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and sweet.

“okay? .. you?” he’s smiling when he asks and he searches right through you, it seems. of sentences broken between the way he groans into the air that’s grown dewy with fornication. and he doesn’t speak to fill in the blank spaces because he’s inquiring more after just a few beats, not at all satisfied with dubiety.

“this fine? let me know, please.” he’s at the tip of a whine, and with clark, while he makes everything about you and leashes himself with every word against your lips, there’s a need for validation—performs nicely on his own expectancy, performs marvelously with an unshakable assertiveness when told you’re doing such a great job.

“yes, clark,” you begin and watch as his breath hitches, as his thrusts slow only by a breath, a terrifying sort of attentiveness. “feels so good.” you assure in all your truthfulness, and while it’s enough, “just look at how you make me feel.” you’re covered in sweat and pleasure at his hands.

he loses his breath then, dropping a hand into the sheets. he swears with the rhythm of his hips, cock wedged deep into you, right at the core where you’re hottest. the sweat lining at his forehead smears your jaw where he burrows into your neck. “can’t look.” a weak confession mingled with a sad effort at suppressing a fast approaching orgasm.

your legs tingle with the ache of the pretzel he’s made of you, and if you don’t come now it’ll linger with you for days.

“you can. you can, baby.” it’s punched out of you, railed against the headboard, dampened under the continuous way he gasps into your neck against the drilling of his cock that’s quickly taking you apart. “look at me, you have to.” a command coated with a caramel-sweet tone. “look at what you’re doing to me.”

and it looks that clark can’t resist the way he snaps up like a dog. he’s a nasty thing, really. secretive with how words are all it takes.

“fuck, it’s—“ you’re choked up, arching until you’re chest to chest, skin to skin with clark. you marvel at the contact, feeling swathed, warm with the rush settled deep in your gut. “it’s not enough.”

at that, clark regains purchase of your leg with a new enthusiasm, a resolve to please. it’s written all over his face; the one that’s flushed red from the cheekbones to the ears, lips pink and bitten raw and brows tight.

“come on, superman, fuck me for real.” it’s new, so new and different and unanticipated, in fact, that upon hearing it clark bites down red and stinging on your neck, just shy of puncturing.

it’s like telling a trained dog to jump, watching it comprehend and advance to do so in the same width of a second.

picking the right words to tip clark over the margin of poorly subdued release never proved difficult because he comes then, just following the five drives of him impaling you on his cock. the last few fast, sloppy, so extreme and wet like it’d been his first time fucking. ever.

tate’s abdomen tensing beneath your hot palm, hips jutting, lips spilling incoherencies is how he submits. not only does he allow himself lack of control despite his bigger bulk, he relishes in the sensation that it brings; his face contorting prettily and oh, so distraught—he allows them both to coexist.

it seems he’s mastered humility—or perhaps it’s never touched him—because he lets you and every loitering existence in earshot give testimony to just how much pampering he’s receiving. and tate loves it.

it’s not hard to decipher his emotions when he isn’t blabbing off at the mouth. everything that tate feels, every emotion that you pull from within him when he’s incapable of finding the words amidst his trembling is a big, telling mural painted right onto his pretty face.

his cries, needy and selfishly wanting, are equally as pretty. he keeps his hands fisted tightly into themselves beside his head—an order from you that he follows blindly without qualms, though the skin reddens and breaks with heavy restraint. obedient, he is. spoiled, he is.

he isn’t coached by you to ask for permission, it’s always just been ready at the tip of his tongue: “can i touch you there?” before he even thinks to act on it, “can i come?” before he lets it all go. he’s a puppy in the browns of his eyes and the shadow on your every trail, but a starved dog filled with an obsessive, codependent love that disciplines him in a mental way much stronger than anything physical.

so, in fear of losing that look in your eyes that he’s recognized as love, or adoration, or empathy, or—tate just wants to be looked at—he lets himself be touched. he lets you watch him bitch and cry in such a lewd manner in all his literal nakedness, dead but so divinely alive.

you touch him just the right way, speak to him just the right way, pull and twist and defile him just the right way. his abdomen starts to ache that familiar stir that, as a young man, he’s all too well associated with. his thighs tremble in a show of what he’s holding back, and when he goes to make eye contact, he’s only met with his own mess of ejaculation that erupts from the crevices of your closed fist and dribbles down your knuckles.