Frank’s brows knotted when he watched Ogilvie encroach your personal space, as if the point he was making wouldn’t be well-received if his mouth wasn’t inches away from your ear. It was clear you were enforcing politeness to an enthusiastic resident, however, your face gave nothing short of the definition of overtly uncomfortable.

Obvious that you were attempting to catch up on charting — much as Santos was adjacent to you — you gave minimal nods and faux intrigue with a concealed grimace and occasional side glance to Joy, who happened to have even less patience for a person like James Ogilvie.

When the resident brought his slender finger to tap on your shoulder to ensure you were digesting his facts, that’s when Frank calmly — but promptly — entered the stratosphere of the hub, the beginnings of a humourless expression glazed on his features.

Frank gave a short nod to Joy, his hands clasped behind his back to prevent any physical altercation from the pit of jealousy blooming in his stomach. You weren’t Frank’s property per se, but you were his centre of gravity and had been for the past ten months; he’d do anything to keep you in his orbit.

Not that James Ogilvie had the opportunity to tip that sideways.

You noticed Frank’s presence first. “Hello, stranger.”

The two residents turned their heads to stare at Langdon, who was staring at Ogilvie with his chin tilted and lip curled. The silence was enough for you to halt your work and spin yourself to see Frank and James in some type of testosterone match.

Joy dropped her gaze to you, unimpressed and you repressed the need to burst into a fit of giggles.

“Back from triage.” Frank responded, his blue eyes trained on Ogilvie, “I think Whitaker could use some assistance in South 12.”

“OK.” Ogilvie didn’t hesitate, albeit he was stepping on toes, Dr. Langdon was still a senior resident and would boost the gleaming recommendation he presumed he would receive toward the end of his residency.

Less enthused, Joy followed James toward South 12 and you took the opportunity to return to your charting, welcoming the ambient beeping noise of machines, rather than the constant natter of medical facts against your eardrum.

“What did Ogilvie want?” Frank’s voice was low, soft around the edges when he watched you from the side, a glaring insecurity that had gone amiss to you.

He dragged a chair over, ever so slightly behind you and sat, elbows resting upon his thighs.

“Oh, you know.” You drawled, “Joy and I needed the inner workings of how to intubate a patient with the upmost accuracy through factual evidence.” Your fingers clacked away at the keyboard, uninterested by the resident. “I’m starting to think he craves affection. Or, he just likes the sound of his own voice bouncing off the walls.”

Frank picked at the skin on his thumb, “Is he bothering you? He’s been tailgating you all day.”

“Not…yet.” Your lips downturned in concentration to tie up the loose end of your charting, “He’s harmless. For now.”

Happy with your work, chart saved, your shoes squeaked against the sheet vinyl floor to turn your chair in the direction of Frank. He sat hunched in his chair, a kicked dog expression that had your brow lowered in concern. It was no secret the adjustment after months away from The Pitt had backhanded Langdon a couple of steps back in his confidence, unsure of his footing around the place, who was willing to converse with him, the gossiping whispers behind his back.

These things weighed heavy on his shoulders.

Not to mention the weight of his motivation to make clear amends with those that were on the receiving end of his breach of trust. The same people that left his phone empty for the better half of a year.

You had been there when Frank Langdon kept his phone off of silent in some last ditch attempt at hope.

Wheels rolled, you scooted yourself closer but not enough to make heads turn. Knees bumped, Frank took the brief kiss of the knees further, his palm rested against your thigh that was concealed behind the desk.

“Hey…You OK?” You gently cooed, whilst attempting to catch Langdon’s attention that was pinned in the direction that the resident in question took off. His jaw was set, molars grinding. A laugh escaped your lips, “He’s been getting enough attention as it is.”

Langdon reluctantly dropped his glare and mumbled, “Yeah. Don’t like him.”

“Dr. Frank Langdon.” Your grin widened, “Am I sensing some misplaced jealousy over a mop-headed resident?”

“No.” Frank bit back a smile, his eyes fond over you, “I’m just saying, I can have words if needed.”

Part of you wanted to reached out and smooth the crease between his brows, the part of him that was telling if his words expressed otherwise. Things between you two weren’t a secret hidden in plain sight, the relationship common knowledge to the team if they cared enough to watch Frank Langdon go the extra mile for his co-worker whilst his body language failed to maintain the professionalism needed to get away with keeping a workplace romance under wraps.

Still. It was good to keep the momentum going. Trauma One presumably would prefer a higher dose of ketamine than witness you lick your boyfriend’s wounds clean at the work station.

You leant back in your chair, basking in the glory of Langdon’s protectiveness. Hands rested against the textured plastic of the arms, a playful note in your expression that had Langdon release a chuckle from his chest.

“Gorgeous, I say this with all the love in my heart.” You gave him the once over, “I think you may be the last person to cause a scene and be the one to make it out unscathed.”

There was an allowance of quips allowed at the expense of Frank Langdon. For one, it kept him grounded in a lighthearted way. And, two — more importantly — you saw the good, the bad and the ugly in the past ten months and stuck by his side like glue. If you had a subtle joke to land about Langdon being Robinavitch’s prodigal son that had been kicked to the curb, then so be it.

You’d soothe any qualms properly at home.

”You’re probably right.” Frank leaned into the sarcasm, not missing the opportunity with speedy reflexes to pinch at your hip in response for the reminder. Quick to add, “Love the undershirt beneath the scrubs, by the way.”

You swatted at his hand with a laugh, “Go. Before the brooding steed does his rounds.”

Frank relinquished his position in the desk chair at the mention of Dr. Robby, the familiar boyish smirk that you fell madly in love with on your first day, spread across his face as he rolled the chair back to its rightful place. He held eye contact for as long as possible, baiting a flush of heat beneath your skin as he sauntered past you, his forefinger and thumb coming to tug lovingly at your earlobe before he dove back into his work on patients.

Unable to withhold impulse, the chair beneath you creaked as you swivelled round to watch Langdon walk away, narrowly avoiding Dana’s pointed gaze as her stoic exterior slowly ebbed away. She always liked you two together; the sweetener to Langdon’s salt.

As if you were a shot of espresso, Langdon felt refreshed as he deserted the work station, his slender fingertips re-lacing the knot for his scrubs to remain at his hips. The smile still present on his face, he approached the gaggle of baby-faced residents that had returned from assisting Whitaker with an easy case.

Two hands clapped against the line of Ogilvie’s shoulders, Langdon quick to direct him toward a room that had a lovely elderly lady with a bowel packed to the brim.

Langdon squeezed Ogilvie’s shoulders, from his peripheral, he watched you shake your head. He spoke loud enough for you to hear. “Have you ever performed a disimpaction before, Ogilvie?”

“Um—No.”

"How many times have I called you at ungodly hours for the same reasons? Deadline or disaster? Have you ever held it against me?" Was his counter, and before you replied with a deadpanned, "Actually, Clark, now that you bring it up..." He hurried on before you could finish.

He was A Man. A grown man who could survive five nights without making sweet, sweet passionate love to you.You needed to focus and rest, and he'd wait centuries to have your undivided attention if that was what loving you required. Fortunately, it was only until the weekend.

"I miss you, but most of all, I love you, sweetheart. It's fine!" All of this was said with his free hand locked around his knee, blunt nails pressing hard enough to leave pale crescents in the skin while he tried to force himself into believing it too.

But everyone knew the unspoken rule: anyone who said "it's fine!" that cheerful were liars.

.

The tension finally boiled over the second Clark stepped through his front door the following evening. He carelessly tossed his glasses and phone on his bedside table, pressed a fist to his mouth, and released a sigh heavy enough to empty his lungs.

Was it pathetic to be half-hard and aching just from missing you this badly? Or was that devotion? Yearning? Or, as Steve would undoubtedly tease with that little smirk, "whipped?"

Speaking of – Clark tugged his belt loose in a sharp tug. Dress shirt buttons followed. Zipper. Slacks shoved down his thighs, until he's whipping his cock from the confines of his slacks with a shaky, relieved sigh. The cool apartment air did nothing to help soothe the heat coursing through him.

If anything, fredom made the weight of his need more worse. The heavy pulse, the glossy bead already gathering at the slit, the way his length kicked against his stomach as though reaching for a body that wasn’t there.

He tried the cold shower first. Sensible, right? Stood under the icy spray, willing the rut to settle, willing his body to behave like the grown man he kept insisting he was. He rifled through unsexy thoughts: taxes, Perry's editorial calendar, the tamales Ma and Pa raved about when he last spoke to them.

Ninety seconds later, water was streaming over his closed eyes while every drop slipping down his chest became your fingers. Your palms spreading over his stomach. Your nails scratching lightly through the dark trail beneath his navel. Your warm mouth chasing the water lower, lower, until your knees struck tile and that pretty, wicked smile curved against the base of his cock.

He nearly broke the shower handle off with a frustrated growl, cock still brutally stiff between his legs, skin flushed crimson despite the chill.

In his haze, Clark climbed into the empty bed nude, triggering another cruel wave of reminders. Cold sheets welcomed him instead of your legs. Silence settled where your sleepy chatter should have been. No warm body curled beneath his arm. No soft complaint when he crowded too close. No hand wandering beneath waistbands because neither of you had ever been particularly convincing when pretending you only wanted to cuddle.

He stretched out across the sheets until his face buried into your pillow, inhaling the lingering scent of your shampoo, your shower gel, your favorite perfume dabbed behind your ear, you, you, you.

The scents went straight to his cock, and the urge hit like a meteor. With a pained whimper, Clark rolled onto his stomach and pressed his stiff, leaking member against the expensive sheets you bought when you first started spending the night.

Eight-hundred thread count, you’d told him proudly.

He wondered whether they were supposed to survive a sexually frustrated Kryptonian. Probably not.

.

The grinding began slowly, desperately, and experimental. Pleasure washed over him. Again, harder. Soon, wet smears marked every thrust, the motion creating a delicious friction against his sensitive tip, sharp enough to make his breath hitch.

Soon, slow wasn’t nearly enough to scratch that impossible itch.

His hips moved harder, faster, each desperate thrust leaving another damp streak across the fabric. His fists twisted into the sheets on either side of his head until the tendons rose along his wrists and the linen began to fray between his fingers. His tongue rested wetly against his bottom lip as he panted into your pillow, groaning each time his hips pressed down and the fabric dragged tightly along the underside of his cock.

The sounds spilling from him were embarrassingly primitive.

Low grunts. Broken breaths. A needy whine he would deny even under Kryptonite.

Eventually, they all melted into the only coherent thing he could say: your name.

Your name, muffled, over and over while your Clark humped the mattress in a poor attempt to fuck the fantasy of you out of his system. Bless his heart, it wasn't working.

If anything, it sharpened his hazy imagination into vivid, filthy focus. Your weight settling over him, knees planted wide on either side of his head, as you leaned forward in that sixty-nine position you’d joked about one too many times to make him suspect something.

You'd take his cock in hand with a slow stroke, press a kiss at the tip, stretching and hollowing your mouth around him until your nose brushed the heavy weight of his balls when you forced yourself deeper.

From underneath, he’d have the perfect view.

The generous curve of your plump ass hovered over his face. The delicate slope of your back arched deeper. The soft underside of your thighs framing his face while you lowered your core onto his mouth, already wet enough to leave a shining streak across his lips. His thumbs would dig into the soft flesh to keep you from clamping shut around his head while he buried his face between your legs. He would lick you messy, broad stripes through your puffy folds, sucking your clit until your hips bucked against his smothering mouth, then push his tongue into your dripping hole while the tip of his cock bruised the back of your throat.

You’d happily choke around his cock a little. The tight spasm of your throat wound squeeze the head.

Let your saliva spill down his shaft in warm, messy trails until it gathered along his happy trail, and he’d moan directly into your pussy,

"She's beautiful from this angle."

"She tastes so sweet."

"Shd clenched perfectly around my tongue just now. Please, sweetheart, please have Her do it again?"

Golly, Clark’s hips jerked hard enough to shove the mattress and frame several inches across the floor.

Continuing his fantasy, he would then coo about filling Her up so full, until She was overflowing with his come, until you were marked as his inside and out. At the same time, your mouth worked his cock with wet, sloppy determination, swallowing until your throat refused and pulling back with strings of spit still connecting your lips to the swollen tip.

He’d imagine you pulling off long enough to look over your shoulder, glassy-eyed and breathless, begging in a raspy voice to breed you, baby, put every drop where it belongs with his cum already on your tongue before he’d realize even giving it to you.

That scenario had Clark rutting faster, the bed creaking, squeaking, shifting under his barely-contained strength. His eyes suddenly flared hot with unrestrained heat vision, twin red beams scorching pinpoints through the mattress and most likely the floorboards before squeezing them shut.

Precum soaked a dark, sticky patch into the sheets beneath his cock, and his lower abdomen made every grind slick. A dark lock of hair clung to his forehead. His drool made the pillow damp against his cheek, and still.

Still, he couldn’t stop whining your name, couldn’t stop chasing the phantom sensation of your body molded along on his torso, and your slick coating his chin and dripping down his neck

Take him deeper. Sit down harder. Use his mouth.

Somehow, the fantasy deepened.

He’d pull you from his face and roll you beneath him before you finished. Your legs would be spread around his hips, knees pressed to your breasts while he lined himself up and pushed inside. He could almost feel you wet and hot around him. So, so tight after days apart that the first stroke would make both of you shake.

His mouth would cover yours while he fucked you open, tasting himself on your tongue and you on his lips. Every thrust would drive your body higher against the bed. Every needy sound you made would disappear into his mouth while the headboard struck the wall in a rhythm the neighbors could never mistake for anything else.

Mine. The word slid into the fantasy with frightening ease. My sweetheart. My girl. My perfect, exhausted Love

Spread beneath him and finally too ruined to think about anything else. Clark pictured his hand closing around your jaw, thumb slipping between your lips as he told you exactly what he intended to do.

Fill you, and keep filling you. Have my fingers gather my spend from your thighs and push it back deep before it tried to leak out again.

No matter how many times he admired the image of white from your swollen pussy, he groaned so loudly the windows trembled.

Gosh, how he wanted to breed you properly. To pin your hips down and fill you before the first load had stopped leaking.

Wanted your thighs sticky, your belly wet, the sheets beneath you soaked with both of you.

Wanted your voice exhausted because of him instead of work.

Until it stuck...or didn't.

The thought should have slowed him. Instead, it made his balls draw tight.

Did he want to watch your body change because of him? Did you? Or was this simply the rut talking? Some ugly, instinctive Kryptonian corner of him desperate to erase five lonely nights by marking you so thoroughly that even distance couldn’t make him doubt where he belonged—

With a mix of relief and disappointment, Clark came hard with a harsh cry of your name, hips jerking in short, punishing bursts as thick ropes of his spend spilled out onto the warm linen. More followed with each weakening thrust, hot come smearing along his cock and stomach as he continued to grind through the oversensitive aftershocks.

The orgasm left him shaking, heaving, and glazed in a cold sweat, drool still slick on his lips. His lips started to tingle from the real possibility of having you exactly like this on the weekend, letting him ruin you the same way he ruined these damn nice sheets, just more.

His spent cock give a weak, hopeful twitch.

.

The phone rang and Clark startled violently, eyes flying open as your name and that soft, smiling contact photo he’d taken one sleepy Sunday morning lit up the screen.

"Ahh, shoot!"

He fumbled for it, one frantic reach nearly sending the phone skidding off the table. He caught it on the second attempt and pressed it to his ear, swallowing against a throat gone dry, and breathing remained uneven.

Your suspicion came through the line immediately after his greeting."You sound funny. Everything okay?"

"Yeah—no, I’m fine." His voice cracked around the age-old lie. Clark cleared his throat, forcing something painfully casual into it. "Everything’s fine. Just… Superman duties, you know how it is. Tell me about your day."

You hummed, unconvinced, but too exhausted to press him. Instead, you continued talking, your voice low and worn-soft through the receiver, each affectionate little pause slipping beneath his skin. You told him about work, about a coworker who had nearly driven you insane, about the lunch you had forgotten to eat until far too late.

Clark listened, asked the right questions, and made the appropriate sympathetic noises between pauses. Guilt tightened his chest when you asked about his day, speaking to him in that drowsy voice you usually reserved for the minutes before falling asleep against his chest.

Unfortunately, another part of him remained painfully aware that you were lying in bed somewhere else. Perhaps wearing one of his old shirts you now claimed as yours. Perhaps curled on your side with bare thighs brushing together beneath the hem, touching the place where his body usually pressed against yours and missing him badly enough to ache too.

Clark knew better than to let his thoughts wander again, but then you called him baby once more.

His cock twitched against the cooling, sticky mess, then again. The spent length began to stiffen beneath his stomach, dragging slowly through his own come as blood rushed back into it.

Clark squeezed his eyes shut.

Your tired voice kept flowing through the phone, sweet and trusting, while he buried his face deeper into your pillow and inhaled what remained of your scent.

His hips shifted restlessly, chasing relief he had barely finished giving himself. Shame should have stopped him.

Instead, the idea that you were talking so innocently while he lay covered in his own release, getting hard again because you had called him baby of all things, made fresh need tighten low in his stomach.

Every filthy thought returned twice as vivid.

Your mouth. Your pussy. Your hoarse little plea to fill you.

How silly of him to think one damning orgasm would be enough.

How devastating.

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