𝜗𝜚

At first, it was subtle.

He noticed the way denim clung when you walked past him, how it hugged the curve of your hips just right. Too right. 

Clark Kent—pillar of integrity, sworn defender of truth, justice, and, apparently, self-denial—told himself it was nothing. He adjusted his glasses, cleared his throat, and glued his focus to whatever was in front of him. A report, a headline, a completely irrelevant spreadsheet. Anything.

But it didn’t stop.

And worse—you didn’t stop.

The jeans weren’t helping. Not the way they molded to your legs like they’d been stitched in place. Not the way you’d hop to get them over your thighs, shimmying into the waist with an exhale that stole the breath straight from his lungs. You’d tug them up with a little bounce, twisting to check the back in the mirror—completely unaware of what you were doing to him.

It was lethal in motion. Always in motion. Walking through the kitchen in the morning, brushing past him with a soft “’scuse me,” just close enough to graze his arm. Sometimes your back would arch a little as you reached for a mug, the denim stretching just enough to make his mind blank entirely.

It was a blessing. A curse. Divine torment wrapped in Levi’s.

And Clark—who’d faced villains, earthquakes, literal fire from the sky—had never struggled more to stay upright than when you walked across the room in jeans that should’ve been illegal.

Every time, it got harder to ignore. 

His eyes would snap before his mind could fight it, dragging over every inch of fabric until the ache in his stomach spread lower, heavier.

It got to the point where he nearly dreaded seeing you in them. Not because he hated it—never that—but because the second denim met your skin, he knew he was done for. 

Productivity? Gone. Focus? Scorched.

He wouldn’t be able to think straight, wouldn’t be able to breathe right—not until those jeans were back off again.

It wasn’t even restraint anymore. It was starvation. 

And today was no different.

You were getting ready to run errands, all light conversation and soft perfume, as you pulled on the jeans that might’ve been hand-stitched by the devil himself.

Clark stood frozen as you zipped them up, the soft rasp of metal sending a crack of heat down his spine. 

He swallowed hard. Looked away. 

Later, he told himself.

But then it happened.

Just as you were about to leave, half-distracted as you moved through the apartment—grabbing your bag, your phone, the grocery list you’d scrawled out—he heard it first.

The jingle.

Keys slipping from your hand, clattering softly against the floor.

You bent to pick them up, and Clark swore time hiccuped. A view so devastating it hollowed him out in one beat. 

No thoughts. No oxygen.

Just denim pulled tight over every line of you, the slow bend that dragged everything inside of him down with it. It was brutal—how easily you wrecked him, how you moved through it oblivious while he unraveled in silence.

You straightened a second later, keys in hand, expression casual.

“You ready?” you asked, tossing him a glance over your shoulder.

“Yeah.” The word scraped out, barely audible.

Then— “No.”

You turned fully, brows lifting. “No?”

Clark shook his head once, already moving, already closing the space between you.

“Wha—?”

The rest never made it out.

He kissed you like he couldn’t get close enough, hands finding your hips, fingers digging into the fabric like they might tear it. Like they should. His palms were rough, hungry, trailing along the seams, gripping the very thing that had been tormenting him for far too long.

The kiss deepened fast. Messy. His mouth hard on yours, then lower—your jaw, your neck—until he was breathing against your collarbone.

Then he dropped to his knees.

His hands found your hips, thumbs pressing in with a quiet groan.

“These,” he muttered against your stomach, kissing just above the button. “Drive me crazy.”

His fingers tugged the zipper open, mouth following every inch, reverent and unhinged all at once.

“You drive me crazy.”

You were too stunned to respond. Too overwhelmed to ask what he meant, or where it was coming from. You didn’t have time to think—only feel.

The second your jeans hit the floor—your underwear right along with them—he had one leg hooked over his shoulder, face buried right between your thighs.

There was no hesitation, no easing into it. Just heat and breath and the press of his tongue moving with frantic need. The rhythm was dizzying, shifting from fast to slow to fast again, like he couldn’t decide whether to savor you or ruin you. 

Like he needed both.

And maybe he did. 

Clark Kent could endure fire, steel, the weight of worlds. But you in jeans? 

That was the one battle he never stood a chance against. The second thing strong enough to bring Superman to his knees—and keep him there.

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Gabe is a mess.

Not emotionally, no—emotionally, he’s golden. No stress, no practices, no ice time, no flight schedules. Just summer, sunlight, your apartment, and you.

But physically?

The boy is hanging on by a thread.

Because during the season, his brain is all structure. Routines. Sore muscles. Early nights. Energy drinks and protein bars. Practices at 10am and games that keep his body in a constant state of low-key exhaustion.

But now?

Now there’s nothing to regulate him. No game-day nerves, no hotel wake-up calls, no reason to conserve energy.

Which is how you end up with this: Gabe lying on your bed in nothing but boxers, completely wrecked from thirty minutes of your attention.

You’re not even doing much. Just straddling his hips, lazily dragging your fingertips down his chest and stomach, watching him twitch.

“Baby,” he whines, voice cracking.

You grin. “Yes?”

His eyes are glassy, pink lips parted, curls stuck to his forehead from how much he’s already been squirming.

“You’re killing me.”

“I’ve barely touched you.”

“That’s the problem!” he whines. “You’re—god, you’re teasing.”

You hum thoughtfully, tracing one fingertip along the waistband of his boxers. “Hmm. Maybe I just like seeing you like this.”

He groans—loud and dramatic—and throws an arm over his face.

You lean down and kiss the dip between his collarbones.

“You’re so sensitive,” you murmur.

“I haven’t come in, like, four days—you’re the one who said we were taking a break so I could ‘build anticipation.’” His voice goes high-pitched on the quotes.

You laugh softly. “You said you wanted to last longer next time.”

“I didn’t mean this long!”

You trail your hand down his stomach again and watch his hips twitch under you.

Off-season Gabe is insatiable. Touch-starved. He follows you around the apartment like a puppy, gets handsy at breakfast, wants to make out between grocery aisles, and goes breathless anytime you so much as brush your hand near his thighs.

You’re obsessed with it.

With him.

He’s big and pretty and floppy in the best way, soft, golden skin and sleepy brown eyes and a mouth that won’t shut up when he’s even slightly desperate. And right now, he’s looking up at you like he’s two seconds from losing his mind.

“You’re seriously not gonna touch me?” he asks, hips rolling up subtly. “You’re just gonna sit there and watch me beg?”

You tilt your head. “Do you want me to touch you?”

He whines. Actually whines, like a boy denied dessert.

“Of course I want—fuck, yes, please touch me.”

“Use your words,” you murmur, fingers tracing the bulge under his boxers. “Tell me exactly what you want.”

He’s panting now. “I want your hands. On me. Everywhere. I want you to jerk me off or ride me or suck me off—anything, I’ll take anything, please—”

You press down with your palm, just enough pressure to make him moan.

“God, you’re so easy like this,” you say sweetly.

He nods like it’s a compliment. “I am. I’m so easy. I don’t even care. You can do whatever you want to me, I swear.”

You grind your hips slowly over his, dragging fabric against fabric, and he arches up like he’s chasing friction, hands fisting the sheets.

“Fuck—that feels so—baby, please—”

You lean in and kiss him. Open-mouthed, slow, deep. His hips stutter again and his whole body goes soft under you, melting into the mattress like he can’t hold himself up anymore.

“Need you,” he mumbles between kisses. “Need you so bad it’s fucking insane.

You tug his boxers down and his cock springs free, already flushed and leaking.

“Oh my God, Gabe,” you murmur, genuinely startled by how hard he is. “You weren’t kidding.”

“I told you,” he gasps. “I’m on the edge. Just—please—”

You spit into your hand, slow and deliberate, and wrap it around him.

Gabe shudders. Makes this breathy, whimpery noise that goes straight to your core. He’s so sensitive, cock twitching in your grip with barely any movement.

“You gonna come fast, baby?”

“I—fuck—probably. Probably, yeah—”

You stroke him slowly, teasing the tip with your thumb, and he arches up again, mouth falling open in a full-body gasp.

“That’s okay,” you whisper. “You can come quick. I’ll keep going. I’m not done with you.”

He whimpers. Actually makes a wounded animal noise.

You kiss his neck, stroke him just a little faster, and it’s barely thirty seconds before he’s gasping your name like a prayer and spilling hot into your hand, hips twitching, thighs flexing beneath you.

But you don’t stop.

You slow it down, just enough to keep the pressure light, and Gabe makes this high, broken noise in the back of his throat.

“Ohhh fuck—fuck, wait—” he babbles, “I’m too—sensitive, too much, too much—”

You coo softly. “You said I could do anything I wanted.”

“I didn’t mean this!”

“Yes you did.”

And he did—because even as he’s whining, his hips are still twitching under your hand, cock still twitching in your grip. He’s moaning through it now, overwhelmed but loving it, face scrunched up like he’s barely surviving.

“You’re such a good boy,” you murmur. “Letting me take care of you like this.”

He lets out a soft, wrecked sound. “I’ll be so good, I swear, I’ll do anything—”

You stroke him again, slow and deep, and he chokes out your name again, lower this time, voice strained and desperate and hot as hell.

“Please let me come again,” he begs, barely coherent. “Please, baby, I—I need it, I need it—”

You lean down, kiss his jaw, and whisper, “Then be good for me.”

He comes again with a cry, thighs shaking, body trembling under you—and it’s messier this time, more intense, like you’ve pulled something out of him he wasn’t even expecting to give.

You slow your hand. Rub his stomach while he catches his breath. He looks ruined—flushed, sweaty, pupils blown.

Eventually, when he can speak again, he lets out a weak breath and mumbles, “So… I’m gonna need a minute.”

You giggle, curling up beside him. “You’re a menace during off-season.”

“I’m suffering,” he says dramatically. “You’re ruining my life.”

You kiss his cheek. “No hockey. No travel. Just me.”

He sighs, dreamy and wrecked.