Michael Clifford Deserves The World

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

Part 1: The Four. 

(Luke's POV)

The First:

The suite smells like fresh linen, wood polish, and expensive nerves.

Sunlight pours through the tall windows, catching on the dust motes in the air, making everything feel a little cinematic– too bright, too sharp. I stand in the middle of it all, shirt hanging open, collar wrinkled from the way I keep tugging at it. My tie's already been thrown onto the back of the couch. Twice. Every time I go to get ready, I end up pacing again. Restless. Half-feral with anticipation.

The space is big–bigger than I expected it to be– with heavy curtains drawn halfway back, an antique mirror leaning against one wall, and a bar cart in the corner that none of us has dared to touch yet. The venue is some restored estate outside the city, all stone terraces and glass chandeliers, the kind of place you book when you want your wedding to feel like it might outlast time itself.

The others are here– Michael has his feet propped up on the coffee table, scrolling through something on his phone. Ashton is fussing with his cufflinks by the mirror like he's presenting an award, and Calum's sitting cross-legged on the floor, pretending to finalize his best man speech but mostly just throwing grapes at me every time I sigh. The room is full of noise, the kind of harmless chaos that usually calms me, but today it's static.

All I can do is miss her. Like an ache. Like a bruise under my ribs.

"You good?" Calum asks without looking up.

"Yeah," I replied.

"You've said 'yeah' fifteen times in the last half hour."

"Well, I meant it differently each time," I mutter, dragging a hand through my hair.

Truth is, I don't know what to do with myself. It's not cold feet. It's not even the pressure of the day. It's the fact that she's somewhere in this building, behind some closed door. Getting her makeup done, probably laughing with her bridesmaids, sipping something bubbly. Slipping into a dress I'm not allowed to see yet. And I can't see her. Can't touch her. Can't even hear her voice.

I am losing my goddamn mind.

Last night was the last time I'll have ever gone to bed without calling her my wife. And somehow that makes everything sharper today. Like I'm walking around with no skin.

I pace again, this time from the mirror to the windows, then back towards the arched doorway that leads to the suite's small lounge. The walls are all soft golds and creams, the ceiling high enough to echo. My reflection catches in the mirror— bare chest, half-done buttons, tattoos exposed, jaw clenched. I look like I'm waiting for a fight.

"She'll show," Michael says casually. "You know, unless she saw the group chat and changed her mind."

"If she leaves me at the altar," I say, without blinking, "I'm following her."

"Romantic and slightly terrifying," Calum says, tossing another grape.

Then– a knock.

It's light. Confident. Just once.

We all go still.

Ashton crosses the room and cracks the door open, only to grin and swing it wide.

Standing there, holding a plain white envelope, is one of her bridesmaids – dressed down, makeup half-done, hair clipped back, but smiling like she knows exactly what she's doing.

"What's this?" I ask as she walks up.

She places the envelope in my hands like it's fragile. "I was instructed not to say anything except: 'Don't open ahead, don't let the guys see, and don't drop it.'"

Then she spins on her heel and disappears through the suite door, leaving behind the faint smell of hairspray and perfume.

I look down. Thin envelope. Unlabeled. Whatever's inside has weight to it– not paper. A photo.

I slide a finger under the seal and pull it open slowly, like it might bite.

And there she is.

Curled up on our bed at home. My hoodie hangs loose around her shoulders. Her legs are bare. One knee tucked under her, the other stretched long. Her hair is a mess, soft around her face, and her smile is a quiet kind of dangerous– knowing, tender, intimate. Like she's not posing for the camera, just waiting for me to come to bed.

It hits me hard. Harder than I expected. I forget the room, the guys, the ceremony– everything.

I flip the photo over.

I wanted you to see me the way I feel when I think of you. Love you. Don't be late. 

My chest twists.

I sink onto the edge of the velvet chaise near the mirror, elbows on my knees, photo in both of my hands. I run my thumb gently along the corner, careful not to smudge it. There's something about the curve of her smile in that photo– like she already knows what I'm feeling now. Like she's been feeling it too.

"She's insane," I say softly to myself.

Michael raises an eyebrow. "Insane like…'I should call someone? Or…"

"She sent me a photo." I can barely tear my eyes away. "A Polaroid. She's wearing my hoodie."

"Ohhh," Calum whistles. "We've entered the tease era of the day."

I flip the photo again and tuck it into the inside pocket of my suit jacket, right over my heart.

"No one else gets to see it."

It feels sacred. Not just the image, but the act. The intention. Knowing she wanted me to have this moment, before everything else. She wanted to remind me of what we already are, before all the guests and vows and photos.

"You're smiling," Ashton says quietly, walking over to me, patting my back. "You didn't do that once this morning."

I lean back and exhale. My chest feels looser, lighter.

"Yeah, she does that to me."

The Second:

I managed to finish buttoning my shirt. That's about the extent of my progress.

The tie's still untouched. My hands keep fidgeting with the cuffs, rolling and unrolling them like I forgot how sleeves work. Every few minutes, I catch myself glancing toward the door. Thinking maybe it'll knock twice this time. Maybe she'll just walk in wearing that hoodie in real life instead of tucked into the side of my suit jacket in Polaroid form.

I can't stop thinking about that photo. That look in her eyes. The way she somehow made our bed look like the most intimate place on the planet. The way she looked at me– even through the lens, even knowing I'd see it later.

She wrecked me with one picture.

The guys are still buzzing in the background— Ashton's reading some wedding trivia off his phone like it's the Oscars, and Michael and Calum are arguing about whether the band playlist should include one of our old songs. I'm barely listening. Everything in me is pacing, even when I'm sitting still.

Then it happens again.

Another knock.

Softer this time. Almost playful.

Michael beats me to the door, opening it with a knowing smirk.

Another bridesmaid stands there, this one holding an envelope between two fingers like she's handing off classified intel. "Round two," she says. "And don't act like you didn't like the first one."

I gave her a look. "You guys planned this, didn't you?"

"Don't shoot the messenger, Hemmings." She grins and slips away before I can say anything else.

This envelope's thinner, but somehow feels heavier in my hands.

I already know what's inside.

Still, my heart kicks like it's trying to warn me.

I tear it open, slower than the first time. Careful. A little afraid of what she's about to do to me again.

The photo slides into my palm.

Fuck.

She's sitting on the kitchen counter at home, legs bare and stretched out, laughing like I just said something that made her lose it. She's wearing nothing but my band tee– the old threadbare one, with the cracked logo, holes near the hem. The one. It's long enough to hang loose, but just barely. Her hair is messy again, wild and sexy in a completely unintentional way. One hand is behind her on the counter for balance. The other's holding a coffee mug— my mug. Her thighs are parted just enough to make me insane.

I flip the photo over…

For when you missed breakfast x 

I drag a hand down my face, biting back a groan. "I'm not going to survive today."

"That bad?" Calum questions, raising an eyebrow in my direction.

I don't respond. Just get up and start pacing again. This time with purpose. My blood is too hot now. I can feel it under my skin, all charged and restless. Like I'm burning from the inside out.

She knew exactly what she was doing.

The photo isn't soft like the first one. It's more playful. Cheeky. She's saying 'I know exactly how to distract you, and I'm doing it on purpose' without saying it.

I slide the photo into the same pocket where the first Polaroid is. My chest feels tighter now. Not in a bad way. Just full. Heavy with a mix of love and need while also something lower— darker– twisting and swimming behind my ribs.

Michael watches me with a grin plastered across his face. "Is the second one better than the first?"

I glanced at him, eyes narrowed. "I'm not answering that."

"Which means yes."

"I said I'm not answering it."

I turned towards the window again, mostly to cool off. Resting my forehead against the glass and focusing on my breathing. Outside, the courtyard is being decorated. Flowers everywhere you looked. Chairs lined up perfectly. It all seemed so still compared to what was happening inside of me.

She's turning today into a game. A slow, teasing, perfectly executed form of torture. And I don't want her to stop.

The Third:

We've been moved from the groom's suite to what the planner called the "final prep lounge". It's quieter here, off to the side of the gardens, near where the ceremony will take place. A room nobody uses except the couple and whoever in the party needs a breather before they walk out in front of a hundred or so people.

It's got this old-world feel, bookshelves built into walls, dusty with old books that were there for aesthetic more than function. There's a velvet couch underneath a wide window overlooking the garden and a few chairs scattered around. Everything feels suspended in time. Numb with anticipation.

I can't stop messing with the cuffs of my suit jacket. I've been doing it for ten minutes straight. Nerves aren't new to me– hell, I've played in front of stadiums– but this feels different. Bigger, heavier.

Ashton is leaning in a corner, scrolling through his phone, claiming he is 'too antsy to sit'. Calum is messing with his tie in the mirror, mumbling something under his breath about needing a drink. Michael is looking through all the old books, trying to figure out which one is the oldest purely based on looks alone.

And then there's a knock at the door.

Sharp. Meaningful.

Cal opens it, and another one of the bridesmaids steps inside. She's glowing, like they all are today, but there's something mischievous about her smile. She walks straight towards me, heels clicking against the hardwood floors, and hands me a small, plain white envelope. Just like all others.

She doesn't say anything— just winks and then she's gone again.

I stare at it for a second.

My chest tightens.

By now, I know the game she's playing.

I tear the seal open. My hands aren't steady anymore. My fingers brush the edges of the Polaroid, and I already feel my blood stirring before I even see it.

When I do– fuck.

It's her, in our bedroom. Not staged, not artificial. Just her.

She's standing in front of the full-length mirror, backlit by the late afternoon sun. She's wearing black lace, barely wearing it. The kind that leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination. Thin straps falling from her shoulders. A deep cut bra that lifts and exposes in a way that should be illegal. Matching bottoms that sit high on her hips, making her legs look even longer, even more sinful.

Her lips are parted, just a little. Like she'd been talking to the camera. Her eyes are locked on her reflection– and mine now. There's a rawness to it. A quiet heat. It's not the lingerie that undoes me– it's her expression. The way she is so completely herself in it. Beautiful. Bare. Powerful.

And the caption?

Don't drop this one in front of your mom. 

I swallowed hard. My throat is dry.

"Jesus," I mutter, low enough that only I can hear it.

My hands cover my mouth, rubbing across my jaw. My pulse is pounding. I glance over at the guys, half-afraid someone can read it on my face. What I just saw, what I'm thinking.

Ashton looks up from his phone briefly, notices something, but says nothing. Cal raises a brow, gives me a lazy grin. But the room's gone quieter now. They can sense a shift.

The teasing from earlier is gone.

Because this one– it's not just flirty. It's not cute or cheeky, it's intimate.

It's hers. For me.

I stare at the photo a little longer than I should. Thumb tracing the edges, careful not to smudge the image. I tuck it safely right where the other two are, over my heart in my jacket pocket.

Sitting down on the arm of the couch, I look outside at all the white chairs, flowers, and the aisle– attempting to steady my ragged breathing.

Every time I think I've hit the ceiling with how much I want her, she finds a new way to undo me.

And we haven't even made it to the vows yet.

The Fourth and Final: 

It's been twenty minutes since the last Polaroid.

I've been alone for ten of them.

The wedding planner told me to wait here until she came to get me and took the guys with her. "Just breathe," she said, like that's easy to do right now.

The last three polaroids weighed down my jacket pocket.

I haven't stopped thinking about it.

She's on the counter, in our bed, laughing like she owns the whole goddamn world.

She kind of does.

I rub my palms down the front of my thighs, trying to focus on anything but the way my heart won't slow down. I've been pacing the length of the room, over and over. Tie's done. Jacket's ready. Vows are in the pocket of my slacks, worn soft from how many times I've pulled them out, reread every word, re-memorized every breath.

Then I hear it— barely a sound.

A light knock.

I turn, expecting the wedding planner.

But no one's there.

Just something left just inside the door.

Another goddamn envelope.

My breath catches, I already know.

This one is quiet.

I grab it gently, like the air might shift if I move too fast, and sit down on the edge of whatever chair is closest to the door. My fingers are careful, reverent. I slide the photo out.

And everything stills.

She's bare.

Laid out in golden light, like she took this seconds after stepping out of the shower. Her back arched, legs tucked underneath her, and she had one hand on the mattress to hold herself steady. Her head is turned slightly toward the camera, toward me. Her hair was falling wildly down her back. Her eyes–

Fuck. Her eyes.

They're not playful. They're not soft.

They're something else entirely.

Open and unfiltered. Daring me to feel everything this moment is.

My throat tightens.

I press the heel of my palm against my chest, right over my tie, because I swear to god my heart's never beat like this before. It's her. All of her. Unapologetic, unafraid. This isn't just sex. This is trust. This is her saying; I'm yours. Now. Later. Always. 

And I feel it so deeply in my bones.

My hand shakes as I run it through my hair, the photo still held in my other hand like it's some kind of holy artifact. Sacred and private and mine.

No note. No words.

She doesn't need any.

I exhale slowly, jaw tight from how hard I'm clenching it. I'm seconds away from losing it completely. The way I want her right now, it's not calm. It's not polite. It's overwhelming. Fierce, like I could walk into the hallway and forget the whole ceremony just to find her. Just too–

I laugh under my breath, breathless and wrecked.

"Jesus, baby," I whisper, leaning forward. "You're really trying to kill me before I can even make it down the aisle."

I look up at the ceiling, breathing deep, trying to hold it together.

Not long now. I just have to make it a few more minutes.

Then she's mine. Fully, forever.

And so help me God.

Part 2: The Reception. 

(Her POV)

The reception is a blur of music, light, and heat. String lights sway above us like stars, and someone's spinning Fleetwood Mac again– third time tonight. The dance floor is all bare feet and laughter, the smell of champagne and sweat clinging to everyone like a second skin.

But none of it matters.

Not the music. Not the speeches. Not the cake I've ever tasted.

Because all I can feel is him.

He's across the room, talking to someone– I think a cousin, maybe a drummer. I don't know. I don't care. His sleeves are rolled up, the collar of his shirt open, and his tie hanging loose around his neck. And his jaw is clenched in the way it always gets when he's trying not to lose control.

I know that look.

I gave him that look.

And I haven't touched him in over an hour.

That's part of the fun.

Earlier, I'd been subtle. Fingers under the table. Whispers into his ear that made him twitch in his seat. Dancing with him so close, my lips brushed his throat while I silently reminded him of what I was wearing underneath my dress.

His breath had stuttered. I felt it. Right against my collarbone.

Now? Now I'm just watching him unravel.

He meets my gaze from across the room. I tilt my head slightly and take a slow sip of champagne, letting my tongue dart across the rim of the glass. Just enough to make his knuckles tighten on the drink in his hand.

Good.

He's trying to play it cool like always.

But I know him.

And right now, he's strung so tight I bet he'd break with one whispered word.

So I give him none.

I let the moment linger, then turn away and laugh at something Calum says, even though I didn't hear a word. My skin feels electric. Every inch of me is aware of him watching. Of the way this dress clings to my thighs. The way the slit rides higher when I move.

Eventually, I feel him behind me again– close, hovering. He doesn't touch, but I feel the heat of him like a hand against my spine.

"You're being evil," he says lowly, voice like gravel.

I don't even turn around. Just sip my drink.

"You're going to kill me."

"You'll die happy," I replied.

Before he can answer, someone shoves a Polaroid camera into my hand. "Last one of the night! Newlyweds, front and center."

I grin and grab his hand before he can think to resist. "Come on, rockstar."

He lets me drag him to the wall, where people have been snapping candid shots all night. It's covered with photos now— lipstick stains, someone mid-cartwheel. And ours is going to be nothing like theirs.

I turn and press my back to his chest. Guide his hand to my waist, then lower. Lower still.

He stiffens.

"Relax," I whisper, reaching for his other hand and sliding it gently across my collarbone, up to my throat.

"That's enough," he warns.

"Shhh," I mutter. "Just look at the camera."

He doesn't move. I feel his breath at my temple, warm and staggered.

Then I tilt my head. My lips brush against his jaw– just barely.

Click.

The flash blinds us both.

I grab the photo before he can. Shake it, watching the ghost of an image start to blossom.

He stays behind me, breathing heavily. His hands are still planted where they were in the photo, like he's trying to not haul me into the nearest dark hallway.

The photo develops slowly. When the image clears, I turn around to face him and hold it up for him to see.

He freezes.

His hand is still curled around my throat– not hard. Just there. Like a promise.

In the photo, his eyes are closed. My mouth on his skin. And I'm looking at the camera like I planned the whole thing.

Because I did.

"It's a good one, don't you think?" I asked, all sugary innocence.

He doesn't answer.

"You knew what it'd do to me," Luke finally says.

I smile.

"I've been trying to ruin you since this morning."

I slide the photo into his jacket pocket, where I can feel the other ones are.

Then I turn and walk away.

Barefoot. Back straight. My dress swayed around my legs like smoke.

I don't look back.

I don't have to.

I know he's following.

Part 3: The After.

(Her POV)

The limo door clicks shut, and we're alone again, finally. The noise of the reception fades behind tinted glass and closed windows, and it feels like I can breathe again– for a second.

Then I catch the way he's looking at me, like I lit a match and dropped it on a pile of gasoline. I glance out the window, pretending not to notice, but I let my hand slide over his thigh. Slow. Deliberate. Just above the knee.

He doesn't move. Doesn't even flinch.

But I feel the way he tenses under my touch. The muscle in his leg tightens, his breath catches, and when I steal a glance at him, his jaw is tight.

He's looking out the window, like he's trying to stay calm. Like if he looks at me, he'll lose whatever composure is left in him, helping him cling to his sanity all night.

I squeeze a little.

His head turns toward me.

"You really did that to me today?" His voice was rough, quiet as if someone else could hear him.

I don't look at him. Instead, I trail my fingers higher. Not enough to be obvious, just enough to provoke.

"You made it through the reception," I murmur, smoothing my dress over my legs like I haven't been just driving him insane for hours. "Barely."

His hand moves.

Not gentle or patient.

His palm slides under the hem of my dress's slit, up my thigh with a kind of reckless hunger I can feel in my teeth.

"You think you're in control right now?" he says.

I smirk. I don't answer.

But my body is already betraying me– heat pooling between my legs, heart pounding like it knows exactly what's coming.

His fingers stop right where lace meets skin. Just resting there. Waiting. Like he's daring me to react.

He leans in again. His breath was hot on my neck.

"Careful," he growls. "You're gonna find out what happens when I'm finally not playing nice.

The second we're inside the hotel suite, the facade cracks.

The door shuts with a violent click behind us, and his mouth is on mine before I can say a word. All tongue and teeth and raw, pent-up need.

I don't remember walking, but Luke's already pushing me backward, crowding me until I hit the door again. My back slams into it, and I gasp— not from pain. From the way he's touching me now. Like he's starved.

His hands are already on the zipper of my dress, tugging hard, clumsy and desperate. One hand cups my jaw as his mouth crashes into mine again, teeth scraping my lower lip.

"You've been fucking with me all day," he mutters against my lips.

He's not wrong.

I kiss him back just as hard, fingers threading through his curls, tugging until he groans. "Do something about it then," I dare.

And he does.

His hands slide under my thighs, and suddenly, I'm off the ground. Legs wrapped around his waist, back still pressed to the door as he holds me there like I weigh nothing.

I wrap my arms around his neck, breath ragged, as he grinds against me through layers of clothing. Every moment is frantic, fueled by hours of teasing looks and whispered innuendos.

"You don't get it," He mutters, voice strangled with restraint. "You don't get what you do to me."

He kisses down my throat, rough and hungry, like he's trying to brand me.

I lean my head back against the door, moaning as one of his hands slips beneath the lace between my legs.

He pauses, and when his thumb brushes over the soaked fabric, he groans against my neck. "Fuck."

I bite down on my lip and arch into his touch. "Still think I'm not in control."

He laughs, but it's dark. "Not anymore, you're not."

Then goes back to kissing down my throat. Sucking on my collarbone. Hard, and this time there's no teasing.

Just fire.

He drops to his knees. Just like that. In the entry of the suite, my dress bunched at my waist.

The carpet brushes the tops of his boots. He doesn't even blink.

"Are you serious?" I breathe, but it's more of a gasp than a question.

He looks up at me from between my thighs, blue eyes darkened past recognition, jaw set like he's ready to ruin me. One of his hands curls around the back of my calf, guiding it over his shoulder. The other hooks into the waistband of my panties– lace, black, deliberately chosen.

"You knew exactly what you were doing," he murmurs, and then—

Heat. Tongue. Pressure.

He doesn't ease in. Doesn't take his time. He licks me through the lace, firm and slow, until my knees actually give a little and I grab onto his shoulders just to stay upright. The grin he gives me then– crooked, smug, devastating– is all teeth.

He moves the lace aside. Bare skin, no more teasing.

And then he's back at it. Mouth sealed, tongue working in circles, maddening and slow and fucking perfect. My fingers tangle in his hair before even realizing it– tight and possessive, grounding myself.

"Oh my god–" I gasp, hips rocking against his face. He holds me steady with a firm hand under my thigh, pulling me in like he wants me to suffocate him.

The drag of his mouth, the obscene wet sounds, the way his stubble scrapes my inner thighs— it's all too much and not enough all at once. I can't even think. Can't breathe. My entire body arches towards him.

He moans into me, low and rough, like he's getting off on the way I fall apart.

And then he finds it. That exact spot. The one that makes me tremble.

He focuses there, lips tight, sucking just right– flicking his tongue until everything in me coils tight like a wire pulled too far.

"Don't stop," I choke out. "Luke— fuck, don't stop."

I grip the back of his head like I might float away if I don't anchor myself to him.

And then it hits.

Pleasure cracks through me, hot and binding. I cry out, thighs shaking against his shoulders, stomach tightening as my orgasm slams through me, fast and hard. He holds me steady through it, licking me through the aftershocks like he's determined to taste every second of it.

My vision swims. I'm panting, clutching his shoulders, legs barely holding me up.

Luke finally pulls back. His lips are slick. His mouth is swollen. He looks so proud. Wild and dangerous.

"One," he says, voice smug and confident, standing slowly like a predator who knows he's just begun. He presses a kiss to the inside of my thigh before rising. Then his eyes meet mine.

"You're not walking tomorrow."

He lifts me off the door and carries me to the bed, standing me right beside it— his mouth already on my shoulder, my jaw, the corner of my lips like he can't stand the distance between us.

I expect the same kind of urgency that had me unravelling in his mouth a minute ago.

But no.

It's like now that he's tasted me, he wants to make the rest of this last.

He lays me down, careful, reverent. The room spins a little with how gentle his hands are. His eyes drag down my body over the dress I wore just for this, over the flushed skin that still hums from his mouth.

His hands find the zipper again.

He kneels in front of me, beside the bed, fingers ghosting along the line of my back as he pulls the zipper down– inch by inch, his mouth following, warm and open against my skin. He doesn't rush. Each kiss is a confession for him. A slow unravelling.

My dress falls in soft folds around me.

And then I hear it– a sharp inhale from his chest. A curse under his breath.

I glance down at him, heat prickling at my neck.

I'm in the same black lingerie from the third Polaroid.

The one that I'm sure made him dizzy.

The one I took, knowing exactly what it would do to him.

His voice is ragged when it breaks the silence. "You planned this. Every second."

I don't say anything. Don't have to.

He trails his fingers up the inside of my thigh. Presses a kiss on my hipbone. Then another, lower, warmer.

"You knew I'd lose it."

A kiss on my stomach.

"You knew exactly what this would do to me."

He moves higher, lips brushing the curve of my ribs, the underside of my bra. His hand slides to my back, unfastening it with infuriating slowness, like he wants to savour it.

I arch into his mouth when he kisses the side of my breast, his tongue flicking over the skin like he's claiming it.

But then he pulls back.

Stands.

And the air in the entire room changes.

The softness evaporates. What's left is heat. Control. A rawness in his eyes I've never seen before– something older, darker, starving.

"On your knees."

His voice was low and firm. There's no room for question in it.

My breath catches in my throat. He watches my process with his words. Watching me hesitate for one second too long.

"You made me wait," he says, taking off his shoes. Then his shirt. "You wore this little fucking set and left me sitting with those pictures. For hours. Thinking about this body. About that mouth. About what I'd do the second I got my hands on you."

He unbuttons his slacks, watching me like a wolf watching its prey.

"You don't get to play innocent now."

Heat pools low in my stomach.

I drop down to my knees slowly. He watches every move like it's sacred. Or sinful. Or both.

"Good girl," he murmurs. "Right where I want you."

I look up at him through my lashes.

"You waited," I whisper. "I thought about it every night."

His breath stutters. His hand knots in my hair, pulling it back to make me look up.

"Say it again."

"I wanted this," I say bolder this time. "I wanted to make you lose control."

"You fucking did," he growls, eyes blazing. "You have no idea what you've done to me."

He strokes himself slowly in front of me, just enough to make my mouth go dry. Then he taps his cock against my bottom lip.

"You're gonna take all of it, baby. Every inch. No teasing this time. No games."

I open my mouth for him, and he throws his head back and groans like it physically hurts him to be touched.

"Look at me," he says, sliding in deep, hand tight in my hair. "Eyes on mine. You don't look away unless I tell you to."

I moan around him, already dizzy from the fullness, from the possessiveness in his grip, from the way his jaw clenches like he's seconds away from losing it.

He thrusts slowly at first, controlled.

Then harder.

Faster.

Dirty words pouring from his lips, one after another:

"Fucking perfect mouth–"

"It's like you were made for this–"

"Look at you– so fucking needy, choking on it like you love it."

His rhythm falters as he gets close, voice shaking with restraint.

But he doesn't let himself finish there.

One second I'm limp on the floor, wrecked from his mouth, the next I'm in his arms again– lifted like I'm weightless. He doesn't give me time to breathe.

My thighs lock around his waist as his mouth crashes into mine, open and hot and tasting like me. He walks me backward, gripping my ass, barely looking where he's going. The suite blurs past in streaks of gold light and shadows, until my back slams into the wall hard enough to make the mirror rattle.

I gasp, arms flying around his shoulders. "Luke–"

His mouth moves down to my neck, biting down just enough to make me gasp.

"You think I'm done with you?" he growls, grinding against me. "I haven't even started."

Then he's inside me.

No warning. Just one rough, brutal thrust that steals the breath straight from my lungs.

I cry out, nails scraping down his back. The wall is cold on my back, but his body is fire– his skin, his breath, his hands everywhere.

"Fuck," I gasp, clinging to him, legs tightening.

His pace is punishing, hips slamming up into me like he's trying to make a point. My head tips back and hits the wall again, a sharp thud. His hand comes up, fingers sliding over my throat.

"Keep your eyes on me." He demands, gritting his teeth.

I do– barely. His face and neck are flushed, jaw tight, blue eyes dark and locked on mine.

"Look at me when I ruin you," he says.

Then his hand tightens.

My eyes roll back. My body arches against his, and every nerve is on fire. The pressure on my throat makes everything sharper– every thrust, every sound, every pulse of heat between my legs.

"Fuck— Luke–" I choke out.

He growls low in his chest, voice filthy and worshipping.

"God, this fucking body. This cunt. All mine. You hear me?"

I nod, choking on a moan. "Yours– yours–"

He presses in harder, deeper, lip brushing my ear. "You made me wait. Dressed like a fantasy, touching me like it meant nothing. Then wore that fucking lingerie from the Polaroid. You wanted this."

I whimper.

"You wanted me like this. Didn't you?"

"Y-yes," I gasp.

Luke pulls out suddenly, and I almost collapse, but he doesn't let me fall. He turns me– spins me so I'm facing the wall, palms splayed out, bare chest pressed against the cold surface.

"Hands up. Spread your legs."

I do, shaking. I feel the rough drag of his chest to my back, his hand locking around my throat again as he lines up and thrusts into me from behind.

Deeper. Angled. Brutal.

I scream. There's no point holding it back.

He grabs a fistful of my hair, pulling my head back so my cheek's pressed to the wall.

"Louder," he growls. "Let them hear you. Let everyone know who's fucking you like this."

His other hand slides over my hip, down to where we're joined, fingers rubbing hard, fast, perfect. I saw something out that might be his name.

I'm close. Too close. I can feel it building again, like lightning coiled in my spine.

His hand in my hair is back on my throat. Tight.

"You want to come again?" he grits out. "Beg for it."

My mouth falls open. No words coming out. His head was fuzzy from his hand on my throat.

"Please," I manage. "Please, Luke– I'm so– fuck, I need–"

"That's it." He mumbles. "Come for me."

I shatter. Harder than the first time. It rolls through me in waves, hot and violent. Every nerve stripped bare.

He follows with a deep, guttural sound, burying himself inside me one last time as he finishes, hips stuttering, grip bruising.

We're both panting. Ruined. Feral.

"That's two," Luke says between breaths.

Then his arms wrap around me from behind, holding me up as my legs give out entirely. He carries me to bed, lies down gently, then pulls the sheets over us like he's sealing something sacred. His breath is still ragged when he kisses my bare shoulder.

My fingers drift over his chest. "Did you like the photos?"

He doesn't speak right away, just leans over the edge of the bed and reaches into his discarded jacket, pulls out one of them– creased, warm from being kept too close.

"This one," he says, handing over the fourth one I gave him, the one of me naked on our bed at home. "I nearly lost it."

My heart stutters. He adds, quieter, "Kept it over my heart."

I lean in and kiss him slowly. "I knew you would."

His mouth grazes mine in lazy, drugging kisses, when his hand slides lower— fingertips teasing, tracing, memorizing. His touch is less frantic than before, but no less consuming. Kissing me like he has all the time in the world, like there's nothing else outside this bed, this moment, and the heat reforming between my legs.

Luke's lips drag across my mouth, over my jaw, down my neck, and I let my eyes flutter shut. My pulse trips. He takes his time tracing over every part of me he hadn't before– soft grazes across my ribs, the dip of my waist, and then—

His hand slides lower, slipping between my legs, like he already owns the space. I shift toward him instinctively, but he plants a firm hand on my hip, holding me still.

"Easy," He mumbles against my shoulder, voice rough. "You'll take what I give you."

It should make me bristle. But it doesn't. It makes me ache.

His fingers move slowly at first— barely there. A soft, maddening tease that brushes where I want him more. I breathe through my teeth, every nerve lit and waiting. When he finally pushes two fingers inside, my hips lift off the mattress in a sharp gasp.

"Shit," I breathe.

"Keep still. Let me feel you." His voice is calm, measured. Dangerous.

I try. God, I really try to behave the way he wants— motionless and obedient under his hands— but I'm unravelling too fast. His fingers curl inside me, already knowing the exact spot that'll break me.

My back arches without permission, jaw slack.

"Please," I whisper. Not even sure what I'm begging for– more, harder, anything.

He kisses the corner of my mouth, still slow. "Please, what lovie?"

"I want you."

He doesn't stop moving his fingers, but his voice turns colder, commanding. "No. That's not what I asked."

I open my eyes. His gaze pins me in place, his thumb stroking over my clit until my entire body locks up with need.

"Tell me what you are. Say it."

My pride holds on for a second too long. And then he curls his fingers again, right there, and everything inside me contracts, my breath catching on a sob.

"Yours," I say, broken. "I'm yours."

His mouth crushes down on mine in a kiss that tastes like a reward— possessive, dirty, deep. "Good girl."

His pace doesn't change, but the pressure does. More controlled. More devastating. My legs shake. My hands claw at his back, arm, shoulder, anything I can hold onto as he fucks me with his fingers like it's the only thing that's ever mattered.

"That's it— my pretty mess, dripping all over my hand. You know what you're doing to me?"

Luke's words make me shake, whimper and plead for release even though I'm already so close I can hardly breathe.

And then I'm gone. Clenching around his fingers with a cry I can't hold back, thighs trembling, closing in on his hand, back arching off the bed as he works me through my orgasm until I fall limp against the mattress, spent and silent.

He holds me there, one hand splayed low on my stomach, his fingers still inside, claiming me.

“Three down, one to go.” 

He's on top of me now. Finally.

The weight of his body feels grounding, not crushing. Heavy in the best way— solid, real, like I could fall apart underneath him and nothing would escape the cage of his arms.

His hand cups my cheek, thumb stroking it slowly, like I'm not just something to touch, but something to be known. Memorized. Like he's collecting every moment we've made tonight and storing it somewhere he can reach.

I open my eyes and look up at him, and for a moment, neither of us moves.

His forehead rests against mine. Breathe shallow. Lips parted. Blue eyes locked on mine like they could hold me still. And maybe they do. I've never felt this quiet inside. Never felt this seen.

Then, in a voice like he's telling a secret he's never said out loud, he whispers, "You're my wife."

My chest stutters. I don't know if it's from the words or the way he says them.

Like a prayer, a promise.

Then louder, rawer, almost ruined, "You're my fucking wife."

And with that, he slides into me again.

No hesitation. No ramp-up. Just full, slow, relentless depth— like he knows exactly where I need him and refuses to give me anything less.

I gasp, legs tightening around him. One hooked over his hip. The other wrapped around his thigh, drawing him impossibly closer.

He stays deep, grinding instead of thrusting. Like the friction itself is enough. Like he wants me to feel everything. Wants to make sure I remember this even in dreams.

I whimper his name, again and again, and every time I say it, he groans like it's undoing him.

"You feel that?" he whispers, lips brushing against my jaw. "How fucking good you take me?"

I nod. Not able to trust myself to say anything.

He holds my face in one hand like I'm fragile, scared, something rare that he's been given exactly once and refuses to fuck up.

His other hand threads through mine, pinning it above my head on the pillow. Our fingers laced. His grip is unrelenting, steady. Like if he lets go, the moment will too.

"Look at me," he says.

I do. God, I do.

And I see it all.

The awe. The hunger. The helpless, wrecked affection he's never been good at hiding when we're like this— when nothing else exists but skin and need and the way we break for each other.

"Fuck—I love you. I love you," he says, almost like it hurts. "So much it scares me."

And then kisses me, full, soft, aching. As if we have all the time in the world, even if we don't. He can pour every unspoken word into my mouth, and I'll understand.

It's all heat and friction and sweat-slicked skin, but somehow still tender– his fingers through mine, our foreheads touching like we're trying to crawl inside each other and stay there.

I hold onto his jaw, thumb tracing the curve of his cheek. He presses our foreheads together again, eyes fluttering closed.

We stay like that, building our highs together— slow and scared.

His name falls from my lips in a whisper, then again. Then louder.

He moves deeper, harder. Still holding eye contact. Still inside me like he's proving his vows with every stroke.

"Don't stop," I breathe. "Please— Luke, fuck."

"I'm not going anywhere, sweet girl," he promises me.

My body arches against him, lost in it. His hair falls into his eyes, and I reach up to push it back just so I can see him better. So I can memorize this.

His hand moves from my cheek to the back of my head, holding me to him as I fall apart beneath him. He doesn't let go. He doesn't rush. Just stays with me, inside me. Through every wave.

And when he comes, it's with a sound I'll never forget— like he's breaking open and finally, finally letting me in.

We finish together. Messy, gasping and clinging.

Name after name after name. His. Mine. Ours.

Like a spell cast in sweat, breath and skin.

Like there's no one else in the world but us.

We don't move right away.

“And that’s four.” He says breathless. 

He collapses onto me, bodies still tangled together, breath still short. His weight is solid, skin flushed and damp against mine.

I wrap my arms around him, legs still draped over him. His heartbeat thunders against my body.

We stay like that for a long time.

Eventually, he shifts, rolling us so I'm on top, sprawled across his chest. He kisses my shoulder, my temple, the corner of my mouth— soft, lazy kisses that feel like aftershocks.

His hand moves to my hair, combing through the strands slowly, like he's trying to soothe both of us back to earth.

His thumb traces the curve of my cheekbone, and his voice breaks the silence– wrecked but tender.

"You could send me Polaroids every day for the rest of my life…"

He swallows, chest rising beneath me. Finishing the sentence like it hurts.

"And I'd still never get used to you."

I smile against his collarbone. My lips brush his skin as I reply, sleepy and smug. "Good."

My fingers trail down the center of his chest, where I can still feel his heart hammering.

"Because I plan to keep ruining you."

He exhales a laugh– soft, disbelieving– and pulls me closer as if I'm somehow still not close enough.

Neither of us says it, but it's in the quiet, heavy air between us:

We were never going to be the same after this. 

And neither of us wants to be. 

A figure stood where your glass door used to be, leaning weakly on what was left of the frame. You turned on the lamp next to you, illuminating your boyfriend’s stumbling body.

“Clark!?” you exclaim, confused by his abrupt arrival.

He doesn’t look up, just stands there against the frame, chest heaving, fists clenched. Like he is barely holding himself together.

Worry washes your features, something must be really wrong. You start making way over to him, but as soon as you take a step forward he puts a warning hand in front of him.

“Stop! Don’t move,” his deep voice comes out strangled, like he’s been screaming for hours. “Don’t come closer… please. Just–just stay there.”

He keeps his hand up to stop you, panting heavily as he swallowed to try to soothe his dry throat. He slowly looks up, and groans when he meets your eyes. His pupils are blown wide, dry lips parted, his breath ragged like he’s been flying across the globe. His usually perfect wavy hair is now flat, messy, sticking to his sweaty forehead.

“I didn’t want to come here,” he whines. “I–I didn’t want you to see me like this.”

“What happened to you?” You ask from your spot, fighting the urge to run to his aid.

“I’ve been infected,” he chokes out, and your brows furrow more. “Some kind of … alien pollen. It hit me out there. I flew straight into it and fuck ... It’s messing with my head, my body, I…”

He suddenly turns away, pacing in small frantic circles on your balcony like he’s trying to shake something off. His hands tremble as he fights to not make eye contact, like just looking at you hurts.

“What do you need? D-do you have the antidote?” You ask, scared as hell. He never acts like this.

He just shakes his head first with a bitter laugh, only to nod frantically afterwards.

God, if only you knew.

“I tried to wait it out,” he groans, fists now in his hair. “I swear I did, my love, I locked myself away for hours …tried to fly as far as I could but I kept turning back because I could smell you.”

“I can smell you, sweetheart. Even from across the city …I can hear you breathing…your heartbeat. I didn’t want to hurt you but right now I have you in front of me and I can see–dammit…I’m sorry–“

He stumbles backwards like he’s ashamed of himself, like he can’t even look at you.

“You know I can’t turn it off,” he whispers. “I never mean to look, I swear, but I can see you now. Everything.”

Of course you know what he means. You know he can see right past his giant shirt covering your body. And the guilt on his face is gutting. He looks like he’s trying to claw his own powers out of his skin.

“Clark… it’s okay. You don’t have to explain.” You step forward slowly. “It’s not like we haven’t–“

“No–you don’t get it!” He snaps, his voice booming through your walls so loud you were sure everyone on the building heard him. He instantly feels worse with the way you flinched to his volume. “S-sorry darling… you just don’t get it…you have no idea what it’s like to smell you and know how soft you are, how warm. My instincts are going crazy. I just need to be inside you…I need to touch you, mark you, fill you up until I can’t think straight,” he just rambles, eyes raking through your body.

You take a deep breath, his words making you clench your thighs together and he noticed. Of course you’ve had sex before. You know what he sounds like when he’s needy. But this? This is feral. You’ve never seen him like this.

But you’re willing to do anything to help him.

Always.

“Clark…you don’t even have to ask,” you speak softly, your own eyes darkening with desire.

He shakes his head. You don’t even understand the amount of restraint he’s having right now.

“I do…I always do. Especially now. Because I’m not going to touch you like I should. I’m not going to make it about you. I’m going to use you. Because you’re the only one who can fix me…you are the antidote and I hate it. I hate that I can’t even think straight unless I’m inside you…I need you so bad, darling, I’m shaking–” He cries, actual tears come out of his desperate eyes.

You’re watching a god fall apart in front of you.

Because of you.

You finally cross the space left, and he doesn’t stop you this time. You grab his face between your hands, and kiss him without hesitation. His arms immediately cling to your frame, cold hands slipping under your shirt to roam every inch of your warm skin.

You moan into his lips, when you taste the salty tears on his face. His hands land on your ass, and he squeezes hard, bruising, making you squeal. He immediately pulls back, apologizing. Like he still can’t let himself go.

“I’m sorry–” He blurts out immediately, hands soothing the skin he pinched as he fought the urge to do it again, harder. “God I love you…and I would never hurt you. Never. I swore I’d never touch you like this–unless you asked me to. Unless you wanted me to. So please … tell me you want this too. Say yes, or I’ll leave. I swear I will.”

He nods frantically, like he’s trying to convince himself more than he’s trying to convince you.

“I’ll leave if you tell me to.” He swears. “I’ll fly through a mountain. I’ll bury myself in the ocean. Just don’t say yes unless you want this. I’m barely holding on– if you say it, I won’t be able to stop.”

You want him. God you always want him.

The way he keeps asking makes you want him even more. Even if he’s not your Clark now. Even if he won’t take care of you like he always does. Even if you can’t breathe or move after. Because you love him too.

“I want it,” you whisper against his lips, nodding. “I want you. You need me? Use me. Take all you want…I can take it.”

It’s over.

The moment you say yes there’s no going back. He lunges forward, tightening his grip on you as he lifts you off the ground to fly you towards the wall, knocking the lamp when your back hit the wall, leaving you both in complete darkness. Only the moonlight left to shine over his hungry eyes.

His massive hand cradles the back of your head to protect it from the hit, while the other tears off your shirt like he needs to see your skin on his or he’ll die. Your panties don’t even last two seconds before they he rips them away too.

His lips crash yours. Tongues are desperate, hands everywhere, so large, so shaky, everywhere at once. He groans into your mouth like a man dying of thirst finally tasting water.

“Thank you,” he gasps between kisses. “Thank you sweetheart…I’m so sorry I can’t help you first…but I need you…I need to feel you inside, please just let me…”

He knows it hurts you when he doesn’t prepare you properly, when he doesn’t make you cum at least twice on his fingers before he fucks you…but he can’t right now. Not when he can smell how soaked you are already, not when he swears it’s dripping on the carpet.

“Do it,” you pant, hungry for him. “Clark just do it… please.”

He doubts only for a second, and then without thinking he rips the suit. Literally tears it at the waist, tugging it to get rid of it completely. He’ll give a damn about that later.

Right now he is just muscle in front of you.

His painful cock springs up, and he presses himself to you with a wet slap, your back hitting the wall again. Your pussy throbs at how impossibly huge he is over your stomach.

You’ve had him before. You’ve barely made it.

You still want him to rearrange your guts.

“Feel that?” he groans. “That’s what you do to me, that’s what’s been driving me insane all day, darling.”

He’s not even pretending anymore, his cock is throbbing, massive, already leaking. He aligns himself between your soaked folds, rutting the tip against your pussy a few times like he’s lost control of his body entirely. You moan at the friction. Every nerve ending screaming. You know he’s gonna wreck you. You weren’t ready. But at the same time you’ve never been more ready.

He grabs your thigh and lifts it against the wall, before whispering against your lips. “I’m sorry…”

He pushes his hips forward, and when he finally slides home with a snap…raw, hard, you let out a strangled moan.

One long, broken sound, high pitched and helpless, because he stretches you brutally, all at once, bottoming out with a growl. An actual growl. Like he finally felt some type of relief since he got hit with the pollen.

You fight back a cry, lunging forward to bite his shoulder. He starts fucking you into the wall as he whispers ‘I love you’ ‘Thank you’ ‘Sorry’ like some sort of chant. A prayer. Like it’s the only thing keeping him rooted to the version of him that is still careful with you when you make love.

Right now it’s just sex. Dirty, rough, unfiltered sex.

Your breath leaves you in gasps, your bare back against the cold plaster, one leg around his waist, the other held away by him, arms clinging to his biceps for dear life. All you can do is moan as you get adjusted to his unfairly thick cock slamming in and out of you.

“Just like that…you’re taking me so well,” he pants. “You can do it, sweetheart…you’re doing so good… fuck, you were made for this…made for me.”

His hands grip your thighs. He fucks you like he’s possessed, no rhythm, no thought into it, just deep, hard thrusts that hit something devastating every time, shaking the wall with every slam of his hips.

And the whole time, he keeps whimpering into your neck.

“I love you…I’m sorry…I love you…I’m gonna ruin you …I need it…”

You think you’re about to white out when the room starts moving, but you quickly realize what’s happening. He’s lifting your bodies off the ground.

Still fucking you.

Going up as much as your ceiling allowed him too. He pins you high on the wall when his head touches the roof, like gravity doesn’t apply anymore. It never does anyway, not to you, not to him.

So now you’re fucking hovering. Literally. Unable to do anything but take it.

And you feel him like never before. A complete moaning mess. Nails dragging down his back, mouth open in shock as you look down to the floor. Your whole body is a live wire, and he’s fucking you like it’s the only thing keeping him alive.

It literally is.

His cock twitches inside you. He’s already close. Has been since he walked through that window. But he’s holding it, fighting it, because he needs to stay inside. Needs to keep taking. You can’t keep giving all night.

“Fuck Clark…I’m gonna–“

“Yes? Do it. Darling please, you’re doing so well. I’ve got you…cum all over my cock, I got you.”

Your body breaks before you can even breathe. Your first climax of the night hits hard, walls clenching around him, as you pant into his chest. Your whole body goes limp and he feels it.

He fucks you through it. Rough thrusts with his hand stroking your back and the other wrapped under your thighs. He keeps thanking you as his cock splits you open over and over.

“I wanna give you everything,” he groans, voice cracking. “Fill you up, stuff you full of me…Can I? Please? Let me finish inside you….let me have you–“

“Yes, yes, fill me up,” you blurt out, still seeing stars.

He slams in once more and chokes, hips locked, whole body shuddering as he comes with a moan so broken it feels like it came from his soul. He shakes as he fills you, mouth pressed to your neck.

He doesn’t pull out yet. He holds you there, trembling, pressed against the wall like he knows you’ll fall if he loosens his grip.

Even after the first wave passes, after the groans, the shaking, the desperate I love you’s, he holds you like you’re the only thing anchoring him to this planet.

“…Are you okay?”

You just nod, breathless, a blissed out smile in your face. He smiles too. And then, slowly, he lowers you back down to the floor.

But he’s not soft for long. He doesn’t even give you a minute to recover. He can’t. The second round starts before the first one even finishes sinking in.

You’re still trembling in his arms, leaking down your thighs, whimpering his name into the crook of his neck. And he’s still inside you. Still painfully hard.

Still needing you.

“One more, please. Just–just one more,” he begs. “Let me have you again. Please, darling I need it.”

“Take it Clark, take all you need,” you nod, absolutely wrecked.

But what’s a few more rounds with your unearthly strong boyfriend?

He melts.

You usually go multiple rounds, but he’s softer, he gives you downtime, even brings you water in between orgasms. But right now he can’t believe the way he fucked you and you still let him have more. But he needs more. The pollen is fogging his brain.

He finally pulls out, just to set you down on the floor. The second your back hits the rug, he’s on top of you again. And god he’s heavy. Solid. He doesn’t even hold his weight like he usually does because all he’s thinking about is fucking you senseless.

He buries himself deep again, groaning, cursing under his breath. You close your eyes, nails digging the carpet, back arching when you feel him deeper from this angle. You pant small whines from the feeling.

“Shhh…don’t–“ he coos, he wants to be slow, but he can’t. His hips snap hard without even thinking. “You’re doing so good, sweetheart…so good for me… just need one more.”

You know it’s not just one more. And he fucking knows that too.

None of you cares.

“You’re so wet…so perfect” he groans, the filthy sound gushing loudly every time he thrusted. “I didn’t even give you time to come down…didn’t even let you breathe and you still take me so well”

He praises. Worships. He looks down to where your bodies meet, and he sees right through your skin. He can see his huge cock filling you with every thrust. He can see your walls clenching around him. And he loses it.

You’re suddenly running out of air when he presses his chest to yours, pining you tighter to the floor with his body as he pushes harder. And you feel all of him. The broadness of his chest against your ribs. The strain of his thighs bracketing yours. His cock still buried deep, rock hard.

You hit his bicep with your hand first, but he’s not paying attention, he’s too caught up on the way your pussy takes him to notice.

It’s not smooth. Not rhythmic. Just sharp, ragged thrusts that hit you so hard your body jerks on impact, tits bouncing, nails clawing at his back as he crushes you into the floor with every rut of his hips.

Your head starts spinning.

“Clark,” you choke out, hitting his bicep again. “I can’t–can’t breathe…”

His head finally snaps at you, eyes going wide. He lifts up a bit, but he doesn’t pull out, he just … can’t.

You finally gasp for air as he shushes you softly, tucking away the hair sticking to your sweaty forehead.

“I’m sorry…I can’t…can’t stop. I tried, I swear I tried,” his forehead presses to yours, without crushing you alive this time.

His hips don’t stop moving. You pant between moans. You’re close again, you can feel it.

“It’s okay, you’re just…you’re so big…so heavy.”

“I know,” he breathes. “I’m sorry, I know. I just…I don’t want to let you go–”

“Don’t,” you whisper. “Don’t let me go.”

His expression breaks. Because he knows. And you know. He’s not really letting you go. Not all the way. He’s still pressing his weight into you, even as he tries not to. Because he needs to. Because letting go means losing you, even just for a second.

He doesn’t know what takes over him, he grabs your hands and pins them above your head. Watching you sob, moan, eyes rolling back, skin already bruising in multiple places by his grip. He’s not like this. He should be apologizing. Begging. But you just feel so damn good.

And you like it, god you love it.

“I–I love it when you fuck me like this,” you confess, voice barely above a whisper, dumb smile on your face as he hits that spot repeatedly. “I just–I can’t…”

“I know darling, I know…just a little more,” he groans. “One more please. You can take it…you’re doing so good.” He coos, but he can’t slow down, not when you’re clenching him like that.

He picks up the pace.

“C-Clark…please, I’m gonna-“

“I’ve got you, darling…I’ve got you, let yourself go for me.”

You see white this time. You’re not even moaning anymore. Just gasping. Twitching. Letting him take what he needs because you want to. Because this is Clark, your Clark, and you’d give him your whole body a thousand times if he needed it.

And he does.

He fucks you like you’re his last breath.

Even after you’re wrecked, limp, twitching…he keeps going.

You don’t even remember the next time he finishes. Or the time after that. Or where it happened. Your body is a mess, trembling and raw and wet and full. Marked. Praised.

All while he keeps saying, “Just one more…just let me stay inside you a little longer…please sweetheart, I’m still hard I know you can take it…this is the last time I promise…”

Again and again. You’ve never heard him lie so much before.

Yet still, with your hair splayed, legs shaking, literal tears leaking from the corners of your eyes from the pleasure, the pain, the strain, the goddamn pollen he pumps into your body every time he comes…

You are having the time of your life being drunk on his cock.

“Fuck me harder.”

You beg, even when you can’t feel it that much anymore. Maybe that’s why you need it harder…deeper. And because you knew that once he came back to normal he wouldn’t fuck you like this again. And he makes sure to let you know.

“I’m sorry. I just need you so fucking much…I love you I love you I love you—”

You just nod, because it hurts embarrassingly good.

You lose count of how many times he comes in total. How many times you come. You only know time’s passed when the sky starts to lighten outside your broken window, and Clark is rocking into you so slowly it’s more like he’s just holding you in place, his mouth pressed to your shoulder, whispering thank you with every lazy thrust.

By the time he finally slows down, finally wears the substance out of his body after dumping it all inside you…you can’t move. You’re limp in his arms, boneless and dripping and his.

Your bed feels incredibly soft in contrast to all the spots he fucked you on last night.

You’re draped across his chest, tracing the muscles under his bare skin. His fingers are in your hair. Barely moving, just tracing small patterns. Soothing you like he didn’t cause all the pain in your body.

You’re still trembling a little. Just from…after. Your body’s still echoing with everything he gave you. Everything he took.

Worth it.

Clark kisses your temple. He hasn’t stopped kissing you every few minutes. It’s like he’s trying to apologize without saying it. Like he’s trying to prove that he’s still the man you love, the man who flinches when he bumps your head by accident, who picks you flowers and gets flustered when you kiss him in public. The one who always put you first in bed.

Not the one who just broke the sound barrier flying to your apartment because his cock told him to.

“…I broke your window,” he finally breaks the silence, a chuckle makes his chest vibrate against your ear.

“Clark…you broke a lot more than my window.”

You both start giggling…somehow glowing. Your throat hurts, you’re sore, probably can’t even walk today or the whole week, and somehow, it feels like the safest place on Earth.

“I love you,” he whispers. “So much.”

“I know,” you whisper back. “You said it like 87 times while destroying me.”

⋆⋅ ♡ ⋅⋆

I created a blog dedicated to Superman, where I’ll be posting my writing for him from now on 🫶🏼 so if you wanna check it out, go to -> @404superman