alisha

“Here’s your card from Jack. I’ve opened it for you, I hope that’s okay.” 

“I cannot open anything. I tried to stab my pudding open with a spoon and broke it and can’t find the sharp part in my blankets. I’m worried it’s going to poke me.” 

Hotch stands from his chair. “That’s not good.” 

You take up Jack’s card, pinching the folded printer paper and pulling all of its homemade glory from the envelope. The front has a red heart drawn with bandages wrapped around it, and inside is a message written in impressive penmanship considering his age. To Y/N, it says, Please get well soon. We are hoping you to have a speedy recovery! Love you, Jack and Aaron 

“It says you love me,” you say. 

“Mm, Jack wrote the message. He misses you.” 

You catch the feeling of Hotch’s hand where it slips between your legs and almost burst, giggling excitedly, which makes his hand jump away from you like a fish out of water. “You have the spoon!” 

“Found it. No more danger.” 

“Thank you. I knew you could find it.” 

“Don’t mention it.” 

The pain medication Hotch spoke of is starting to make itself known. You hadn’t felt very different to begin with, the only worthy note your absence of pain, but right now you feel weird. Light. Happy, but strange, like the opposite feeling of missing a step. You know something’s wrong and you know it’s the medication, but you’re elated at the same time. Hotch is here. Maybe it’s just him. Maybe he’ll know. 

“Do you think I feel happy ‘cos of you or the morphine?” you ask. Softly, slurring, you swallow and try not to sound as drunk. “I feel amazing.” 

“It’s the morphine.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“Well, it’s been a long time since I had some myself, but I remember feeling amazing at the time, and you’re on a lot more of it than I was.” Hotch sets himself back down in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“Are you staying for long?” 

“Until they make me leave,” he says. 

You breathe out a sigh of relief. “Oh, good. Yesterday you were here for ten minutes and I felt like my heart was bruised.” 

He doesn’t speak for a moment. His eyes seem darker than usual. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know. I had to be home to take care of Jack.” 

“I know you had to, it’s not your fault, but I still missed you.” 

You prop Jack’s amazing card on the nightstand with a proud grin. You love Jack Hotchner, he’s the smartest, kindest, sweetest boy you’ve ever met, and it must be because of his parents. You’ve not met Haley many times, but Hotch is amazing. It makes sense that his kid would be just as awesome as he is. Turning your attention back to the flowers, you find the courage to ask, “Do you think you could bring Jack to see me?” 

“I think he might be a little young for hospitals, I’m sorry.” 

“Well, maybe I can see him when I’m out of the hospital? How can I say thank you for the card? Does he still like bears?” 

“He has enough bears,” Hotch says gently. “You don’t need to buy him anything, he just wants you to get better soon.” 

“You’re such a good dad.” Your lashes kiss with the force of your smile. “You’re lovely. Jack is really kind.” 

“Thank you.” 

“You’re handsome,” you continue, slinking down in the bed. You feel tired but not sleepy, craving a really big, hot sandwich. Hotch holds your gaze. “Can I ask you a question?” 

“What?” he asks quietly. 

“Can you please get me a big, hot sandwich? Maybe with hot chicken? Or spicy chicken in a burrito? I really need it to be hot.” 

Hotch laughs aloud and reaches for your forearm to squeeze you again. “Of course I can. I’ll call Derek and I’ll make him get you both of those things, if you like.” 

“Oh, good. I really really don’t want you to leave but I really want the sandwich more than I want you to stay.” You tip your head to one side. “If you hugged me again I’d say I want you to stay more than I want the sandwich, ‘cos you haven’t hugged me in a long time.” 

“Does that bother you?” he asks, the pad of his thumb working against your wrist. 

“No, I know I’m not supposed to want you to hug me.” 

“We’re friends,” he says, shaking his head, “good friends, aren’t we? It’s alright if you want a hug. I should be better at giving them.” 

When he was with Haley you wouldn’t have dreamed of wanting it, because your affection for him has always been more than a friend‘s. You’ve guarded the secret carefully over the years. What’s more unfair to a wife than to fancy her husband? But Haley left Hotch, and he’s been single for a while now, and you think that lately he’s actively dating. He’s always had pride in his appearance, but his suits are tailored again. His hair is left to grow beyond what’s easily maintained. He and Dave occasionally joke about him getting back out there —he doesn’t need to get out there, you’re right here. 

You can’t help frowning. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks. 

“I think I’m a bad friend.” 

“You aren’t a bad friend.” 

“I am, I have ulterior motives.” 

Hotch rolls his eyes. “Honey, everybody does. You’re fine. You’re a good friend. You know you’re the sole member of the team who’s remembered Jack’s birthday every year? Remembered mine?” 

“I don’t do that to be a good friend, I just love Jack.” 

His hand slips down to yours. He holds it briefly. “I know you do.” 

“It’s why I remember yours,” you say, shaking your head, annoyed he’s taken his hand back but ready to move on to better things. “Can you ask Derek for my sandwich now, please? Please, please, I’m so hungry I’m gonna die.” 

Hotch gives you a funny look. “How about I go and get you your sandwich? I’ll be very fast. I’ll go to Sam’s across the street, would you like that?” 

“Can I have maybe a donut too?” 

“Sure, honey. I’ll get you a half dozen.” 

“Really?” 

“Sure. Do you want any in particular?” 

Hotch goes off to get you a sandwich and you click the button for more morphine without really thinking. You’re asleep before he gets back.

—

You wake up shaking. 

Aaron straightens in his chair. He hadn’t meant to doze off, but it’s nearing the end of your visiting hours and he’s been here since three. Your sandwich is stone cold in the bag and he’s not sure how he’ll get it warmed up.

Your arms are trembling badly. 

“Are you alright?” he asks. 

“Sorry.” 

“What for?” 

“Hotch, where am I?” 

Aaron stands. “You’re in the hospital. You’ve had some morphine and it ended up sedating you. The shaking will calm down soon, but nothing’s wrong, okay?” 

You’re noticeably confused, and Aaron hates it enough to sew his fingers between yours. His are thicker by quite a bit, but he’s used to smaller hands. He’s careful with you. He can’t stop thinking about what you said earlier. 

The undercurrent of fear you’d been harbouring begins to ebb. You let Aaron hold your hand and settle back down into your sheets, turning your face toward him and shutting your eyes. You don’t seem sleepy. He’s not sure what’s wrong. 

When you say you love him, he understands. He loves you, too. He doesn’t think that he’s in love with you, but he could be. He’s had enough guilty daydreams about it, batted them away, moments doing the dishes or at the gym or when you’re standing together working a case, where he forgets to forbid himself the pleasure and imagines you in simple intimacies. He sees himself taking your hand. He pictures waking up to the smell of you on his pillows. When he’s especially pent up and you’ve haunted him with your bare face or a shy smile, he ends the day thinking of you. How he’d kiss your head with just a little of his weight atop you, or a lot. 

And then he feels so horribly wrong for doing it that he resigns himself to the distance between you forever. 

Aaron doesn’t know what you want from him, but he knows he could fall in love with you if given the chance. He has to determine how honest your morphine-confession was, and there’s no time like the present. 

“Are you feeling okay?” he asks softly. 

“Yeah,” you whisper back. 

“I brought you the donuts and a sandwich, but I’ll have to reheat it. I’m sorry.” 

“Did I ask for a sandwich?” you ask, startled.

“A hot one. You emphasised.” 

“Thank you, Aaron. I don’t think I’m hungry now, I’m kinda queasy.” 

“You had a little bit more morphine than you should’ve.” 

“Sorry.” 

“Sweetheart,” he says under his breath, “that’s not your fault.” 

You squeeze his hand weakly. Any want to draw the truth from you is quickly dwindling. All he wants now is to make sure you’re okay. 

He spills himself closer to you and, without untangling your hands, brings your thin blankets to your shoulder. “You’re gonna be okay. The queasiness won’t last long. In fact, eating might help, but we can wait.” 

“Don’t you have to go home?” 

“No, I can stay if you want me to.” 

“Please, I want you to.” 

“You’re still on the morphine,” he says, rubbing your hand, “I can ask them to lower your dosage if you don’t like it, but you have to remember that it’s keeping you unaware of your pain.” 

You hesitate. “I don’t want it to hurt.” 

“Then it won’t,” he promises. You had more than your fair share of pain. 

“Thank you for taking care of me,” you whisper. 

“You’re welcome.” 

“This is all I want. For you to look after me.” 

He takes a measured breath. “I would love to look after you.” 

You turn your head half an inch to see him. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah, I think so.” He’s trying to blend the half of him you know at work with the half of him responsible for his outer life, the part of him that flirts with beautiful women at bars, the part of him that loved being a husband. “I don’t know what you want, and now isn’t the time, but,” —he prepares to be brave— “if you want me to look after you, then I will.” 

“You promise?” 

“I promise.”

“Can you kiss me?” 

His heart skips a beat. “No, honey, I can’t, I’m sorry.” 

“Not even on the head?” 

His stomach aches, but it’s a good feeling. Like worrying you lost something and finding it in the first place you’ve looked. “On the head I can do.” 

You squeeze your eyes closed in wait of his kiss, a light, chaste brush of the lips to your temple. The morphine makes you laugh, a girly, giggly bubble of it as you burrow into the sheets, like he’s tickled you. He’s twice as endeared when you squint at him like you’re waiting. 

“Can I–”

“One more,” he whispers, leaning down to kiss your forehead again. “Any more than that and you’ll die of embarrassment when you’re not drugged out of your mind.” 

“I’m not out of my mind. I’m just hallucinating. Or having a great dream.” 

He’s inclined to agree, but he knows with confidence he hasn’t had any heavy medication today. He gives you a fond look and sits back down, obliging you when you scramble to put your hand in his again. It’s a weight he could get used to holding.

“I really like you,” you confess quietly. 

He quite likes you in return. “That’s great, honey. Do you want to talk about it later? Maybe you can have one of your donuts.” 

You don’t take his misdirection as rejection, you just pull his hand to your chest and smile. “No thank you. I can wait.” 

On good days, he's reverent. Who wouldn't be, if they have someone like you in their life? Reverence seems like the bare minimum. But that reverence does not interfere with his daily functions, or impede his sense of judgment. In fact, it's often the opposite—he loves you to the point of betterment, of motivation, doing more stuff just to make himself worthy of your affections.

Tonight, he's sad to say, is one of his bad days.

Tonight, he is so overcome with his devotion he's practically dripping in it. Convinced that every pore of his body is leaking with I love my girlfriend pheromones and that the whole bar can smell it.

Tonight, he can't move for every clumsy action seems offensive to you and your presence.

And, despite consuming zero alcohol, he still feels so utterly inebriated. Swaying on his seat, dizzy with want, eyes trained on you and you alone. Hazy neon and blinking flashes do nothing to dim your appearance, only serving to highlight your beauty, the way you spin and shimmy on the dance floor without a care in the world.

He had declined your multiple invites to dance. On another night, perhaps he'd muster up the courage to join you, but he doesn't trust his own body right now. Not that you'd ever complain about his graceless dance moves, but he's convinced any sense of coordination will disappear the moment you press into him.

Worse, Spencer knows, with a thousand percent certainty, that he would not be able to control any bodily reactions if you start dancing the way he knows you like—swinging your hips flush against his. Sensual. Torturous.

He'd rather not be arrested for public indecency tonight. Or ever, actually. Imbecilic as he is right now, he's got enough presence of mind to at least avoid that.

So he contents himself with watching. You are angelic in this light, transforming even the pounding, fast paced music into something he'd enjoy, all because now he associates the song with the memory of your smile, the sheen of sweat on your forehead that glints neon pink when you twist your head just so.

Beside him, Emily yells with a flashing smile. Something teasing, no doubt. He's used to it, being on the receiving end of jokes (playful and told with love, of course), but somehow he's much more relaxed when he's with you. Anxieties of being too weird, or too smart, or too scrawny, all seem to collapse because the entire time he's dated you, you've never made those things seem like flaws.

So he grants Emily a sheepish smile, and a shake of his head. She laughs and calls him 'Lover boy' and he doesn't bother disputing it. He's proud of it. It feels like a badge of honor, especially after years of thinking he'd never be the kind of man to have this sort of love in his life.

In fact, he'd wear a physical badge of it, if such a thing existed—Penelope probably would make one if prompted—simply because it's true.

And then Emily says 'Uh oh' and her face shifts enough to make his spine stiffen. Spencer follows her gaze and frowns.

He's always known you're beautiful. Had always admired how you bore it—proudly, never shrinking from the attention, always taking up the space like you owned it. He knows you're beautiful, knows that other people are aware of it too. Rightfully so.

But sometimes, they make it too obvious.

The man on the bar would be subtle, if Spencer isn't trained to watch out for signs like this. Body language, profiling training paired with his heightened senses in everything about you, all lead him to the same conclusion: you're being hit on.

And you, sweet perfect angel you, are doing everything in your power to reject the man.The stern line of your mouth, the arms crossed over your chest, body angled from this stranger.

Spencer doesn't like imposing himself in your space. Doesn't consider himself to be someone possessive, or a savior. He believes you to be strong enough to handle this without his intervention.

But the man lingers. Reaches, drags his unworthy fingers down the length of your arm, and finally Spencer moves, his brows furrowed.

He's shouldering his way through the crowd when you smack the man's hand away. Even through the pounding music, Spencer can hear your voice—snapping and testy—and the man's indignant exclamation of bitch. He pushes through and puts himself between you and the man before anything else escalates.

"Is there a problem?" he snaps, glaring at the stranger, "You want to explain why you're calling my girlfriend a bitch?"

The man sputters.

Behind him, Spencer feels you press closer, chin resting on his shoulder. He can feel your smugness emanating in waves.

"I told you, I wasn't interested. Now look, you've pissed off my honey."

Your breath tickles his neck. Spencer has to suppress a shudder, but manages to maintain his intimidating stance. He finds it surprisingly easy, channeling everything he's learned from his coworkers and his job to ward away this stranger.

The man holds up his hands in surrender. "All right, all right, jeez. Thought you were just lying about the boyfriend."

"Uh, no. And even if I didn't have a boyfriend, I still wouldn't be interested."

"Oh please, you're not even—"

"Watch your mouth." Spencer doesn't think he's ever sounded so angry as right now. He's faced impudence of many kind, and only a select few had ever been at the receiving end of this. But he finds himself ready to pull whatever stops for you. "Unless you want a problem."

"Whatever, man, I was just talking to her." with a scoff, the man finally turns and stomps off.

The tension in the air turns lax, but Spencer keeps an eye on the man until he's swallowed by the crowd. He feels your laugh before he hears it, feels the hitch in your breath, the shuddering shoulders against his side that tells him it's one of those laughing fits that overtake your entire body.

He glances down and instantly brightens at your giddy expression, free hand cupping your cheek.

"Hey."

"Hi, handsome."

All the anger he's felt eases from him from those words, simple and sweetly uttered. Just for him. Only ever for him. At once, he feels the effects of alcohol despite avoiding it—lightheaded and trippy and effervescent—all from the sight of your smile.

He presses his forehead to yours. "You okay? He didn't try anything else, did he?"

"I'm perfect. You came just in time."

"I hate that I had to," a muscle ticks in his jaw, "he shouldn't have pushed after you said no."

"Well, that's just how a lot of men are."

There's nothing he can say to that. He knows it's true, has seen several versions of the aftermath of an offended man. Spencer moves behind you and wraps his arms as if that act alone could protect you from any more harm.

At least it signals one thing: you're taken; everyone else back off.

He feels you sink into his chest, soft and content, hair tickling his chin.

"That was really hot, by the way."

He chuckles. "What was?"

"You getting all pissed off and protective. Didn't think you had it in you."

"Excuse you, I'm in the FBI! I've interrogated worse people."

"Really? I couldn't tell. You don't ever act like that around me."

"It's important to keep a work life separate from my personal life, you know that. I already study cases at home, I shouldn't bring that energy when I'm around you as it–"

Your giggle tells him he's being baited into a reaction, and he sags against your back. "You're mean."

"Me? I just said you were hot, how is that mean?"

"You know how."

"Explain it to me, genius."

He huffs. "I hate you."

You twist to face him, gasping dramatically. "You what?"

"Nothing."

"Not nothing, you said you hated me. Apologize!"

Spencer answers with a kiss to the tip of your nose and an acquiesce. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it."

"Hmm, not convincing. I need compliments."

"You possess an incredible ability to still look fresh after being in a dance floor surrounded by forty other people."

You giggle and tilt your head up for another kiss, which he eagerly grants. Sticky, artificial sweetness clings to your lips, a mix of your lip gloss and whatever drink you have been nursing. Your next words are uttered into the kiss, muffled and teasing. "How'd you even come to that number, you nerd?"

"Capacity estimation based on the width and length of the dance floor." he answers without a beat, grinning when he earns one of your full-bodied laughs. "Am I forgiven?"

"Yeah."

"Okay, good. You look like an angel." he adds. Not for good measure; just because he wants to. Because he can. Because it's true.

"I've already forgiven you."

"I know. I just thought I'd say it anyway." he watches, somewhat smugly, as you fluster, chin tipping down and fighting a smile.

He won't ever get enough of this—the weight of you, the way his angular body feel less disjointed when it's doing its job to hold up yours. Not completing him—neither of you believe in the idea of another person completing someone else. But being with you somehow augments his existence. Adds to who he is, what he can do.

He cups your face again, tips your chin up and captures your lips in a kiss. Slow and deep and completely inappropriate for the setting, judging by the pointed coughing from the bartender.

There's matching sheepish looks on your faces when you pull back.

The bartender looks unamused.

Spencer tucks his face in the crook of your neck, partly in shame, but mostly so he can keep peppering your skin with kisses. The longer he spends time with you, the more his earlier hypothesis is proven: his body is traitorous in its reactions. Already, his pants are beginning to feel strained and all he's done is share a few kisses.

Still, he can't stop. Finds any excuse to keep touching his lips to the sweat-slick softness of your neck, your shoulder. Something earthy and herbal hits his nose, the notes of your perfume melting into your skin, fusing with your natural musk. Chemical reactions have never been sexier.

He bares his teeth, nips at your ear. Your shiver reverberates right through his chest, straight to his heart, and all he can think is good, good, more.

"Excuse me, can you put this on David Rossi's tab?"

Spencer blinks, pulling back enough to stare at you, confused. There's a knowing smirk on your face, and he feels dizzy, undone by just the mischievous curl of lip. You aren't even addressing him; the words had been said to the bartender.

His heart stutters in anticipation. That smile is a promise; he will be remade before the night is over.

The bartender punches several buttons on the register, before lifting his thumb in affirmation. Successful.

You slip off the stool, lacing a hand through one of his. "Come on, baby, let's get out of here before the entire bar notices your raging boner."

Spencer sputters, but doesn't deny nor protest. It's all true.

It knocks air from his chest, this casual familiarity. How you've memorized his tells enough to make a decision for both him. How well you just know him. Your acceptance—encouragement, even—of his oddities. Sometimes questioning them but not to judge. Only to understand, to learn parts of himself that he thought had been hidden, but were really simmering right past the surface. No one has just bothered to dig before. Until you.

It should make him shrink back. Should make him feel like a topic of study, like one of the profiles he pores over, academic and impersonal.

Instead, Spencer welcomes it. It's scary, being seen in this light, but your gaze is always so full of adulation, and so the intimacy never feels violent or intrusive. Only sacred.

He follows you with single-minded focus, his vision myopic, singular, honed on the sway of your hips, the way your hair flutters when the late night breeze hits it after the two of you spill out the exit.

He moves to the sidewalk, intending to call a cab, but is stopped by a tug and a laugh.

"Spence, honey, you drove us here, remember?"

Oh. Right.

He chuckles, stumbling with you to the direction of the parking lot. His arm wraps over your shoulder, and your form melds into his side. Head tucked against him, strides in perfect sync, magnets snapping in place.

His car comes into view, but his attempts to unlock it is impeded by your mouth. Soft, lazy kisses along his neck, and already his hands are trembling.

"Angel," he croaks, gone, and you laugh, taking pity on him. Back off enough to let him open the passenger's side, slide in. Spencer rounds the vehicle and climbs to the driver's seat, and you're on him the moment the door slams shut.

Leaning over the console, your mouth finds his. Spencer returns it like he's been expecting it. Instantly, the kiss is messy. Full of greed and desperation, the tension from the bar culminating right here. In his vintage car, at a public parking lot.

Well, at least it's in semi-privacy.

At least there's no one around.

He's a little too far gone to make rational judgments. All he knows is you, you, you.

He kisses you with a low, throaty moan, hands everywhere, mapping out the familiar contours of your body, so warm and pliant under his ravenous palms. He squeezes handfuls of you through your clothes, one hand on your ass, the other on your thigh, guiding you from the passenger's side and straight on his lap.

You straddle him with ease, the action almost reflexive after how many times you've done it. Both your legs planted by his thighs, never breaking the kiss as you sit balanced on the tops of his knees like you belong there—and you do.

He'd be whatever you want of him, be the throne, altar, and object of your affection. All three things have converged in his mind anyway; entire linguistic and symbolic fields fracturing at the power of your hands and heady kisses. Meanings warp because he says so, because he's convinced that preexisting ideas are not nearly sufficient enough to describe you and the way he feels for you.

You moan into his mouth, and he responds with a needy thrust upwards. Your hips are too far for any proper friction, so he holds the span of your waist in both hands and hauls you closer until you're positioned over his crotch.

"Oh, you're a little aggressive tonight," you giggle, fingers threaded through his hair.

A soft whine of protest fills the car when you pull away from the kiss.

Another giggle. "Ah, there's the Spencer I know."

He laughs too, barely more than a choked breath misting over your chest. "S-sorry. If it's making you uncomfortable–"

"Oh, baby, it's doing the exact opposite." You grind down on his straining erection lazily. He fights back another whimper; he knows you can tell. In the darkness of his car, your teeth gleam, bared in a smile that's bordering on feral. "I told you earlier, it's hot. Not really aggressive, just more… assertive."

"It-it's hot?"

"Uh huh. I like when you get all confident." You lean in for another kiss, slow and deep like you have all the time in the world. Like the threat of getting caught isn't looming over both of your shoulders.

He feels your hands on his belt, hears the metals clanging softly as you unbuckle the leather.

"Y-you kind of help," he admits. His fingers flex anxiously into your skin, and he hopes he doesn't accidentally give you bruises, "it's easier to… just be… like I never have to second guess myself when I'm with you. I get to just… exist."

He feels your hands pause. For a brief moment, he wonders if he said something wrong, but your eyes are glimmering when they meet his, little sparkling bits clinging to your lashes.

Tears, Spencer realizes. You're crying. Or about to, at least.

"Angel." he breathes, cupping your face with both of his large hands and kissing away those tears before they have the chance to spill.

"That's the most romantic thing anyone's ever said to me."

Despite his attempts to prevent your crying, your voice still gets choked up in sobs. He kisses you through those too.

"It's true. It's true, you just… You make me lose my mind sometimes, but in a good way. I can get so in my head, but with you, I just am." He whispers with a breathless chuckle, holding you flush to him, as if eradicating distance will help his words sink bone deep.

"Don't lose your mind too much, though," you sniffle, and nuzzle into the side of his neck sweetly, "You also need to think to be, or whatever it was Descartes said."

He laughs. This time, when your lips meet, it's a slower tangle of tongue and teeth. His hands move from your hips to slip under your skirt, higher until his fingertips skim over soaked lace.

You shudder and rock into his grasp, seeking friction through fabric, and he lets you have it for a few languorous moments. Watches with bright eyes as you find pleasure from the gentle circles of his thumb, catalogues the way your lashes flutter like delicate wings over your cheeks.

When he feels like you've had enough teasing, he slides two fingers under your panties, slipping one past your entrance.

The familiar flutter around his digits is a welcome feeling—your body gently accepting him. Human anatomy never ceases to amaze him. The way something so tight and small can open up with a few simple caresses, the right attention. And Spencer intends to shower you with all of his focus right now.

Another finger joins the first, stretching you further, curling up until he finds that familiar spot deep inside you.

Your whole body trembles on his lap, and Spencer can't hold back a moan.

Foreplay is necessary, both of you realized early into your relationship, not just to keep you wet, but also to get these muscles to relax. He'd never fit inside you otherwise, and he'd rather be celibate for the rest of his life than to ever hurt you deliberately.

So he finds a rhythm with his fingers. Watches every reaction with large, honey eyes, committing every hitch of your breath to memory. He's hard under you again. Hell, he's afraid he'd come just from this—the exquisite friction of having you on his lap and taking in your reactions while he gives you pleasure. He wouldn't complain if that's how he comes, actually, would be perfectly content to fall apart just from pleasuring you.

But you've other ideas and he's utterly beholden to you. So when you whisper, "Stop, stop, I don't want to finish yet," Spencer halts every action.

He keeps his fingers buried in your warmth as you lean in for another kiss. Somehow, you still taste sweet after making out with him. He marvels at that, at you. But then you're rocking into his palm again, and he knows that you want—need—more.

"Condom's in my left pocket," he mutters against your lips, laughing when you pat the wrong side, "No, angel, my left."

You giggle, shoulders shaking uncontrollably until you finally pull the packet out. The unmistakable sound of a zipper being undone fills the car, and then finally he feels relief as the length of him is freed from his boxers. He's hard, so red it looks almost painful—and it had been, tenting under layers of clothes though he's not about to complain now.

Spencer's forced to pull his fingers from you in favor of tugging your panties down. It's awkward and messy, with you contorting just to get the panties off, and by the time it's gone, you're both giggling.

"Maybe we shouldn't have done this in a car." he says, nipping at your lower lip.

"Would you have been able to wait until we got home?" you retort. The foil tears open in one clean yank, a testament to your resolve.

"Honestly, I would wait for you forever."

"Okay, Orpheus." your sarcastic tone is blunted by the hint of giddiness, the slight lift at the corners of your lips. You reach down, patting along the side.

"Angel, my seats don't recline." he reminds you.

"Fucking hell," you groan, glaring at him as if it's somehow his fault. He rubs circles into your thighs and waits patiently while you contemplate whether or not to continue. "Whatever. Condom's already open."

He laughs and lets you roll the condom on, groaning when your hands wrap around his girth. He's so large that you can barely fit your palm around it, squeezing slightly at your teasing strokes. Spencer moans, his head already thrown back against the headrest.

You silence him with another kiss, tongue sweeping hungrily into his mouth, and he surrenders. Any amount of his assertiveness you claimed to find hot vanishes. Spencer is always ecstatic to give away control, let you take over.

You part for air, although he's convinced the car is running out of it, that it's getting so thick and heavy with tension that you'd both end up suffocating. Oh well. Not a bad way to go.

He helps you lift up, skirt bunched up to your hips and pinned there by his palms. With a confident grip, you glide the length of his cock over your folds, gathering slickness, and offering a glimpse of what's to come.

After a few teasing passes, it becomes evident that you're both desperate for this, because you finally line him to your entrance and sink down. Gravity does its job, but he keeps you steady with his hands, nails carving crescent moons into your skin.

You're tight. That shouldn't come as a surprise, but he whimpers all the same, brows furrowed in concentration as he fights every instinct to just buck up and take. But no. Not while the broadest part of his cock is barely past that tight ring of muscle.

He feels your walls flutter, then tense, and he's reaching between your legs and thumbing gentle halos over your clit. Your heaving breaths warm his skin, but he feels you beginning to relax again.

"Fuck," you groan, face buried in his neck. "God, this first entry is always so–oh!"

Spencer mirrors your groan as he finally breeches your entrance and he's surrounded by the most heavenly, velvety warmth.

"You okay?" he asks, raining kisses to your temple, your cheek like a shower of starlight. "I didn't hurt you, did I?"

"No, this—mhm, fuck." you're already grinding on top of him, chasing your pleasure.

Spencer gasps, expecting a little bit more adjustment time, but he isn't about to complain. Not when you're mewling above him, sweaty and dazed and all his. Already, you're whispering filthy words in his ear, crude and just on the verge of blasphemous.

He moans and nods and shifts. Mutters broken little yeses like he's substituting them for hail Mary's. When your hips start moving up and down in earnest, Spencer swears his vision whites out. He sits back, slack jawed and rapturous, blinking up at your figure. The pace you've set is quick and sloppy, perhaps because you've realized as well that this is being done in a public parking lot.

Distantly, he registers that the windows of his car have fogged up. That the creaking metal is directly caused you bouncing on his lap. That if anyone were to pass by, they would know exactly what's happening inside his vehicle.

For some reason, it's that thought that makes him shudder and hurtle straight to his orgasm. The recklessness of it all, the threat of being caught. It's thrilling. Kinks and fetishes had always seemed so abstract to him, but now, he understands them with frightening clarity.

And then, on top of it all, the fact that he never would have done this with anyone else. Just you, only you, oh god.

"That's it, baby," you pant, grinning at his every whine and whimper. "God, I can feel you throbbing."

He is. And it isn't just his cock. Every single part of him is overcome with tremors, so out of his control that his hips jerk up into you. He breaks your rhythm by mistake, hears a sharp gasp, followed by a moan.

"God, Spence, yes, just like that."

"Yeah?" he repeats it again, head still cloudy from the aftershocks, and eager to get you there as well. "Like this, angel?"

He thrusts up, again and again, eyes and ears perked for any shift in your tone or breathing, afraid to get too rough and hurt you. But you've turned to putty in his hands, body slumped against his chest, face buried in his neck.

Feeling bold, Spencer gets a firm grip on your hips and starts moving you with him. His cock is sensitive, and the tips of his fingers feel electric, but he doesn't stop. Keeps thrusting up into you despite the tears gathering in his lashes from over stimulation.

Your legs are trembling around him as you find the rhythm and move without the help of his hands, teeth sinking into his neck to muffle your desperate moans. He has no such restraint, his head titled back and whining, loud and shameless.

There's a familiar clenching around his length, telling him you're close, almost there, and he doubles his efforts. Feet planted firmly on the floor, he moves with more confidence, taking cues from your trembling body to keep himself in check.

The car's rocking is obscene.

And then you're crying out, shuddering, a rush of slickness coating his cock. Spencer locks his arms around your waist and breathes you in. Lets you ride out the waves in the firm comfort of his embrace.

"My god." he mumbles. Soothing kisses run down your neck, along the curve of your shoulder. "Are you okay?"

You can only nod, legs feeling delicate and immovable. Spencer is content to keep you on his lap while you recover, nosing through the tendrils of hair plastered to your temple. He feels elated, content, and mildly disbelieving.

"Angel," he breathes, sheepish and worn out, "I don't think I can drive."

Your laughter is bright, slurred, and so, so angelic. You are the picture of ruin when you finally emerge from his neck and look up at him. "Maybe I should have let you call us a cab earlier."

He tilts your chin up, grinning and so in love. "Really? I'm glad you didn't."

He watches you laugh again, and he swears that's enough to help him recover feeling back to his lower body. Just the sight of you and the sound of your laughter.

Spencer leans in for another kiss. The last for right now, in this car, but definitely not for the night. In fact, the first of many, forever, if he could help it.

clark k: Just waiting for my bags and then I’ll be on my way home. See you soon?

You and Clark had both gone home for the holidays, leaving the apartment empty for a whole week. You came back sooner than Clark, not really wanting to spend any more time with extended family than you had to, and also because you could only manage to get one week of time off. 

The “I love you” moment was difficult. You woke up the next morning fretting about it (typical) and Clark had to talk you down (also typical.) A lengthy and anxiety ridden conversation ensued, but you figured things out. No this isn’t a relationship, but no the two of you are not seeing other people. Yes you two are very eager for one another, but no there is never an expectation to fulfill the other person's desire. “I love you” is a reminder that each of you cares about one another, the way one loves a teddy or a blanket. It’s serious but also not serious. 

But it is serious enough that you miss him.

At the least, it isn’t like he disappeared this time. Clark has his phone with him, and though it is spotty cell service on his parents farm, he makes sure to message you at least once a day. Previous to Clark you thought that “morning” texts were a bit corny, but waking up to them from him was different. He was up everyday at 5:00am, sending you pictures of the cows or the sunrise and wishing you a good day. On Christmas he messaged you a photo of him and his parents all in matching Christmas sweaters and it literally made you sick to your stomach from how cute it was. You love everything about that dork, his dimples, how his glasses raise up his face when his nose scrunches when he smiles, and how his eyes glimmer the way they do at you even through the lens of a camera. It’s nice that “I love you” isn’t such a big deal in your head anymore because you really do love so much of him. Now you can say that you love something about him and not think too hard about it. Like how you love that he’s helping you compartmentalize your anxieties instead of shoving them away until they explode. 

Your phone buzzes with another message and you realize you’ve accidentally left him on read, not that he cares for that sort of thing anyway.

you: sorry omg!!! yes yes see you soon 

clark k: Just got into the taxi and this guy is driving crazy… If I don’t get home within the hour you know why. 

He thinks he’s so funny but the idea of him dying before you get to see him again fills you with dread. Annoyed dread. 

you: not funny 👎

clark k: Sorry baby, just joking. Talk soon, love you. 

It’s just so easy. The way he says it all the time and the way you always say it before bed or when he leaves the house. Things feel simple again, like how they did that first time you got down on your knees and randomly blew your roommate Clark just to see if you could fit all of that in your mouth. It’s been months now, and though you’re close, it is still a futile challenge. The ache of your jaw in the morning feels a lot better these days though when he can kiss where it hurts. Things have fallen into place. You aren’t getting tired of him and you aren’t thinking about him all the time but you do like knowing that he’s there when you get home in the evening. That’s why you miss him most, not because you need him there all the time but just because it’s what you want. And he wants you too. 

At some point you should probably label this because the idea that he could technically go out and kiss another person drives you crazy, but you don’t feel the need to. The insecurities you once had feel minimal now. 

Which is why you were brave enough to go out and buy him a gag gift for the holidays. 

You were going to get him something anyways, but like a serious thing. A nice pen that he can use for journalist stuff, maybe a new phone charger since his is starting to look like a fire hazard, and you did buy those things! You did. But then you saw something in a store window and felt a smile spread across your face and a devil’s tail curl around your heart. The boxes are all wrapped up neatly for when he gets home but you’re waiting for tomorrow afternoon to exchange gifts. He’s going to be tired and he needs his rest for work. Besides, you aren’t turning down a tired Clark that just wants to pull you into him tenderly while his heavy arms surround you like the best weighted blanket in the world. 

He needs to get the fuck home. You feel itchy all over right now which is not something you were feeling the last week without him. The anticipation of knowing that he’s on his way back to you right now is making you crazy. Your phone buzzes again, because Clark just can’t help himself from unintentionally torturing you, and you read the notification with loving despair.

clark k: Can we sleep in your room tonight? 

That started happening just before you and Clark parted ways for the holidays. Clark doesn’t even fit on your bed, he has to curl up and it probably isn’t very comfortable, but he really likes it anyways. He likes wherever you are. 

you: as long as you aren't too sore 

He responds to your message with a thumbs up emoji and you literally have to shut your phone off. You don’t even know if he’s typing or not but you’re way too excited to even look. Before you give in to the urge to do something stupid like request his location so you can watch his little dot creep closer to yours on a digital map you shove your phone into the couch cushion. 

You’ll do the dishes instead. Earlier today you cleaned up the rest of the apartment so Clark could rest as soon as he got in the door. His good naturedness won’t let him sleep unless the space around both of you is “set for tomorrow” as he says, so everything had to be tidy if you wanted any chance of him sitting down. The dishes are the last thing to do and they should take exactly as much time as it will for Clark to get home, right? He’s going to come home and you’ll just be putting the last dish in the rack and you’ll have successfully distracted yourself!

Unfortunately, gravely, wrong. 

It seems the dishes take many minutes longer on days when your hands aren’t moving as fast as your heart rate. They’re done in about seven minutes, leaving you to pace and pace and pace. The kitchen tiles are cold even through your socks and the world around you feels so big and empty yet suffocating. You just need something to ground you, something big and warm and comforting. Like Clark. Clark, Clark, Clark, Clark. Thinking his name might summon him. 

What the hell is your deal? It’s been a week, maybe just over a week if you’re counting by the hours, but you’re almost craving him. You squeeze your eyes shut and scrunch your face up as if to secrete this neediness from your being but it does nothing. Urgh. 

jinglejingle–click,clickclick

Door. Door. Door. That’s the door. Clark– Clark outside. Go now. Clark. Clark at the door. 

“Honey, I’m hooomeUFFH” Clark grunts as you practically throw yourself at him. His bags are behind his feet since he dramatically stepped into the apartment but he’s far too steady to stumble back into them, even with the force of your embrace. “Jeez, hi! Hi, hi baby,” he laughs as you shove your face into his chest as deep as you can, fingers gripping into the navy hoodie he’s wearing. The fabric is cold but you can still feel the warmth underneath and you. want. in. Clark leans his head down and pushes his nose against the top of your head, pressing a humble amount of kisses there before eventually lifting you up into his arms. His foot kicks his bag through the door before he bumps it closed with his hip. 

“Missed you,” you tell him as he carries you toward your bedroom, his unpacked bag ignored. ”Nobody vacuums at 7am like you do.” 

Clark snorts as he gently places you down on the edge of the bed before yanking his hoodie up over his head. You let yourself appreciate his soft belly and the slight peek at his pecs before focusing on his face. His eyes are on you, as blue and sparkly as ever as he stares back down at you. 

“I’ve been home for two minutes and you’re already perving on me,” he pouts while folding his arms. 

You scoff but can’t bring yourself to fully immerse yourself in the role of defensive-yet-guilty-perv since it would include potentially taking your eyes off him and you just… can’t. Your heart rate has finally calmed down after who knows how long and you feel more relaxed the longer you stare at him.

His hair is a little messier than usual, curls flat on one side of his head from when he probably took a nap on his flight, bags under his eyes from how much he probably overworked himself for his parents sake, and his clothes are more rumpled than usual. Clark looks tired, but he looks just as perfect to you as he always does. You want him to rest, he deserves it after the week he’s had. 

“... will you still lay down with me even if I am a little bit of a perv?” You ask him, pouting back even harder at him. 

His chest puffs with breath and he pulls his gaze away for a moment, as if really contemplating. The line of his jaw sets as if he’s really frustrated at the idea of settling into the bed of his freaky little roommate but you know his mind was made up before he even left his parents house this morning. 

—

“It’s actually cruel that they’re sending me to work,” Clark mumbles. 

He’s fully in his work uniform, shoes on, pants pressed, briefcase in hand. If you shook him you’d hear the bus change in his pockets jingle. 

“You could just call in sick,” you reply, your face once again smushed into his chest. Clark’s arms are wrapped around you like a boa constrictor who’s been starving for weeks. He is not looking to let go anytime soon. 

“I’ve never been sick in my life,” he tells you, squeezing you tighter. “They wouldn’t believe that for a second.”

Ugh. Annoying. 

“Will we do gifts once you get home?” You ask quietly. Clark nods and presses a kiss to your head. 

“And a movie, baby. I promise.”

–

you: you’re LATE !!!!!

clark k: Traffic is nuts right now, sorry. Did you pick a movie?

you: so what’s her name… where’d you meet her?

clark k: Her name is traffic and I’m so deep in her right now. 

you: shut up

you: we’re watching whatever garbage pops up in our recommended bar. 

– 

It’s easiest to exchange gifts back and forth since you each picked three things for one another. Clark opens the phone charger first, which he is exceptionally grateful for, and then you unwrap that new book you’ve been waiting for the library to get back for months. Then Clark opens the fancy new pen and you open up a new trinket dish. 

Finally, Clark pushes a bigger looking box toward you. It doesn’t have wrapping paper on it, just a plain box with a lid. Gingerly, you open it and pull away the tissue paper covering the item. 

Inside are mittens, knitted with a deep red yarn with a pink felt heart stitched into the palm, but this isn’t just a pair of mittens. Two of the mittens are separated, but the other two are conjoined, as if meant to be worn by a couple who wish to hold hands but not let the wind chill their fingers. 

You’re speechless. A couples gift? You look up at him and he’s looking back at you nervously for once. 

“Ma made them,” he admits softly. “Knitted them at the start of last year and just forgot to send them over. When Lois and I were still together.” 

His Adam's apple bobs as he nervously swallows the saliva in his mouth. 

“Ma didn’t think I’d want them anymore but I um… told her I had someone in mind.”

Your heart is doing flips in your chest. He told his mom about you? This gift has so many implications about what Clark has in his head for the two of you. 

“Clark…” you say, your heart thumping still. Words feel too hard to form now but Clark seems to get it, knows that the way you express affection isn't always the way he does. His hand reaches out and he grabs yours as it pets over the soft knit stitches repeatedly. 

“I didn't mention you directly,” he says. “She probably thinks I gave these to Jimmy and Eve. I'm not trying to make this weird.”

“No, no I'm not… Sorry. Words,” you say. He nods in response. 

A few more seconds pass where you just kind of stare at these mittens. Nothing you two have ever done together has been public, save for the time Clark showed up at your work. Even then it was just your manager that saw him. But these mittens come with implications. Walking- in-the-park-together implications, probably with hot cocoa and some other classically romantic activity that Clark will pull you into. It’s just like him to get you something unintentionally anxiety inducing, but he’s never done you wrong before. So instead of starting to hyperventilate, like you want to, you just reach over and give him a hug.

“Thank you,” you mumble into his shoulder. His arms squeeze you for a moment before he pulls away, glasses askew from where your head bumped his frames. 

“Of course. I thought of you as soon as Ma showed me.” 

… This guy. All heart on his sleeve and feelings-y. Right before you give him your gift that is not nearly as feelings-y. 

You gently put the mittens to the side and then lift up the last gift you have for Clark. Good god.

“Oooh,” Clark says as he picks it up. He looks away and to the ceiling as he shakes the box near his ear. “Hmm.. Probably bricks.” 

You grin awkwardly. Not bricks, Clark. This whole thing seemed like a good idea when you were at the store. It was like a cutesy perverted moment between you and the store staff that didn’t give you a second look. They didn’t know who the gift was for. The cashier didn’t blink an eye when she wrapped it up in cream tissue paper. This was a joke between you and the flimsy cardboard box you wrapped the item up in at home.

He peels back the paper quickly and slides it off, letting it hit the floor near his socked feet. Your eyes are jittering around as you watch him lift the lid on the box, then as he pulls back the paper too. 

His eyebrows go up right away, just a split second before his eyes widen as big as you’ve ever seen them and his ears go red. 

“Oh,” he gulps, stammering a little. He picks up the bralette gingerly, the cream coloured mesh material light between his fingers. Clark’s eyes run over the floral pattern of the lace quickly and then he notices what’s underneath it. 

“Are these,” he gulps, “for you?” 

Is that why he’s blushing? He’s imagining you in this? 

“I think they’re your size,” you say, the words barely scraping out of your throat. You’re not sure whether you’re going to laugh out of embarrassment or not and it’s hard to hold back. 

He nods stiffly. His fingers drag over the soft mesh of the bra again. It’s an unlined set, totally sheer and made of a cream mesh and lace. The bralette has a triangular shape to the cups and has no underwire since you didn’t want it to press into him oddly. His tits aren’t shaped like yours are, they are pecs after all. You picked something flexible. Clark picks up the panty next. They match the bra perfectly, with a bow in the center of the waistband. It’s not a thong, you didn’t go that far, it’s more of a loose cheeky style. 

It was a funny perverted moment in the store, but now that you’re looking at Clark as he looks at this gift he’s taking it oddly seriously. You were nervous he might take this as an insult to his masculinity. Just because he enjoys being penetrated doesn’t make him a woman, after all, but… he looks serious. 

“Can I… try them on?” he asks shyly. He looks up at you through his glasses like he’s not asking but begging.

Oh. Oh he likes this. 

“Yeah,” you blurt out immediately. This was like a stupid half-joke that’s taken a turn you didn’t really expect. 

Clark stands up with both items in his hands and then hesitates. He looks at the undie and then sets it back in the box gently. 

“Maybe I’ll just start with the uh… This one,” he lifts up the bra and you nod at it. He disappears into his room very briefly, not even shutting the door but still being out of your sight for the time being. There’s some shuffling of fabric, the sound of him tossing his shirt onto the floor, and then he reappears silently a moment later.

You turn to look at him as he stands in the doorway to his bedroom and wow!! Wow, wow, wow, boobs!!! 

“Does it fit? I’ve never uh,” Clark is doing something kind of weird with his hands at his sides, not that you’re paying attention to that at all. 

You picked perfectly. The bra fits his chest perfectly, gently cupping his pecs the way you wish you were right now. The lace looks pretty against his skin and the colour of the garment doesn’t wash him out either. It somehow doesn’t even look disproportionate with his more masculine build, or maybe it does and you’re just blind to everything when it comes to Clark because he’s always just so handsome. 

“Yeah,” you breathe out heavily. “It’s not pinching anywhere, right?”

Clark shakes his head and then lifts his arms up to show that it isn’t pinching around the sides. His biceps flex in the process and press against the sides of his head. “No,” he says, looking down at the bra. “No pinching. What about the back?” He asks before turning so you can see how it fits there. Nothing looks like it’s riding up or squeezing oddly but again you’re not really looking at the garment and more looking at how ripped his back is. 

“Yep,” you affirm. “All good.” 

What the fuck were you thinking giving him this? What did you think was going to happen? That you’d just giggle and move on? It’s already been well proven that Clark is willing to do anything you want, so of course when you give him a bra he’ll put it on. You could probably ask him to twirl in it and he would. Now, thanks to your clown-y foolishness, you’re both discovering things about yourselves. 

Clark touches his chest, running his hands over the delicate fabric almost curiously as he looks down at his tits. “I like it a lot. Thank you,” he tells you bashfully. He sets his gaze on you just so you can see how genuine he is and god, god, thank god you don’t have a penis, thank god you can’t pop a boner. Thank god you only have to deal with the near unsettling stickiness in your underwear right now. 

“Of course,” you reply easily, even though the words feel stickier than honey in your throat. “You look really good in it.” 

The air is quiet, but not awkward. There’s a heavy new-ness to the air. This is obviously different, but it’s clearly welcome. Clark’s reaction kind of tells you that he may have even thought of this before, even just in passing curiosity, and it makes you feel less bad about the silliness of the gift. 

“I think I’ll take it off and then we can watch our movie?” He asks, already reaching to pull the bra off like he would any old t-shirt.

Your arms are sticking out and you’re rushing toward him before he can yank the lace off his body.

“Wait, gentle!” You laugh, stopping his hands. “Come here. I don’t want you to poke a hole through the material,” you say as you guide him back into his room. Clark is a pretty strong guy and you know from experience how easily a fingernail can pierce into the delicate fabric of a bra. 

He patiently follows you over to his bed and stifles a laugh as you step up onto his bed so you can help him pull the bra over his head. 

“Sorry I’m taking it off already,” he says. “I’m kind of tired tonight. Had a weird day.” 

It was a weird day, even for Metropolis. From what you saw online there was another massive weird creature somewhere in the city. Anytime this happens Clark usually comes back pretty tired since y’know, he’s known as the Superman journalist. Anything about that hero Clark is on scene and interviewing him. You never really talk much to him about his job though, but maybe you should? You do tell this guy you love him after all. 

“Yeah I saw all that stuff on the news,” you mention as you pull the bra over his head with careful hands. Clark’s hands smack up onto his face and he holds his glasses in position. “Some big like… kaiju or something again. Did you catch Superman for another interview?”

You may as well have shot him. 

“What?” Clark sputters. “Uh, yeah! Yeah no, of course I did. I mean that’s my thing.” His hand pushes his curls up and out of his face before he turns around. There’s a little frown tugging at his face and his eyebrows are slightly tensed. 

“Sorry um. I just don’t really talk about work stuff, especially not about him. It’s kinda confidential. Journalist ethics and stuff.” 

He won’t look at you. Weird. Maybe he’s just sensitive about his work. 

“Oh,” you say a little flatly. You were just trying to get to know him better but maybe this is off limits. “That’s fine, I get it. He’s a pretty famous guy.” 

Clark nods and then looks up at you more guiltily. “Sorry,” he mumbles before leaning in and pressing a kiss to your arm. You’re still standing on his bed so you’re much taller than him for once. He kisses your arm again, right on the meat of your forearm. “Sorry baby. Let’s go watch our movie now, okay?” 

He clearly feels bad and this night has been weird enough. You toss the bra into the hamper at the far side of his room and jump off his bed. 

“Movie,” you agree solemnly before taking his hand and guiding him back out of his room, making sure he walks right past that shirt he took off earlier. 

—

That night, as you lay in bed beside Clark, you feel like waking him up. 

Somehow, despite how open he is about his feelings for you, it always feels like he’s hiding something. At first you worried that he still harbored feelings for Lois, but now you know that isn’t it. It doesn’t make sense to you. How can you feel like you know so much of Clark, his mannerisms, his likes and dislikes, and his heart, but still seem to be missing such a huge piece? And what is the piece?

Your hands scrub over your face. You know deep down he’s right, it’s unethical for him to talk about his work, especially when it comes to Superman. Clark is the only journalist in the history of Superman’s existence that’s actually been able to interview him. Surely they have some sort of secretive contract or… something. He just seemed so guilty for some reason when he was telling you why he couldn’t talk about it. 

The ceiling is painted in soft blue light from the light pollution outside as you stare up at it. Clark is breathing heavy beside you, his hand resting on your abdomen as he sleeps. Are you ungrateful for wanting more? Is this not enough? What the both of you have is unlike anything you’ve ever experienced, this comfortable and intimately freaky friendship that feels untouchable. He’s so good to you, and always has been, but that just makes the secretiveness worse. 

Briefly you think about when he disappeared and left nothing but a note. The image of his glasses left abandoned on the counter floats into your mind and it makes your stomach flip. He needs his glasses, he’s nearly blind without them. You’ve seen him from the side and those lenses are as thick as a pencil. Genuinely you can’t think about this too long because there’s too much weight in that small mistake. 

You should really sleep, you have work tomorrow. 

Your hand moves to rest on top of his, feeling the soft top of his hand with your palm as if just knowing he’s there will be enough right now. It won’t be, of course it won’t, so you feed yourself some convoluted story just so that maybe you won’t be a total zombie at work the next day. 

Clark was probably with Superman and that’s why he didn’t wear his glasses. When he has to go see him he doesn’t bring his glasses because maybe Superman doesn’t want to be recognized as being around with a reporter… or something. Yeah. Yeah that’s it. 

There’s still rocks stacked from your stomach to your throat as you close your eyes, but you just have to live with that tightness for now. Clark would never hide anything awful from you, right? 

—

You wake up late the next morning, somehow having snoozed all five alarms that you set for yourself last night. When you leave your room in a rush you're still tugging your work shirt over your head, arms stuck in the holes while your head pushes against the neckline. Clark mumbles a sleepy good morning to you from where he's curled over the coffee machine. His favorite cinnamon roll flavored coffee creamer is to his right on the counter, which you bought earlier this week before you got home. You're sure he'll thank you later in one of his many ways…

That's to think about later at work though, when it's slow. Right now you need to dig through your laundry, which is sitting folded up in a basket on the living room floor, and find some matching socks. 

“Sorry, I didn't know what time you worked,” Clark calls apologetically. You shake your head and make a grunt that's supposed to reassure him while you pluck two socks that might be a pair from the basket. After successfully pulling them onto your feet you head to the door. The coffee machine makes a clunking noise and you sigh.

“Clark,” you groan, coming toward him. He's so smart in so many ways but his lovely God given largeness is such an issue sometimes. The buttons on the coffee machine always give him trouble. 

Just as you step beside him though, you notice something. Usually when he's bent over the coffee machine you can faintly make out the outline of the tank tops he wears beneath his white dress shirts, but today the strap seems thinner. Your lips pull into a slight frown as you step behind him to look at his back and Clark goes deathly still. The straps are thinner, pressing against his shirt in a way that they don't usually. You follow the outline of one while the new angle allows the sun to shine onto his broad back just right, enough to expose the imprint of the silver buckle that's pressing against his shirt. There's no way, right?

Your eyes frantically trace the outline lower, discovering how his flesh is pillowing around the bust. It draws your eyes to the center of his back and fuck, fuck, he's wearing it. You can see the clasps of the bra connected at the center of his back. 

“Are you wearing the bra?” You ask. The tips of his ears are turning red when you look up at the back of his head like it'll give you an answer. He's still completely still. 

“I just wanted to try it,” he admits. “I liked it yesterday.”

He sounds so embarrassed but that is definitely not the way he should be feeling right now. Not when you just felt your pulse behind your ears kick up to a level of anxiety that certainly wasn't induced by being late for work. With a careful hand you brush your thumb over the right strap, over his shirt. You really like this too. You liked it yesterday for sure, but that was in the safety of his room. This is different, this is Clark at work wearing the lingerie your perverted ass bought him. He's probably going to feel that fabric on his tits all day, his nipples pressing into that sheer fabric while he tries to keep his focus. 

“Is that weird?” He asks when you don’t say anything. You flub out a response to reassure him and he just kind of nods. 

Clark turns to face you and you focus on his chest right away. The bra isn’t totally visible through his shirt, just a faint outline that will likely be covered by his blazer and tie once he pulls them on. 

This isn’t really how you anticipated him to use the gift. You thought it’d be a bedroom exclusive item, tucked away with his various toys and… other amenities. But no, instead he’s right there, wearing his bra under his work uniform. 

“... I couldn’t wear the uh, bottoms,” he says, looking down at you with an almost apologetic expression.

Yeah no shit he couldn’t wear those under his normal clothes. It’d be the fire alarm inspection incident all over again. Everything would be out.

“That’s… that’s fine. Later did you want to try?” You ask, mouth still kind of dry out of your shock. 

“Yeah,” he nods. “You’re off at six, right?”

—

Six doesn’t come fast enough for you. 

Your bus actually gets stuck in traffic on the way home and instead of just waiting to get off on the same block as your building you get off a few stops back and literally book it home. The pavement skids under your steps as you barrel toward your building at full speed, knowing exactly what’s waiting for you. 

Clark, probably showered, probably waiting right there on the couch for you in his little set that clearly makes him feel some kind of way. 

The elevator takes too long. Finding your keys takes too long. Opening the door takes too long. 

And then the door is open and you’re kicking your shoes off, dumping your bag on the floor and ignoring the thunk your water bottle makes as it hits the ground. You round the corner quickly and see him, there, perfect. 

You were right, he did shower. Clark’s skin looks almost porcelain as he lays there in the glow of the lamp beside the couch. The bathroom door has been left ajar and you can smell his soap from where you stand, staring like an animal ready to tear into his flesh (you are.) He’s a little slumped, relaxed but eager in the way his eyes trace your face as you trace his body down, down, down. 

He’s wearing the panties. It’s not an unusual sight the way you maybe feared it would be, but you definitely made the right choice when you picked ones without elastic around the leg. It would have contained him too much. This way, with the fluttering mesh, his cock lays against his leg, sticking out the side impatiently as if to tease you. The head looks just slightly wet, like maybe he had been leaking but shyly wiped it away. Somehow you manage to drag your eyes back up to his. His adams apple bobs as he swallows. 

“Hi,” he offers nervously. 

Words are pretty worthless. You can’t describe what you want to do to him and with the way he’s laid out he clearly wants it. You’ll skip the pleasantries. 

Your feet stride across the apartment, into the living room, with hungry ease. It’s a familiar position, here between his knees, but you aren’t sitting back on your heels right now. Instead you keep yourself up, high enough to push him so he hits the backrest after he attempts to sit up. 

“Oh,” he says as your hands drag down and cup his tits, squeezing them through the lace he’s wearing. And then he says it again as you lean to the right and lap at his nipple through the fabric. It’s “oh, oh, oh,” again and again as you massage his chest with your hands and mouth, licking at his sensitive nipples through the fabric. He’s poking through the fabric fiercely now, enough that you can graze his nips with your teeth as you tease them. When you look up at him you see his face all pinched up the way you like it, trying to stifle his noises because he just can’t help but make them. You pull everything out of him, he gives you whatever you want. 

“Good boy,” you practically moan into his chest, your tongue sloppily lapping across his left tit now. The fabric is soaked to his chest and mostly see through now. Your praise yanks a whine out of his chest, sudden and short with surprise, and you feel him buck his hips up. 

You do want to suck his dick, but you’re still not really finished with his tits. The stimulation is clearly doing something to him if you’re going off the way his dick has grown to be more against his leg than in the panties. Hastily, you reach down and squeeze the base of him through the fabric. 

“Golly,” his voice cracks and you smile. You start to place kisses down his chest and across his belly, the muscle firm but still cushy the way you like. With your hands you guide his up to his chest, making him cup his own tits. 

“Touch them,” you urge, pressing your lips across his hipbones. He nods a little shakily, listening without any protest as he begins to pinch at his own nipples through the bra. It’s a little surprising that he hasn’t asked to at least touch under, but he does seem fairly submissive tonight. 

Now that he’s occupying his chest, god forbid it’s forgotten, you can focus on the main event. 

Your hand grasps at Clark’s dick right at the base, where the fabric of the panties still covers it, jerking the material gently over the skin there. You don’t want to irritate him at all, but you want him to know what he’s wearing, even when his eyes are closed and his head is leaned all the way back. After repeating this motion a few times, you lean down to where the head of his cock is and pick it up between your lips, swirling your tongue over the tip before taking it into your mouth gently. Your eyes slide shut and you start to focus on working him in your mouth, thinking about how hot your mouth needs to be, how wet it needs to be so it slides against him easily. Tonight isn’t about getting him all the way down your throat, not like all the times before. Tonight you want to crack him open and make sure he knows that he’s yours to have, every fucking bit. 

“Baby,” Clark chokes out, his fingers plucking at his nipples through the fabric. Your mouth is heavenly on him, your tongue swathing over his tip again and again while your hand works over the fabric of the panty. He feels pathetic, splayed out in the living room in lingerie as you worship his cock. Every sensation is rolling through him like a wave of static, numbing his brain and his tongue until he can’t do anything but touch himself and feel you on him. His brain isn’t together enough to keep from making noises as you suck down more of him, your lips meeting the hem of his panty. Clark gasps your name and his fingers twitch against his tits, aching for the familiar feeling of your head under his palm, but he resists. 

“I want,” he starts and then loses his thought as you start to push your nose beneath the fabric. This is about as far as you’re going tonight, not wanting your throat and jaw to ache tomorrow morning, but it’s really all you need. Your fist keeps working him as drool slips out the corners of your mouth, slicking the hair at his inner thighs and shining the skin. You look up at him through glossy eyes but you can’t see his face. All you get is the sight of him desperately rubbing at his tits, almost like he wants the bra off but isn’t willing to just reach under. His chest is heaving, a light sweat glistening on his skin. 

Again, you steel yourself and focus harder. This doesn’t need to be a drawn out event, not this time. Now that you know he likes this you’re going to be buying plenty of lingerie for him, whatever he wants. Cute sets, sexy sets, who fucking cares. You want to see him all whiny and pathetic under you as you fuck him, pinching and rolling his nipples like he is right now. He always acts like such a good person, he’s always doing everything for everyone else and that’s why it feels good when he begs you for more, for bigger, for harder.

You double your efforts, focusing on creating a suction within your mouth so that your throat tightens around what it’s managing to hold. Clark lets out a girlish moan and his thighs start to tremble, pressing closer around you. He’s getting close now and you know it. His toes curl into the carpet beside you slightly and his breathing almost sounds close to hyperventilating, though you know it isn’t. He’s always expressive, but tonight it seems like so much more. You keep up your rhythm but open your eyes a little more, only to catch him looking down at you. He has his nipples pressed between his forefingers and thumbs much tighter than you expected and you can see how fucked out he looks. His eyes are barely focused on you as he watches you try your best to milk his cock into your mouth, lips dry from how much he’s been breathing and babbling. 

A noise, maybe a word or a plea, attempts to escape his lips and it makes you feel evil. He might have his secret, sure, but only you can make him fall apart like this. Only you have this sort of power over him. 

So, just as you see his eyes cross and lose total focus, just as his chest hitches, you drop him out of your mouth. The expected result happens for just a moment, your hand gripped firmly around his base and squeezing as he looks at you with betrayal in his eyes. Then his brows pinch and he almost looks confused as he starts to come.

Clark always comes a lot, no matter what, but your attempt at ruining his orgasm only made it more intense. His cock is spilling everywhere, shooting across the bridge of your nose, onto the apples of your cheeks and on your chin, but also spilling down the length of itself, dripping onto the delicate fabric that was supposed to cover him. 

“Oh my gosh,” he pants, hips bucking into your fist weakly as his chest shudders with breath. “Baby, baby– mh– sorry, sorry.” 

‘There’s nothing to be sorry for,’ is what you should say, but instead you’re squinting one eye shut so you don’t get come directly in your eye. In your half-vision of him you can tell that this is a full body experience for him, his legs lifting his body fully off the couch for a second before dropping down as a second wave hits, this time weaker. You loosen your grip as his cock throbs against your palm, but don’t let go yet. He pulses out a little more release, maybe three more weak drips, and then finally, it’s over. 

You haven’t said anything this whole time and Clark has been the only one speaking, but now it’s time to switch. Without a word you’re wiping off your hand on a towel that was very conveniently placed on the couch beside Clark, probably done by him before you got home, and then climbing onto the couch beside him. You’ll clean him up in a second, but this is the most intense orgasm you’ve ever seen him have and he probably needs a minute.

“Hey,” you coo, pulling his head against your chest. His curls are soft against your chin as you rest your head on his. You rub your thumb over his cheek while he catches his breath, his whole body still shaking.

“Did so good,” you promise him quietly, “so messy. And you look so cute, huh? You like wearing this?” 

Clark blubbers a response but can’t find words still, his tongue tied in pleasure. The jerky nod of his head speaks for him well enough. 

“Love you,” he manages after a series of shaky breaths. And you say it right back. 

—

Three days later and you’re both still recovering from that night.

Clark hasn’t really been able to go again since, either too sensitive or too busy. Some story he just picked up about LuthorCorp’s upcoming plans for Metropolis, so he’s been out and about. 

You’re still recovering because you can’t stop thinking about it, not that that’s unusual, for you to be thinking of him so much. The image of him helplessly coming all over himself and you is just too much to really digest. It might take you a month.

But that doesn’t mean you aren’t willing to plan for when that time comes. 

Currently, you’re being a snoop. Clark is someone who’s very picky about chores and who does what. For the most part he does everything he can, but what he is absolutely immovable on is who does his laundry. You don’t really know why, maybe he’s scared that his laundry is gross or something, but you’re being super-duper bad right now. You’re digging through his laundry bin. 

Back in your own bedroom sits your laptop, open to some luxurious lingerie site. You found a set that you think might fit his proportions, made of material with more give and no tricky loops or clips that might snap when you tug them over his broadness. However, you can’t remember what size the last set you got him was, hence you are here breaking Clark’s number one rule. 

You roll your eyes as you dump the bin out on the floor finally, not willing to sacrifice your back just to find some flimsy little bralette. The fabric falls out in one big lump, like a sandcastle made of cotton undershirts and grey dress pants. You roll your eyes when you crack into the laundry-castle and the first thing you find is a t-shirt from his college days. He wears it to sleep sometimes and it shows in all the holes and frayed edges on it. With a swish you flick it up onto his bed. He’ll probably want it later when he comes home anyways. 

Finally you see the cream coloured strap sticking out from between some material and you pull at it. You’re not in a total rush, but Clark is going to be home at some point and you don’t really want to upset him by doing this. So maybe you tug a little rougher than you should. 

A puff of clothes explodes on the floor in an array of colours, making you laugh huffily. It’s more of a mess than you wanted now, but the bra is yours to inspect. The tag is still attached to the back of it, the size printed in black on the pink silk tag, proudly displaying an “xl” in pretty cursive letters. Triumphantly, you grab the laundry bin and start shoving his clothes back into it. The bra goes first, then you grab fistfuls of t-shirts and boxer briefs.

Or you think you do.

As you grab your second handful of clothes your fingers meet a material you aren’t familiar with. It’s tucked between some shirts and so you shake the material free. 

Instantly you have questions.

Why the hell does Clark own bright red underwear? Like holiday ornament red. You hold them up, grinning like an idiot as you think of all the ways you can tease him about this. How had you never seen this pair? You take Clark’s pants off more than often enough to have seen his whole underwear drawer, haven’t you? 

You tilt your head and then shift your body. Surely these are ones you’ve seen. The light hits them differently now you squint like you’re trying to match someone's face to a name in your head. Nope, nothing. You un-squint your eyes and shake the pair of underwear a little, forcing the light to catch… belt loops. 

This is fucking crazy. Did he buy these thinking they were something similar to what you got him? And then get home and realize that the firetruck-red’s weren’t really the same vibe as before? He’s such a dork sometimes, seriously. The only person you’ve ever seen wear red briefs is Superman. Unless Clark is fucking Superman then this is possibly the stupidest thing he owns. 

You smile to yourself. Hah. Clark is fucking Superman. Imagine that; two huge, gorgeous, brunettes with pretty blue eyes and big arms and kind hearts just.. going… at it..?

A fold forms between your brows and your dopey teasing smile fades into a frown of realization. Things start clicking into place before you want them to. Clark’s protectiveness over his work with Superman, his panic when you mentioned him, that time he disappeared for days without his glasses and without any contact… Clark isn’t fucking Superman. Clark is Superman. 

Breath fills your chest in an uncomfortable inhale. You aren’t supposed to be in his laundry, you aren’t supposed to know this. You were likely never supposed to figure this out, but now you have and it suddenly feels like you’re in a lot of trouble. The briefs fall from your hands and you stare at the wall, frozen in realization. 

You’re fucking Superman. And as if the world isn’t cruel enough, you hear the apartment door swing open and the jingle of Clark’s keys. 

“Baby? You home?” he calls. 

-<3-

in the kitchen, clark busies himself with laying out all the necessary spices. he consults the recipe ma jotted down for him to double check everything and then grabs a cutting board to cube all the vegetables. you can faintly hear the knife knocking wood, in quick succession, and you try not to worry at how fast he's going. 

water bubbles on the stove top, at a steady boil as the vegetables and aromatics mingle. the smell streams into the living room, you picture a cartoon-like trail of steam floating in the air as your eyelids begin to grow heavy again. you let it take you, trusting in clark that he’ll get things set up for you.

when you wake, with a kiss to your clothed shoulder this time, clark is holding your bed tray table, bowl of soup perched carefully and slices of buttered sourdough that instantly has you sitting up and scooting further into the couch so he can fit next to you. the couch is surprisingly big enough. he fits the plastic legs over his lap and you lean into him.

“smells good. thank you,” you poke him with your nose, taking a respective sniff of his shirt as you go. your sinuses clear up with the upright position of your body, he smells good.

“gosh, you don't have to thank me, ‘know i'd do anything for you,” he huffs, bringing a cupped hand and spoon full of soup your way. he blows at it gently before tilting it into your waiting mouth. you adjust a little and lean forward so it's easier for him to feed you.

you immediately feel better, warmth soothing your throat and tastebuds being gently caressed by the spices, pleasantly similar to how clark makes you feel all the time. he takes the eager tilt of your chin as a sign to feed you another mouth. “god, this is-”

you kiss him on the cheek, “mmh- really good. i love you. thank you.”

you must not realise it. sure, the two of you haven't said it to each other yet, but it was implied. and now you’ve done it. you’ve said it out loud and he doesn't know what to do with himself except for spooning more of the soup into your mouth.

“you love me?”

“‘course i do, clark. i know you love me too, otherwise you wou’n’t be he’e.” toast obstructs your last few words but he gets the jist. he bites back the big toothy grin hiding behind his lips, but his dimples make an appearance anyway. when you look up at him, you’re very suddenly vulnerable, despite the confidence with which you delivered your previous words. he thinks you're sweet. “right?”

he breathes out a laugh against your forehead, “yeah, hun. i love you too.”

and poof your headache is gone.