pretty,pretty please

The knock to the hotel door came twenty minutes prior to when you were due to walk the carpet. It was a distinct knock, five sharp, melodic raps against the wood that could be mistaken for something along the lines of morse code. It was protocol—of course. The debut premiere of a high profile movie adapted from the pages of millions of people’s most treasured story, the stakes could never be higher to ensure that the other person on the side of the door was not a human will ill-intent. 

It came with the profession. Media consumers, movie buffs, locals disrupted by the chaos that a bunch of actors and their entourage brought to their city, weren’t all going to be elated by the movie adaption. 

You were never going to win; women never got to win. 

So, the knocks were mandatory. 

One of the many assistants that were collaborating for the initial get ready to go as smoothly and as on time as possible, crept to the door, cracking it open just a slither before their shoulders drop in relief—because there was no use of brunt force or verbal abuse needed to the potential threat on the other side. 

You are closer to the opposite side of the room with a team of hair, makeup and your most trusted confidant; your stylist, when the door opens and shuts with urgency. From where you are stood, you can see the red carpet beneath the building you were residing in and it had been cause for a brilliant distraction amidst the tugging and turning you had to endure to look the part. 

Eventually, you turn your head to see your boyfriend approach you with—what you would call it—a shit-eating grin on his handsome features. Clark Kent is almost unrecognisable as he forgoes the frumpy, ill-fitting grey ensemble suit for his everyday work escapades at Daily Planet, and stands in all broad-shouldered excellence in a sleek suit that deliberately complimented the theme of your outfit. 

It was subtle. Completely intentional. (The world had yet to unearth the privacy of your relationship, but that didn’t mean Clark couldn’t tease a declaration of possession with a suit.) 

Your posture slumps with relief to see him. 

“Hey.” you breathe out, the team around you dispersing momentarily to allow you a moment with your remedial significant other. 

Clark bends to press a featherlight kiss to your lips—conscious enough to not ruin the perfected makeup look. “Hi, sweetheart. You okay?”

“Yeah, just—” you inhale and Clark copies, “—nervous. Sort of.” 

Nervous was an understatement to how you felt. To be morbidly graphic, what you felt was close to the comparison of, if you had ingested flesh-eating maggots that had a craving for eating away at your vital organs. Especially your stomach. 

Nervous was just a more eloquent way of expressing that. 

It was to be expected. The movie that you had been working on amongst some of the top-dogs of the theatre industry, was also your introductory film. It took close to two years of filming, hundreds of repetitive script-reads—with Clark has your practice partner—and endless but intermittent travelling to locations to capture the true essence of a backdrop for a scene. This movie, with a director that was renowned across the globe, would change the trajectory of your life within this business you were so passionate to be apart of. 

The premiere was another ominous entity entirely. 

In simpler terms: this is where the public scrutiny came into play. 

Clark’s face fills with empathy, “I know. It’s a big deal for you.” he rubs circles into the pulse point on your wrist, “You deserve the recognition. Everything else is just outside noise. Alright?” 

“Right.” you give a curt nod, “I do deserve this.” 

“I’ll be right there with you. Well—behind you, not in shot…just with your assistant. Away from the limelight.” Clark mulls the positioning of his standpoint on the red carpet, “Golly. You know what I mean.” 

You let out an airy laugh, “Thank you, baby. I really appreciate you being here.” 

Clark pecks your glossy lips again with a smile, before taking the opportunity to stand back on his heel to appreciate the work your team had put into the creation that moulds to the curves your body. It was a craft—the art form that spoke through the visuals of fabric against the human form. The team that remains devoted to you to this day have completely encapsulated the aesthetics on par with the movie; as if they shook the script and you fell out wearing a divine masterpiece. 

He could appreciate the concept pieced together on your body. He would appreciate that you brought it to life, even more. 

Clark’s hands smooth down your forearms, his face melding into that of a man on a ledge of delaying the entire premiere process. Brows in a pinch, a low hum rumbles from his chest as he drinks up your external beauty.

You tuck your chin to your shoulder because, even after a year and some change with the bumbling journalist—and true Kryptonian behind closed doors—Clark still manages to conjure up some shyness from the depths of your core. 

“You look…angelic.” Clark speaks in a barely audible tone. 

You look down at your frame, “That was the prompt. This dress was put on hold from the runway for two years—Can you believe that?” your eyes shine with excitement when you look back up. 

“They made the right decision, honey.” Clark muses, happy to keep your spirits up before the anxiety seeps in from the corners. 

“You look handsome.” you redirect, voice dripping in saccharine. You subject your team to the ooey-gooey tempo pouring from the bubble you found yourself in with Clark. You smooth your hands down his chest, “I like your suit. You suit this cream colour.”

“Yes—Well, I thought I could match in some way.” Clark mumbles, pink from praise. His fingers dip into the breast pocket, pulling out a pair of golden-frame sunglasses. “I made these.” 

You pluck the sunglasses to inspect the plexiglass. “The same as your others?” 

(It was an attempt to be as discreet as possible in a room full of listeners. For all they knew, your significant other had a passion project of making sunglasses.) 

Clark nods happily and you express your amazement through the subtlety of facial expressions—trying hard not to draw too much attention to raise questions from the others. He takes the glasses from you, angling his body away momentarily to exchange the signature frames for the newly designed ones. 

He turns back, dimples prominent with the shades now adorning his face. 

“Ooh.” you chirp, “Are you sure you don’t want to walk the carpet?”

“That’s all you, honey.” Clark ensures as he laps up your fawning over him. 

Your publicist finds a moment of reprieve in between the flirtations between you two, signalling that the final touch ups can be made in the short car ride to the venue. Clark breathes with you when the apprehension returns in shudders of air from your lips, his reassurance quiet as he gathers your skirts to ensure your walk to your assigned vehicle is as undisrupted as possible. 

The elevator ride from the tenth floor doesn’t last long enough for you, and suddenly you’re struggling into the backseat of the car with the tinted windows—Clark prompt to step up and help you into the seat with his hand at your hip. Once you’re awkwardly settled, the dress preventing as much fluid movement as usual, Clark ducks his head when you place a hand to his jaw to tug him in for one final kiss; before the relationship was placed behind a thin veil and away from prying eyes. 

Then it’s you, your stylist and your thoughts. 

Clark is in the car following behind yours. He has your publicist talking in his ear about the protocol to be strictly followed once on the carpet. She’s essentially the brains of the operations that happen under everyone’s starry-eyed infatuation with the stars of the movie. She talks of the interview triages assessed prior to this moment, where you need to be an opportunist with popular media outlets, the strict schedule to help you flow through the process with minimal overtime with interviewers. 

“It’ll be hard not to step in.” she says in regard to parasite that were the paparazzi, “That’s my job. I know the cues, the questions that aren’t to be asked. Just be there as background support. She’s nervous.” 

“Of course.” Clark agrees with zero protest.

This was beyond the cushioned comfort of Daily Planet, or in the skies as the protector of Metropolis—or wherever he’s needed. Clark was out of his depth with all the glamour, besides the handful of times he had attended the Metropolis Gala still in civilian clothing. 

Even taking all of this taken into consideration, the event was about you, and your co-stars no less; but you. That meant Clark had to chew on his feelings and relinquish his protective streak to allow the professionals to do the job they had been employed to do. 

Take care of you in the spotlight. 

And, for the most part, they do. 

As soon as you’re out of the car, your publicist doesn’t let you out of her sight. Even with the blinding flashes coming from the bulbs in the plethora of cameras, she never loses you in the swarm of desperate hands waving posters for signatures. When the time tiptoes on, she is the one to give your elbow a light tap and you move along. 

Clark watches you in awe from the sidelines. The fluidity in which you manage to maintain as you manoeuvre from interacting with fans to snappy interviews with various different media outlets, is genuinely admirable.

From an insider’s perspective, Clark couldn’t help but show his bias. You weren’t a hard person to fall in love with. He finds himself falling deeper everyday. So, it made complete sense the way strangers would practically fall to their knees in reverence the moment you turned your attention in their direction. 

(Clark was just privileged enough to be able to take you home. Whereas, these people didn’t.) 

Eventually—after the red carpet photos, interviews and fan interactions—you make it into a more communal, but still public, area with all the co-stars of the movie, and where the paparazzi also begin to spill into the edges of the carpet; without as much as a barrier to hold them back. 

Despite this, the photographers had been told on numerous occasions that this was an intermission to allow to actors to breathe for a minute. Therefore, photos were to be put on hold until the group photos of all the people starring in the movie were to take place. 

“You okay?” Clark checks in when you finally come to a stop. 

“Phew—Yeah. This is pretty intense. Do you think I’m doing okay?” you look up at him all twinkly-eyed, your pupils dilated from a mixture of strong affection and the adrenaline from the event. 

Clark, without much thought, rubs the nape of your neck, “You’re a natural, sweetheart.” 

You lean into his touch. (He refrains from pressing a to kiss your temple. Or anywhere on your face.) 

“How are you feeling?” you ask whilst you take Clark’s hand into yours to absentmindedly play with it. 

“I’m happy.” Clark chirps, “Happy to be part of this moment with you.” 

You tilt your chin, humming in content—Clark Kent was a man who knew how to love. “You’re sweet. We just have some group photos and then we’re inside to introduce the film. We aren’t obligated to stay after that.”

“You don’t want to watch it?” 

“I do! I just have this idea in my head on how I’ll watch it. You know, when it’s released to the public. You, me and our friends can go to the Metro to watch it.” you beam at the idea of sharing your moment with your close ones; and as an extension, Clark’s close friends too. 

Clark wants to kiss you. You can see it in the way his tongue pokes out to wet his lips. Behind the tinted shades, blue eyes are pinned to your lips as the end goal. He gives you a handsome smile, hungry for some public display of affection but is aware of the boundaries in place. 

This was your moment. He didn’t want any kiss to detract from that in the newspapers the next morning. 

The tension is palpable, because your relationship has always been pretty handsy. Anywhere you went together, there was always a hand placed on a hip, a kiss pressed to the back of a hand or a peck to the lips when you found the time. To have the restraint to not flaunt the love shared between you two, was a talent in its own. 

(That didn’t mean the ride back had to be cuffed to the self-control too.) 

Even so, you still found yourself fiddling with Clark’s hand, stepping into him as you waited around for the signal for the group photos. 

It’s only when a few bulb flashes spark in your peripheral, that you drop the gentle affection. 

Your publicist is first to step in. “There’s no photos to be taken here. If you make your way round to the podium, the group photos will be held there.” she announces it clear and concisely—so there shouldn’t be any confusion. 

“Yeah. Yeah.” a male with an expensive camera drawls. 

You turn back and pull a face at Clark, “There’s always one, huh?” 

Clark offers a smile reserved only for you. 

The flash goes off again. 

“Excuse me—” your publicist steps up to the same male, “—Did I not make it clear enough? This is a no photography zone. Go round to the podium, or I will call security.” 

The pap chuckles and lifts his lens to snap another candid photo of you. “Let me do my fuckin’ job, lady.” 

“Hey!” Clark moves toward your publicist to defend her. His face contorts into frustration, “Everyone has a job to do here. Let’s be respectful of that.” 

“Shut the fuck up, dude.”

Clark’s nostrils flare, “Don’t be such a jerk, buddy.” 

The man scoffs at Clark’s polite insult. 

“This your guy?” he snorts, thumbing in Clark’s direction whilst he stares at you. 

You also step into the space where the minor conflict was beginning to arise. Media trained down to the bone, you were aware of how to keep composure whilst trying to snuff out the growing tensions amongst ravenous paparazzi that will do anything for a front page image. 

Silence follows you, ignoring the provocation from the paparazzi. 

Your hand comes to rest on Clark’s forearm as he stares down the bald-headed man who was sneering back at him. He could feel the thrum of the pulse quickening in his neck but yields all the same. Your publicist gives him a grateful nod, all three of you turning your backs to weave through the rest of the people that congregated on the carpet. 

It’s the step to the side, and behind your publicist—to check in with her—that induces a blur of aggression. 

The belligerent paparazzi male makes himself an opportunist to the vulnerability in having your back turned. Unsatisfied with the limited images he has taken of you, his hand outstretches and he dictates your movement with a hand yanking at your bicep. 

It makes you yelp from the unexpectedness of it. His intentions are rough and you’re pulled from your publicist. 

You attempt to shake him off—his fingers curling deeper into your flesh. “Get off of me!” 

“Hell no. I need one good fucking photo—” his demands are cut short when Clark comes up from behind you, grabbing the camera in the paparazzi’s grasp and crushing it into smithereens beneath his foot. “Are you fucking kidding me?” 

“She said get off of her.” Clark sizes the guy up, a couple of inches taller, “No one takes photos here. You heard the rules.” 

“Clark—” 

“No, fuck you!” The guy points a finger in Clark’s face, “And fuck this nobody bitch!”  

A shade of red blinds Clark’s vision as he takes the fabric of the man’s shirt into his fingers, his teeth bared as he sends him a couple of feet into the crowd of paparazzi standing idle—all observing the ordeal before they became part of it. Luckily for the bald-headed pap, Clark had only mustered up a slither of his strength to send him backwards; so it wasn’t as evident that he contained the power to have his body flung to the other end of the street.

You stop Clark from following the path in which he tossed the man like a rag-doll, seeing as his point had been well and truly proven. His eyes remain where a few people have bent at the knee to check for any injuries on the male.

A single flash goes off. 

“Come on.” you mumble, your fingers intertwine with Clark’s as you tug him behind you with your linked hands flush against your back. 

Clark feels the visceral anger water down to dread whilst he walks, the guilt rising like bile in his throat as you guide him away. “I’m sorry, honey. I’ve ruined this for you.” 

“These things happen.” you speak over your shoulder, straining a smile to onlookers, “You didn’t ruin anything. It was about time these paps get put in their place.” 

“Are you hurt?” he asks worriedly. 

You shake your head as you come to a stop, your publicist beside you already on the phone. “Peachy.” you fix the lapel of his suit, “You need to be careful what you’re showing off here. They are here to provoke us, to get a headline—negative or not.” 

“I know, I just—couldn’t stand back and let that happen.” Clark pouts, “You’ve worked so hard to get here. I feel terrible.” 

“Hey—” you coo, placing a hand to his cheek to raise his eyes back up to yours. You smile warmly, “—Nothing is ruined. We might get a hospital bill in the mail…but it’ll be okay. We just have to keep rolling with the punches.” 

Clark nods along as your publicist approaches. With security already on the way to escort the aggressive instigator out of the venue, she advises that the group photos will be next—however the time for it cut short as it seems that a few more of your co-stars have reached the same fate with the paparazzi. 

She ushers you away, and Clark stands with his hands clasped at his front as he watches you stand amongst the A-listers to get your photo taken. 

You’re a vision. Again, this could be Clark’s bias rearing its head, but he thought you stood out from the team. A different type of glow from stardom around you. 

“You’re a lucky guy.” your publicist muses quietly as she stands shoulder to shoulder with Clark. 

“I know.” Clark inhales to fill the air that has escaped his lungs from watching you. “She’s one of a kind.” 

“Hm.” she hums, “Anything we should be keeping under wraps from the tabloids?” she leans in to refrain from the conversation bleeding out into the eavesdroppers in surrounding areas. 

The tips of Clark’s ears tinge with pink at the thought of an upcoming proposal he had in the works. 

Clark chuckles, “Soon. I’ll let you know.” 

“Well—you have my email.” 

The group photos are wrapped up instantaneously, and you are back within Clark’s grasp. You introduce him to a few of the co-stars he had missed the day he visited you onset, and he spends most of his time talking about you rather than being complimentary to their extensive work in the industry. 

A few of them check on you after the altercation with the paparazzi and Clark keeps a firm hand on your back. (All previous notions of subtlety are gone with the wind.) 

The whole team filter into the venue, away from the cameras and reporters which invites a unified sigh of relief—postures less straight, shoulders rounded, genuine personalities beginning to peek through. 

There’s a fifteen minute wait before you are required to assist in introducing the film to the audience within the theatre. Your publicist finds you a room to sit in, with some refreshments on the table whilst you await to be called.

“I’ll give you a knock when you are needed”. she says before shutting the door, leaving you and Clark alone for the first time in, well, a few hours. 

His hands come to smooth across your hips, head nuzzling into your neck as he breathes in your scent; sending goosebumps up your spine. You bend slightly to allow him to apply minimal weight against your body with his, with your arms snaking around his neck to keep you balanced. 

Clark presses a few innocent kisses to your pulse-point. 

He lifts his head from your neck and gives you a lopsided smile before dipping to kiss you properly. There’s a sigh of content from both parties as you lean into the kiss, lapping up all the missed opportunities to display this kind of affection with him. 

You pull away first, “I really appreciate you being here today.” 

Clark is hungrily staring at your lips—his brows pinched with need. “Anything for you, sweetheart.” 

“I also appreciate how you stuck up for my publicist.” you kiss him again, “And for me.” you move your kisses from his lips, to his cheek and then onto his neck. “Let me show you how much gratitude I have.” 

“Honey—” Clark grips onto your hips as you suck at his neck, “—We don’t have time.” 

Your hand travels south, “Please?” 

“Gosh, sweetheart.” Clark whimpers when your hand palms at the outline of his cock. His shaft twitches from the pressure you’re applying. “Darn it.” 

You grin wickedly and in a blink of an eye, you’re on your knees in front of him. Fingers making light work of his trousers, Clark tucks his chin to watch you peel his boxers downward; allowing his already hard cock to spring free, slapping against his suit jacket. 

The slit is seeping and you waste little time by pressing your tongue against it. 

“Do you know how sexy it was? Watching you throw that man for me?” you whisper with your lips pressed to his shaft. You flatten your tongue against the hot skin, dragging it upward to lick at his pink head again. “I love it when you get protective.” 

“Uh-huh.” Clark whines as his head falls back. His fingers curl around the air in front of him; knowing he cannot touch you as it would ruin the look your team had spent hours perfecting for this premiere. 

“We have to be quick, okay?” 

Clark squeezes his eyes shut. “Honey, I won’t last long. I promise.” 

You hum before taking him into your mouth. One hand at the base of his cock, you begin to pump him into your mouth—the other hand balancing against his muscular thigh. Easing him inch by inch, you feel him twitch against your tongue until the tip of his head is close to the back of your throat. 

Clark bites down on a knuckle to muffle the guttural moan he lets out. He peels one eye open to see you begin to bob your head back and forth, saliva gathering around his shaft, making it as a substitute for lube as you jerk him off with your hand.

You take a second to look up at him, eyes gleaming with your mouth stuffed full. Clark feels his hips shift, and you whine with pleasure as he begins to gently thrust into your mouth. 

“Just like that, honey.” he grunts, “You are doing so well.” 

“Mhm.” you mumble, sending vibrations all the way to his tight balls. Your eyes shift to the clock on the wall behind Clark’s head. 

8 minutes.

You pick up the pace, gagging each time Clark’s tip hits the back of your throat. You let him use you, relaxing your mouth as he desperately ruts into you, chasing his climax. Both hands are now curled around his thighs to keep you in place, eyes watering, the room now filling with the ambient noises of Clark sloppily fucking your mouth. 

Clark is verbalising his pleasure in babbles, ensuring that you’re comfortable with the pace he’s thrusting into your mouth at. He can feel the coil tighten in his stomach as he attempts to push back the worry from being caught by your publicist—or anyone who takes a moment to take a peek into the room. 

“Honey, I’m—I’m close.” he whimpers pathetically. His cheeks are rosy, sweat clinging to his fallen curls. “Should I cum in my hand?” 

You shake your head. 

“In your mouth?” you nod and Clark feels the explicit word on the tip of his tongue, “Fuck. I love you.” 

His words go straight to your core. 

With his thrusts beginning to stutter and you brace yourself as he punches his cock into your throat. Clark’s whole body tenses up, his hands coming to clamp over his mouth as he releases hot ropes onto your tongue and down your throat. 

Some of it spills out from the corners of your mouth, and you swallow as much of it as you can whilst Clark pulses against your tongue. 

You look up to see his chest heaving, teeth marks bitten into the skin of his hand. 

After thirty seconds of him slowly softening, you release him from your mouth with a quiet pop. Satisfied, you grin up at him, chin wet with a sheen of your own salvia. 

Clark wipes it with his thumb, bringing it to his mouth to taste. 

You stand from your knees and press a wet kiss against his pink lips. “Did I get the message across?” 

“Loud and clear.” 

You laugh softly as Clark bends to pull his trousers back up. “And with five minutes to spare. That’s a record.” 

“Yes—Well, considering the circumstances. We got lucky.” Clark grumbles, feeling hot with a newfound embarrassment. 

As you begin to retort a smart-mouthed comment, a handful of knocks in a recognisable sequence hit against the other side of the door. You both straighten as the door opens to reveal your publicist—neither of you acting any sort of casual. 

She speaks as you both shift on your feet, “They’re rounding up everyone now.” 

“Okay.” you smooth the front of your dress and let out a sigh whilst feigning innocence to the dressing room escapades you had just partaken in. 

She looks you up and down as you approach. “…We need to fix your makeup.” 

Clark barely manages to conceal the striking shade of red that covers the entirety of his face. 

Clark can only stare at the flimsy drywall, taking a heavy gulp in an attempt not to just…look. "They're…passionate?" He points out, questioning, only to be met with a withered glare.

"No woman would ever make those noises for a man unless they're being paid to." You refute.

"I…see." Clark clears his throat, holding a loose finger up to point at the offending noise. "Do you think it's a…"

"Hooker? Yes. Great one by the sounds of it."

"Right. I didn't realise there was a baseline." His statement hangs in the air, heavy with his genuine and innocent observation.

"In what sense?" You pry, the noises from across turning far less interesting now.

"Uh. I don't know. The louder a lady is when…you know. The better the intercourse is?" Clark looks up to the ceiling thoughtfully. Shaking his needless curiosity away.

"You're thinking about something."

The broad-shouldered man jolts, turning to face you in the wake of your blunt statement. "I…I'm not sure what you mean."

"You've got that look on your face," you say simply. Then, playfully whip your sleep mask at him — it lands against his chest with a thud, a mocking noise as his heart rate picks up. "Spill."

"I — gee," Clark relents with a sigh, slowly standing up, albeit unsteadily, before plopping onto the bed next to you. The motion sends the mattress dipping low under his heavy weight, forcing you to slide closer to him.

"It's not so much a thought…but an observation."

When he turns to you, your gaze is already on him. All wide and curious. His head snaps away from your innocent stare, "when you and I…are intimate."

He continues after a beat, "you're sort of…loud," then, his hand comes up to loosely point to himself, "so... that means you feel good. With me."

The words land as a brief shock to you. Not at the implication, but that Clark had actually formed that specific thought just from an off-handed comment.

Your answer came in the form of a gentle swat to his hand, paired with a shy, honest look, "…don't do that. Makes you look dorky."

Clark's lips break out into an easy smile, his head bowed to chase your eyeline. "Aren't you going to ask me what I'm thinking about now?"

"Not interested." Your rejection comes swiftly, punctuated with a dramatic slump onto the comforter. Though the quirk at the corner of your lips gives your actual thoughts away.

"Oh, come on," Clark's voice drops to that familiar, negotiating lilt. The bed dips further, with his elbows secured over the pillow you hid your face in. His warmth behind you inched closer. "Ask me."

You look over your shoulder suspiciously, "hurry up before I change my mind."

His lips curl into a wide, dimpled smile.

.

.

.

'Let's see how honest you can be without making a single sound.'

It was a stupid, impulsive challenge thrown out there. One that was potentially dangerous to their cover. Possibly — no, completely unnecessary for two people who were only in a motel room to stake out an elusive contact.

The logic was hard to fight. It was a bet to be quiet. So the pact was formed in the wake of the soft rustle of sheets, the gentle hold of Clark's palm at the base of your lower back. You bit down on your lip hard at a tug that forced you flush against Clark's chest, with your thighs draped over his thicker ones. Instinctively, you arch into him.

His gaze tracked your movements, intently raking over your twitching thighs. Clark's head lowers, his lips searching for a spot — a spot he knew would incite a shiver from you. The kiss beneath your ears did just that, squirming helplessly to the mercy of his teasing touches.

A whimpered sound choked on the way out of your lips as his hands slid beneath the fabric of your bottoms, a whisper of the fibres gracing the heavy, hot air in the room. His warm, bigger palms still at the outside of your thighs, urging your hips upward.

"You're doing a really good job," he comments, reverence felt in the manner his nose still chased the curve of your jaw.

The springs of the motel bed squeaked at the shift, adding your sweats to the pile that was Clark's makeshift bed on the carpeted floors. He doesn't make it easy for you in the slightest. His mouth finds purchase on the column or your throat, and toward your pulse.

"Mm'tryin' to keep — ugh — quiet!" Your voice is barely above a rasp, trying to nudge his face away in a weak attempt, "don't…"

Your soft whine was the very first crack in your resolve, in your promise to keep quiet. It only seemed to spur Clark on even more, his mouth clumsily finding yours, catching the corner of your lips before they slot just right.

The quiet room filled itself with the urgent, wet smacks of your combined desperation, whimpers that spilt into each other's throats. Clark's free hand slid up your ribs, his thumbs skirting beneath the curve of your breasts. Deliberately, his thumbnail rake over where your nipples slowly hardened.

"Ah!"

The sound spills from your lips before you can stop it, and you turn to bury your face in the pillow. "Nnh. Not bein'…fair." You mutter, petulantly, with your face squirmed into softness.

He laughs suddenly, warm against your pulse.

"Who said anything about being fair?" Clark's nips at your earlobes, placing open-mouthed kisses unabashedly despite your squirming.

You writhe beneath him, frustrated. With a determined tug, you pull him down more. In a soft tone, barely there, you whisper his name into the shell of his ears. It'd run louder than any whine or moan you'd given in an ode to your pleasure.

The reaction was instantaneous. His rigid body, which was once intent on teasing grinds, melted into you. The hard lines of his erection stiffened in a demanding manner, urging you to spill all your little whimpers into his ears.

"Just…like that." He pleads, eyes fluttering shut when your tongue drags past the shell, probing into the soft curve.

"Clark…Clark. Clark."

Each whispered whine of his name threatened to unravel him entirely. Clark's deftly shucking his trousers off just enough to free his aching cock, resting the hefty weight of it on your bare cunt, soaking with arousal that he pulled from you painstakingly.

"You…You have to be actually quiet. Okay?"

You nod sharply, steadying your hold onto his biceps.

Clark's careful.

At first.

Easing his thick, hard cock into your eager walls was the easy part. Especially with how easily you opened up for him, sucking him in — begging for more.

But then he snaps his hips into you. His length disappears deep into your belly, making you feel so fucking full and overwhelmed at the same time that you squeal.

Clark's palm spans over the lower half of your mouth. Muffling the ends of your whine. "Oh, sweetheart —" he coos, his voice cracked in remorse. You blink up at him, hazily and uncoordinated, looking at him like he'd given you blue balls.

"You can't — …" Clark shakes his head slowly. His hold is unrelenting over your soft lips. "Breathe through your nose. Okay? Trust me."

Your stifled whimpers are efficiently muted by the warm press of his palm, subjecting you to the controlled thrust of his hips. Each one met with the creaky protests of the mattress. Clark's breath comes out gradually ragged against your neck, the sweat from his skin mingling with your own.

It seemed to be doing something to him on a chemical level. Feeling the warm vibration of your needy grunts into his nerve endings, paired with the rhythmic pulse of your cunt that was the only other indicator of how turned on you were.

Clark's eyes are scewed shut, as though every one of his senses were attuned to the noises. To the sounds of your arousal, to the ones of the sticky, hot connection below. Your cunt clenched around his length, harder with each stroke of his thick thip in your twitching walls.

His head pulls back in time to meet your fucked out gaze as he's met with the telltale signs of your oncoming release, "shit. I'm — please." He manages, pulling his palm away from your reddened lips, where a slight string of your drool clings to him.

He brings his dampened palm down to your clit, rubbing you in idle circles.

"Ngh! Clark!" You squeak, digging your nails into the taut muscles of his arms. That gave you the tip you needed before your body arches off the bed, into him, in a quivering intensity, coming hard around his cock.

Clark follows suit, his own body seizing, shuddering gutturally as he takes on the wave of pulses from your walls, filling your belly with his hot, potent cum.

You lift your head up, only barely, lips chasing the warmth of his pulse, blissed out in an undeniable wash of addicting pleasure that the man above you pulled from you successfully.

It's short-lived, though. Especially when an insistent, loud bang resounds from the walls above both of you.