melting into him, with a thigh draped along his ribs. "i like you like this. softer. just f'me." your words trail into murmurs, but he catches them anyway.

the dimples, deep in his cheeks makes themselves known first, and he lets out a huff, sizing you with a dopey smile. "that so?" clark leans on, pressing a kiss to the sensitive spot below your ears. the first peck tickles you, with his messy hair brushing past your ears. "hahah. hey! that tickles." you groan, catching a brief glimpse of his blurred, dark locks," geez…like some…wild beast."

"hmm. make up your mind," he rumbles, trailing teasing kisses past your collarbone, to your sternum. clark lifts his head up, eyes glinting in wanton adoration for you. "am i a beast, or some cool…hip dude?"

you stare at him, in mild disgust. "cool hip dude? nevermind. you can never be rugged."

he nips at your wrist when it comes to rest at the back of his head. "ow!" you yelp, shooting him a displeased look. clark just laughs, replacing the sting with a chaste peck. he guides your hand to the back of his head, as though encouraging you to keep it there.

"got your verdict yet?" the shift in the playfulness is subtle as he makes his way down your midsection. pressing another breathy kiss beneath your breasts, and to your navel. your eyes don't leave him, and neither does your idle palm, half-vanished in his curls.

before you can think to answer, clark lifts your hips up for a second to slide your sleep shorts down. keeping his gaze locked on yours as he presses his lips to your inner thighs.

you swallow the shudder that threatened to give away your building arousal, hands imperceptibly tightening where it was once lax.