biann ୨ৎ

You chuckle, replaying the memory of you pulling him into a hall closet today at the Daily Planet for a quick make-out session that may or may not have involved teased him to the point he had to stay behind for a minute to calm down...

"You loved it."

Clark reaches around to give your ass a quick little pinch, which earns him a little surprised gasp.

"I never said I didn't," he says. "I would be a very foolish man to complain about something like that."

You smile, leaning in to kiss him deeply as you begin to speed up your rhythm. He grunts against your lips, leaning up into the kiss. Just when he pulls back and looks up at you, lips slightly parted as if he's ready to say something...

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

"Just ignore it," you hum, nipping his bottom lip, but he's already reaching for it.

"Lemme just make sure..." he manages, looking at the caller ID. "It's Ma."

"Definitely ignore it, then," you chuckle. "You can call her back later."

Guilt flashes across Clark's face. He really hates missing Ma's calls, always worried that something is wrong, since they're getting a little older. You sigh at the sight, slowing to a stop on top of him.

"Go ahead and answer it."

"Are you--?"

"Just answer it, babe."

He nods, giving you a quick peck on the lips before picking up the call, lifting the phone to his ear.

"H-Hey, Ma," Clark says. "Listen, can I call you back in--"

"Clark? Pa needs help with the computer again."

He runs a hand through his hair, closing his eyes for a moment. Oh boy.

"Uh," he looks up at you, already apologizing with his eyes. "...sure. I don't have much time but--"

"Hey, Clark, it's Pa. I'm trying to print somethin' out here but it's not giving me the option to print. How do I tell it to print?"

Clark lets out a soft sigh, looking up at the ceiling, not really wanting to look at you on top of him when he's talking to his Pa about computers. He starts to ask some questions, nodding along while Pa talks.

After a couple minutes, you rest your hands on his chest and hum softly, smirking as you begin to shift on top of him, testing the waters. His hand instantly grips your hip, silently pleading you to stay still.

But you're not really in much of a mood to make this easy on him. You're not mad at him for answering the call, not really, but you never said you were gonna stop while he talks...

When you rise up slightly and sit back down, his breath catches and his head immediately tilts forward until his eyes meet yours, slightly widened.

"Don't," he mouths, shaking his head.

You shrug, still smirking as you rise up and sit down again. A shiver runs down his spine at your mischievous smirk, and his hips instinctively thrust up against you, letting out a shaky breath.

"Clark? Clark, you still there? I think I got it saved as a, uh...PDF."

"Y-Yeah," he says into the phone, not taking his eyes off of you. "That's great, Pa. Now go to your desktop...a-and...and open the PDF."

You lean in so your lips are next to his open ear, letting out a soft whine in his ear.

"You're making me so hot, Clark," you whisper, your voice soft but sultry. "I love it when you talk PDFs with me."

He nearly chuckles, biting his lip to keep from making any incriminating noises as his grip on your hip tightens ever so slightly. His focus is slipping and he really hopes Pa won't ask about it, because he doesn't think he can come up with anything convincing as an excuse in his current situation.

"Okay, so I just gotta click the little printer picture at the top and it'll print?"

"Yes, Pa," Clark says in an almost suspiciously breathy way. "You'll p-probably have to select the--"

"Wait, now...which printer is it? Why are there so many to choose from? Do I gotta plug it in or somethin'?"

"No, no, it's wireless."

You chuckle softly as Clark holds the phone away from his ear for a moment, letting out a sigh, looking up at you as if to say save me before talking again.

"It s-should be an Inkjet printer, Pa. Should b-be the only one."

Your walls clench around him and your hand goes to wrap around his free wrist, guide his fingers to your clit, silently pleading for him to touch you. You're so close, rhythm beginning to get choppy and rushed.

His fingers begin to rub quick, firm circles, watching intently as you hold back sounds. He grunts softly when you tighten around him again, hips bucking up to meet yours.

"Fuck," you gasp as quietly as you can, eyebrows knitting in pleasure. "Oh, Clark..."

Clark holds his breath, watching intently as you fall apart on top of him. You feel so good, so hot and tight around him, and he knows he won't be able hold off.

"Pa, I need a sec, I'll be right--"

He clicks the mute button before even finishing his sentence, quickly tossing the phone aside and grabbing your hips, bouncing you on top of him with a deep moan. You gasp loudly, back arching as he moves you up and down quickly.

"Y-You're the worst," he breathes, leaning down to tuck his face against your breasts. "Oh gosh, I'm gonna come..."

You nod, fingers tangling in his hair. It only takes a few more seconds before he's tumbling over the edge, filling you up with a groan while his hips buck up erratically.

Once he lets go of your hips, the two of you simply stay still for a moment, just briefly basking in the afterglow of orgasm. He hums, pressing a few kisses to your nipples and breasts before leaning back with a soft sigh.

His lips tug up into a lazy smile, eyes half-lidded as he looks at you, taking in how you look on top of him. It's a view he'll never get tired of.

"Clark? Are you there? Did something happen?"

The soft sound of Pa's confused and concerned voice coming from his phone snap him out of it, and he quickly reaches over to unmute.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm here," he says, his cheeks flushed. "Sorry, I...h-had to help in the kitchen real quick. Did you find the printer?"

You smile, wrapping your arms around him and leaning forward, tucking your face against the side of his neck as he finishes up on the phone with Pa.

What an amazing man, you think to yourself.

And he's all yours.

(daily planet divider by saradika-graphics here on tumblr!)

clark sat patiently, waiting. his vision being cut off, he had heightened his other senses, listening to each one of your shuffle and paying close attention to your heartbeat speeding up with every footstep you took towards him. he could sense your body heat getting closer and closer, smirking when it spiked right as you got in front of the man.

"okay, uhm… " you began, though there was no end. "y-you can… you can touch now." and clark smiles—a radiant, front-page worthy smile directed straight at you which has you blushing, his eagerness getting to you.

his calloused hands were brought up, first landing on your waist almost instinctively. he always held you by your waist—honestly, he kind of had a manhandling problem because he was constantly grabbing you and moving you around, holding onto your waist to prop you up on the counter or drag you back to bed.

you shivered at his warm hands, "you already know this part of me…" you muttered, "and i love it." he simply replied, his voice steady and calm despite the situation.

then, they dipped to your hips, his fingers tightening around the flesh. "soft…" clark commented, earning a soft smack on the head from you. "clark!" you scold and he giggles, rubbing his palms over your skin.

"can i… go further?" he asks, still wanting to make sure you wanted this. you run a hand through his hair as he leaned into you touch, nodding to yourself before muttering a small "…yeah. you can."

and so now, his hands snake to the globes of your ass, squeezing and rubbing. his cock twitches at the feeling, but he doesn’t comment on it. "so eager…" you chuckle, looking back to watch him play with it like a stress toy.

before you can say another word, he’s slowly pushing you against him, urging you to approach him even more, as he gently lays down, his back hitting the mattress. you wonder what he’s doing, what his motives are doing that, but you comply. a small, almost inperceptible gasp escapes you when he lifts you up using your ass, propping you right above his face.

it’s then that you realize what he wants.

"clark, i-" he cuts you off, "c’mon, baby. let me feel you, just this once." and you shiver when his hands drag up your back, teasing, before landing on your chest, squeezing your tits and thumbing your nipples. your abdomen squeezes at the stimulation, but he’s not done.

"you’re so beautiful, honey…" he sighs out, as if the words stood heavy on his tongue. "but you can’t even.. you can’t even see me, clark…"

"yeah, but i feel you. and that’s enough for me to know… just how beautiful you are."

and with that, he goes straight to your core, licking a long wet stripe up your slit, the tip of his tongue bumping with your clit.

"c-clark!" you jumped, your body tensing up.

he ignores your cry, "and i wanna show you…" he plants his fingers on your waist again, pulling you lower and lower towards him, "just how much i mean that."

and before you knew it, his mouth was on you.

Especially nights like this one, when he’s drained from chasing yet another unsub. Classic white male in his thirties or forties, mother issues carved into his psyche, targeting women half his age to prove he can still get it up. Hotch has seen the pattern a thousand times, but this one is still slipping from his grasp.

As his keycard blips green, he wonders - if this case had landed on his desk ten years ago, would the man already be behind bars? He values experience, but sometimes he wonders how long he can keep outrunning the fear of being an old dog with no new tricks.

The door shuts behind him. He exhales.

The first release of the night: the gun from his shoulder holster, cradled down into the safe. Then he crouches, the crack of his knee joints slicing through the silence, and pulls the backup from his ankle. Another sigh as both weapons disappear behind metal.

At least six hours without them. Hopefully.

Telling himself he doesn’t have a night routine is, ironically, part of the night routine. The lie that he can still be spontaneous. Unpredictable. That he’s not just a man made of habits.

So tonight, instead of starting from the top (the tie, the shirt, the methodical descent) he decides to mix it up. To prove to himself he can. Shoes first, yes, but then he goes straight for the belt.

Unbuckled first, leather slipping loose with a snap. Completely backwards. Everyone knows you work your way down, not up. Freak behavior. This is so deranged. So deranged. And he does it again, just to spite his own rules.

The button of his slacks slips free with a sigh. Finally, he can breathe.

He folds the trousers with care, slides them into the bag he keeps separate for the dry cleaner. Peels away the sock suspenders, then the socks - doomed for the communal machine downstairs, where he can only hope they don’t come back tinged pink yet again.

The tie takes longer. He eases it free, smooths the silk flat, rolls it carefully into the travel organizer he insisted on packing so that, come morning, every option will be visible, orderly, ready.

…So much for spontaneity.

Even when he tries to break his own rules, he circles back to the same compulsions - neat folds, clean lines, predictable order. Chaos, it turns out, doesn’t suit him. (Suit. Get it? God, listen to him. Maybe he should take this act on the road, try stand-up while he’s at it.)

Which is probably why his newest fixation isn’t reckless or daring but… pajamas. Yes, pajamas. That it even qualifies as an “obsession” is humiliating enough. Pajamas, of all things.

He knows perfectly well he’s not one of those enviably cool fifty-year-olds who buy motorcycles, leather jackets, or - God forbid - take up pilates and flood social media with sweaty mirror selfies. No.

His midlife crisis is a pair of classic Italian pajamas, cut from high-end cotton that, yes, costs well over a hundred dollars, which is absurd considering they’re designed for unconsciousness.

In his ideal world, if society allowed it, he’d wear them exclusively. (And underwear, of course. He hasn’t lost all sense of decency.) And really, why not? The fabric is feather-light, the V-neck dips just enough to expose his collarbones and a scatter of freckles across his chest, yet the structured collar reins it all back into something respectable.

No one would ever suspect that the whole thing is, technically, an attempt at being slutty.

Speaking of which - the buttons. God, the buttons. Such a small detail, but his favorite part. There’s a quiet satisfaction in fastening each one. A sense of order. A bedtime ritual that, yes, he times in his head because apparently he’s incapable of letting anything be casual.

(This is what happens when your hobbies are limited to paperwork and insomnia.)

Sometimes he wonders if anyone will ever curl up against his chest, their head rising and falling with his breath, teasing him about how absurdly long it takes to undo every button as impatient fingers fumble down the line. He can almost hear the laughter spilling out, muffled against his throat as those greedy hands wander lower, eager-

Not now.

He exhales, dragging the air all the way out of his lungs. From his breast pocket, he slips out his rounded wireframe glasses and sets them on the bridge of his nose.

Nothing steadies him quite like a swallow of cold water from the glass on his nightstand (well, almost nothing… there’s always the more hands-on option, reserved for the truly desperate hours).

Tonight, though, he reaches for something heavier. His hand finds it without looking, already familiar with the heft - thicker than most, not standard by any stretch, the sort of thing that really requires both hands if you want to do it properly.

Most people would balk at wrestling with something that oversized at the end of a long day, but not him. He takes a certain pride in it: the density, the promise of hours of solitary satisfaction.

A book, obviously.

Specifically, a 496-page biography of an unsung American hero of independence, the kind of figure no one remembers but that he, for reasons he can’t quite defend, had to buy on sight. His latest bedtime partner: Dick Buttington.

He never understood why people claim they love drama but won’t touch history. That’s all history is - gossip, endless gossip, feuds, betrayals, half-truths… it’s reality TV with quills. And he laps it up. Hotch wets his finger, turns the page, adjusts his glasses.

Excerpt from The Life and Trials of Richard “Dick” Buttington (1728–1796) In the winter of 1778, General Buttington took to lodging with his young aide-de-camp, Alexander Fairchild, then a mere twenty-five years of age to Buttington’s fifty. Contemporary observers remarked on the closeness between the two gentlemen, which, though oft remarked upon, was universally regarded as a model of virtuous fraternity. It was, by all accounts, a most exemplary friendship. Several testimonies confirm that on cold nights, the two men would retire together, pull their cots together for warmth, blankets overlapped, bodies angled close. Witnesses frequently reported hearing sounds from within their tent, noises that suggested not quarrel but rather the kind of closeness that words cannot capture. Descriptions vary, but many recall hearing what could only be-

“Oh my God!”

Hotch jerks upright. The cry hasn’t come from the page but from the other side of his wall. Female, breathless, and very much alive. Certainly not General Buttington, then.

He blinks hard, stunned, book frozen in his lap. Before he can process, another moan crashes through, louder, punctuated by the unmistakable slap of skin on skin.

The Unit Chief is… pent up. He just wants to read. He tries to read. He really does, forcing his eyes across the neat rows of text, trying to compartmentalize the rhythmic thrusts bleeding through the drywall as background noise.

Hotch pinches the bridge of his nose, adjusting his glasses like the act alone could tune it out. He draws in a breath that is-

“So deep!”

He huffs a laugh despite himself. For fuck’s sake. Yes. A deep, steadying breath was what he was going for.

He makes a second attempt to return to his book, but the sounds are… distracting.

So distracting that his mind, unhelpfully, drifts back to the months when Haley was pregnant with Jack - when he buried himself in construction manuals, convinced that mastering the craft of a perfect partition wall for the nursery was the most useful contribution he could make.

Later realizations (namely, that this hadn’t been the most graceful approach to impending fatherhood) aside, it’s knowledge he now regrets.

Karma, it seems, is a bitch has a cruel sense of humor, because judging by the way each vibration shudders straight into his bedframe, he can confidently say this is a standard platform-frame wall: wood studs, no acoustic insulation, zero consideration for sound transmission. Of course.

If wood can amplify a symphony in a concert hall, imagine what it can do in a budget hotel with a back-to-back layout and adjoining headboards. He might as well be resting his skull against the exact same plank their bedframe is currently… abusing.

Which, technically, he is.

If this is what “immersive acoustics” feel like, he’d prefer to remain ignorant, considering every thrust rattles his bones and gives him the most unwanted back massage of his life.

And with every jolt, guilt digs deeper. For overhearing. For letting himself feel it.

Everything thrums through the wall and into him - until, at times, it’s as if his own body is the one unravelling beneath the pace… and at others, as if he’s the one pinning her down, driving harder, pulling those sounds out of her throat.

The heat that coils low in his body unsettles him most - not desire he chooses, but something primal, instinctive, out of his control. He tries to smother it, but with every broken moan that slips through the wall, that restraint grows thinner. (No pun intended) Shakier.

And he doesn’t even know her. Not her name, not her face.

Nothing but the sound of her, lovely and unashamed, every cry slipping freely into the night. Unfeigned. Honest.

And so Hotch shifts restlessly against the sheets, rolling onto his side. One arm clamps the pillow tight over his ear, muffling the noise, while the other props up the book. His glasses slip crooked on his face, leaving him to read with one eye, squinting uncomfortably to make the words stay in focus.

Richard “Dick” Buttington was revered well into his later years for his remarkable vigor. Even as age stiffened the bodies of his peers, he remained unbent, commanding admiration with the firmness of his resolve. Accounts describe evenings in which men crowded eagerly into his tent, hungry for his company, clinging to his every word. He could hold an audience rapt for hours, never flagging, always rising to the occasion when duty called.

Um. Sure.

Observers noted that wherever he appeared, heads turned, voices hushed, and many confessed that they longed for just a taste of his greatness.

…Really?!

Hotch frowns at the page. Is Buttington being described as a military freak of nature, or is this biography actually implying that General Buttington had half the Continental Army drooling over his-

No. That can’t be it.

It’s just the environment… being surrounded by sex. Especially now, with the sounds growing louder, the thrusts quicker (what cosmic crime has he committed to deserve this?).

Not to be a prude - God forbid it ever come off as prudish - but right now he has never wished harder for a stranger to be struck by sudden erectile dysfunction.

Defeated, he sets the book aside. Frustrated. His long-standing ritual broken. (A ritual, not a routine… there’s a difference. It’s not like he’s going to unravel because of this. No. Of course not.)

He stares at the blank wall in front of him and, despite himself, listens. Six inches of drywall away, pretty moans rise and fall, breathless, telling him she’s close. He hears the held inhale before the release, the silence that makes him hold his own breath, the sloppy cadence of thrusts slowing until - nothing.

Quiet.

The kind of silence that’s never really empty - more like the hush that follows after, when two bodies collapse into one another, when that frantic, animal pulse dissolves into something softer. Earnest looks. Vulnerability.

A roll to the side, seeking out eye contact even in exhaustion. The sudden chill when bare skin loses heat too quickly, answered by a hand reaching out, cradling a cheek, drawing the other back in. The steady anchor of a palm at the waist, fingers splayed wide, reaching to hold on to as much as possible.

Fingers combing through damp hair, pushing it back from a lined forehead, brushing away sweat. And the unspoken fear that the fresh dye he used to cover his greys might streak and stain her fingertips.

And then, foreheads pressed together, grins breaking through, laughter cutting the tension, possibly even beginning to-

“Fuck!”

…Again?! (So soon?)

By now Hotch has lost count of his sighs - fiftieth, sixtieth, who knows. Maybe that vaguely homoerotic Buttington biography isn’t the worst way to pass the hours after all.

At least it would keep him from dwelling on how he doesn’t have the nerve to knock on the wall and tell them to tone it down - even if their noise means tomorrow he’ll be sleep-deprived and half-useless in the field. Right. Work.

But after recalibrating his concept of stamina, after enduring the unmistakable buzz of a vibrator paired with the rhythm of clapping cheeks (he grudgingly notes: a man who doesn’t view toys as competition but as tools… commendable, impressive), after what he counts as at least three orgasms (not that he’s keeping score… or at least that’s what he tells himself as the guilt builds), he finally decides he has to act.

He’ll get up, knock on their door, and politely ask them to stop. To stop being so loud. Just… just once she’s finished.

(He doesn’t get the signal.)

Instead, the rush of pressured water fills his ears. A shower. Great. Break time. (Which, of course, only means one thing will follow, and he doesn’t want to think about it. He’s not stupid; he’s lived it. Long ago, sure, but still. He knows.)

His pulse spikes. He pulls on his slippers, leaves his pajamas on, his FBI badge tucked neatly into the breast pocket (because habit. Because armor.), glasses still perched on his face. Ridiculous. He looks like someone’s father come to complain about the noise, which, technically, he is.

Still, no time for appearances... he just needs this over with. He steps out into the hall, heart hammering, forcing his legs toward the source of his torment.

He knocks twice. The door, naturally, has a Do Not Disturb sign swinging from the handle. Perfect. Now he feels like a double offender - ignoring both privacy and decency. Great. An old man complaining about sex. Is this really what he’s become?

He sighs, waits. The water keeps running.

He knocks again. Footsteps approach. A pause. His throat hammers with his pulse. Hinges creak. He looks down, inhales one last steadying breath, then lifts his eyes as the door swings open-

This can’t be real.

“Agent Hotchner?”

It’s you.

You. In a robe.

You. Standing in a robe, eyes wide with the same shock mirrored in his. God help him. You probably don’t even realize the way your gaze flicks down his body, then back up, lingering at his face.

No - his glasses. Of course. It must be the glasses.

He takes them off quickly, tries to keep his hand from shaking as he slides them into his breast pocket. Spacious pocket. (Worth every dollar of that pajama set.) He should say something. Anything. Why is he even here?

“Hi-” he starts, and winces at the clumsy sound of his own voice. Is his mouth hanging open?

You raise your brows, still blinking through confusion. “Hi… I- uh- I saw you on the news a few hours ago and now you’re here…” A pause he notices far too much. “…you’re here in Baltimore for the Red Line Killer?” A decent save, he’ll give you that.

“Yes.” The word is clipped. He can’t exactly launch into a lecture about why using the media’s pet name unconsciously glorifies the unsub and misleads the investigation. Not when you’re looking at him like that.

“Um.” He clears his throat. “My room is next door.”

He sees the freeze ripple through you as the words land.

“Oh my God.” Your hand flies to your mouth, then smacks your forehead once, twice. “This is so embarrassing. I’m so sorry. I’m… mortified-”

“It’s alright,” alright?! “If you could just-” He can’t even get the words out. He hopes you understand his gesture.

“Yes! Of course! I’m so sorry.” You shake your head furiously. “Yes, of course, I’m so sorry. I’ve never wanted to bury my head in the sand more than right now, I swear. God.”

Your gaze flickers lower- his exposed chest. No, his breast pocket. The badge. Your eyes go wide. “Oh God, I’m not getting arrested, am I?”

He blinks. Arrested. In pajamas. He’s standing here half-unbuttoned, probably flashing you chest hair, slippers on his feet, and you think this is an arrest? He would never be so indecent, not even for a felony. How the hell could that thought even cross your mind?

He bites the inside of his cheek hard, fighting to keep his expression steady.

“Oh, no. I have the badge for-” Why explain? Why should you care about Bureau protocol? He swallows. “Just… be safe. Out there.”

“Of course… sir.” You really didn’t need to add that. His pulse stutters. “I- I have a taser,” you add quickly. “And pepper spray. In my bag. I carry it everywhere.”

“That’s… reassuring.” The words barely leave his mouth. He steadies his expression, forces his eyes to stay fixed on your face and not on the damp collarbone glinting just beneath the fold of your robe. “Goodnight, then.” God, what is wrong with him.

“Goodnight, Agent Hotchner.”

If you don’t drop the title he’s going to combust. His blood is already boiling, and gravity, faithful bastard that it is, drags the heat straight south until it pounds where he least wants it. Thankfully, you shut the door before the threat of an embarrassing display could announce itself through the fabric.

Dazzling.

He presses his forehead against his own door, thumping it twice in useless reprimand, heart hammering so loud he swears it’ll give him away. He fumbles the keycard, slides it too fast, too slow, curses under his breath until the light finally blinks green.

Relief and panic hit at once, colliding in his chest as he all but bolts inside, slamming the door shut like he’s outrunning something. Outrunning you. Outrunning himself. Outrunning the snarled mess of ethics clawing at his skull.

And of course (surprise, surprise) it doesn’t save him.

The pajama fabric gives him away instantly. Thin cotton stretched to its limit, neat vertical stripes warped and bent around the thick swell between his legs, making the bulge look bigger than it already is. The head of his cock grinds uncomfortably against the seam, dampening it, leaving behind a dark patch that visibly contrasts against the light blue of the bottoms.

Every nerve in his body screams at him to give in, and still he doesn’t. He calls it discipline, calls it self-control, though deep down he knows it’s fear. Fear of what it says about him.

And yet… some shameful part of him almost hopes you’ll start again. Another round, another soundtrack of moans through the wall. At least then he could pretend it wasn’t his choice.

Not him losing control. Not him palming his cock because he’s imagining how it would feel to bend a woman he barely knows (half his age, no less) over and fuck her until she begged. No - circumstance. Circumstance forcing his hand.

Either way, whether he ends up gritting his teeth and deciding what to do with the problem straining in his pants, or whether your noises start again and hand him the excuse he’s too cowardly to make for himself, it all comes down to waiting.

So Hotch makes another attempt to return to his book, dragging in a steady breath as he shifts beneath the covers.

Buttington’s rifle was a source of fascination to all who beheld it: extraordinarily long, polished to a hard gleam, a weapon both formidable and coveted. Before every engagement, he would clean it with painstaking care, stroking the length until it shone. He insisted the ritual brought good fortune, though some whispered it was simply a pleasure in itself. His companion, Alexander Fairchild, was said to have lent a hand in these preparations, guiding his own touch along the barrel, even blowing across the steel to ensure no speck of dust remained. Men who watched swore they had never seen such devotion to a piece of iron, nor envied so much the chance to hold it.

Oh, this has to be a joke.

Hotch stares up at the ceiling, exhales a long, resigned sigh, and tries to convince himself that jerking off to the clumsy prose of one of America’s more obscure war strategists (a very dead war strategist at that) is still a more acceptable explanation than the reality. At least then it’s history, not you.

He sets the book aside, deliberately face down, so General Dick Buttington isn’t looking at him while he reaches down, hand tracing the thick outline of his cock through the cotton. His palm lingers lower, cupping his balls, giving them a squeeze that sparks a grunt from his diaphragm.

It isn’t enough. Not even close. He pushes his pajama bottoms down, watching as his clothed erection bounces free, slapping heavy against the softness of his stomach.

Of course, he folds the pants before setting them on the other side of the far-too-luxurious queen bed the Bureau sprung for, smirking a little at the thought that the right half of the mattress is being used solely as prep space for his jerk-off session.

He props himself up higher against the headboard, angling so he can really look at himself.

Neat freak that he is, he can’t even bring himself to jerk off without preparation. (Christ, it even rhymes - he could make it into a jingle if he weren’t so painfully aware of himself right now.) He slides open the nightstand drawer, revealing the unassuming box he tucked there the moment he checked in. Inside waits his carefully curated stash: a couple of condoms, Viagra pills, and a few discreet travel-sized packets of lube.

Sliding his sage-green boxers down, he folds them, too, setting them carefully atop the pajama bottoms, making sure the damp spot doesn’t stain or mingle with the fabric beneath.

(Is that compulsive? No. It’s just common sense. Anything else would feel as wrong as mixing peas and carrots on a plate.)

Finally bare, he sits up straighter, letting his eyes wander down the thick length standing tall from his stomach. He’s not above admitting to himself that he likes the sight of himself like this, hard and heavy in his own hand.

Absurd, really, when he still can’t even bring himself to peel off his shirt when he’s alone, too unwilling to face the scars etched across his chest. But below the navel, he allows himself indulgence. Below the hips, he permits admiration.

And there’s plenty to admire.

The heavy length curving slightly toward him, the fat veins ridging up along pale skin, the flushed crown already weeping, precum welling at the slit. A guttural groan rumbles out of him as he drags his thumb through the mess, smearing it slowly over the swollen head.

He focuses there, teasing the tip with a few shallow strokes that barely drag past the ridge, enough to make his head fall back and his throat tighten around a sound he swallows down. The moans press against his teeth, begging to break free, but he clamps down because he knows how easily they’d carry through the wall.

And still, the danger of you hearing him, the suppression of it, makes his cock throb harder. It’s a recurring theme in his life, isn’t it? Holding everything in, strangling it down - until it finally bursts out rawer, than it should.

That’s the thing no one expects. People think he’s quiet in bed, a man of silence even there. They couldn’t be more wrong.

When the restraint finally shatters, he is… loud. Groaning, growling, panting… as if every sound he’s ever swallowed is ripped out all at once. It’s one of the only things he can’t control. But here, now, he has to.

What he can control is the mess. Not on the sheets. Never on sheets that don’t belong to him.

He reaches for the condom, rips the foil and and rolls it down over his cock, savoring the friction. Legs spread wide on the bed, a squeeze of lube in his palm, slicked along the latex, hissing at the relief of it, and – begrudgingly - lets himself reach for a fantasy to anchor to.

A fantasy. Harmless, he tells himself. That’s the very definition: not real. It could be anything.

So if it happens to be you - your hand ghosting up his inner thigh, the other palm cradling his cheek - that’s just coincidence. You were the first thing that came to mind (well, you and General Dick Buttington, though the imagined dialogue with you is admittedly easier to summon).

In fairness to himself, even in this fantasy, he still tries to talk you down, to murmur something about not wanting to rush, not wanting to push things too far too fast.

But then you lean down anyway (at least, in his head you do) mouth hovering right where in his imagination there’s no condom, no neat-freak barrier, just… bare skin. Yes.

Your lips stretch around the fat head of his cock, sealing tight, and your tongue drags slow and deliberate along the thick, throbbing vein underneath. The slick heat is so vivid he nearly jolts off the mattress, a strangled groan ripping out of him as his back arches high - and you’ve only just begun. Pathetic. That’s what you must think already. And he’d be the first to admit you’d be right.

You ease off only to torture him with the drag of your lips, swirling your tongue in messy circles around the swollen crown before lapping at the thick pearls of precum already welling at the slit, savoring the salty tang.

You take him in again, one long, filthy glide from the swollen tip all the way to the base, your tongue flattened and dragging hard so every ridge and pulsing vein is soaked in spit.

Your fist wraps around him where your mouth leaves off, pumping his slick length while you drag your lips lower, tongue teasing across his balls before sucking one into the heat of your mouth. (He’s so damn sorry for using you like this.)

The wet suction makes his hips buck helplessly, cock lurching deeper in your grip as you roll the tender flesh against your tongue, indecent sounds spilling from your mouth. You let it slip free with a wet pop, saliva stringing, only to claim the other. (Sorry.)

He pulls his legs up, knees pointing toward the ceiling as your mouth drifts south. You lift his sack, tongue finding the tender spot beneath, and he shivers, a deep groan rumbling out of him as you tease the sensitive skin.

Then – suddenly - he gasps, hips jerking up in surprise, when your tongue presses even lower, tracing along the rim of-

No. Christ, no. He can’t let himself go there. Not with you. Not this fast. Not when you’re nothing but a fantasy, conjured by his own pent-up need.

Pivot. He scrambles for a detour. Something safer. Anything safer.

So. Your mouth slides back down his cock anyway - at least in the fantasy he can’t stop building - and he drags in a breath, a ragged apology slipping past his lips because he needs it. Needs more.

(Sorry. He swears he respects you. This is just in his head, he keeps insisting to no one but himself, even as he sinks deeper into the thought of you.)

Something presses at his ass. His hips twitch up without thinking, ramming his cock deeper into your throat as your finger slips inside him.

“Fuck-” he gasps, head thrown back, the unexpected stretch sending fire through his body.

It’s different. Not the dull, predictable friction of his own hand. (Well…) Better. Because it’s you. It’s you forcing him open, while your throat clamps tight around his cock, milking him, choking him on pleasure. You’re fucking him from both ends, and it’s unbearable how good it feels.

You fuck your finger deeper into him, pumping back and forth a rhythm that matches the wet glide of your mouth around his cock. His moans, as his hands return to your head, massaging your scalp in half-conscious gratitude as you swallow him deeper. Each push of your finger urges his hips forward (sorry), fucking your mouth harder without him even realizing it (sorry).

When you push in a second finger, he gasps, hips jerking up, desperate sound tearing from his throat as he bucks into you, cock shoving deeper down your throat until the thick head bumps the back of it.

He’s moaning your name, over and over, louder than he ever imagined he could be (and God, he hopes that in real life he has at least some volume control, so you won’t write him off as just another freak), every shred of control gone.

You curl your fingers inside him, pressing harder, stroking the spot that makes his whole body jolt like he’s been shocked.

“Fuck- God-” The words rasp out broken as you hit it again. (He might have to repent for his sins after this… the blasphemy, and quite possibly the sodomy, too.)

Your mouth works faster, spit and precum smeared down your chin as your throat works greedily around the thick length of him. Your fingers fuck into him deeper, pumping and curling against his prostate until he’s whimpering, almost sobbing, every muscle drawn taut.

He can’t hold back anymore.

“Oh God–” he chokes, clutching your head, forcing you down as his cock pulses hard against your tongue (he is devastated). His whole body seizes, shuddering as he cums deep in your throat, hot spurts spilling while his ass clenches and flutters desperately around your fingers.

Even soft, you don’t let up, your fingers still buried in him, stroking slow while your mouth coaxes the last drops from his twitching lenght. The overstimulation tears broken whimpers out of him, his thighs trembling uncontrollably, every nerve in his body alight like fire under his skin.

Finally his grip slackens, tension draining from him until he’s boneless, ruined. His hand slips from your hair to cup your face instead, thumb dragging tenderly across your cheek. He pants through parted lips, eyes barely open, glassy, barely able to hold you in focus.

You’re about to say something – finally - when his work phone rattles against the nightstand. Work… always comes first, doesn’t it?

Another stiff drink, another stiff case file, another body on a slab… his reward for a lifetime of discipline. He sighs, dragging a hand down his face, the aftershocks still twitching low where he’d rather not admit.

Well. If he isn’t going to have trouble sleeping, he’s sure as hell going to have trouble sitting down. Figures.

Of all the aches a man his age should worry about, this is the one he earns tonight.

Hinge Matches: @aria-chikage ; @beata1108 ; @c-losur3 ; @crying-ang3l ; @donttrustlove ; @fangirlunknown ; @goorgeousz ; @hayleym1234 ; @ignoreeeeeee ; @justyourusualash ; @khxna ; @kiwriteswords ; @kyrathekiller ; @littlemisskavities ; @lostinwonderland314 ; @mmmunson ; @msfreedom ; @mxblobby ; @nikt-wazny-y ; @oxforce ; @percysley ; @person-005 ; @prettybaby-reid ; @purechaosss ; @reidfile ; @royalestrellas ; @ssa-callahan ; @softtdaisy ; @softestqueeen ; @thatkidofwarandpeace ; @theseerbetweenus ; @thiswildandpreciouslife ; @todorokishoe24 ; @who-needs-to-sleep

You met Monica at her first chef job, you were the restaurants hostess. You’ve since drifted from that career to try find a way to make money from your art.

You’d always been a creative person. Your apartment was normally a little chaotic with unfinished projects all over.

The point was you’d been part of the gang for a while. You lived in Phoebe’s building too.

The 7 of you were all talking in the coffee house.

Chandler was smiling at you “So just to recap — you tried to bake a cake, set off the fire alarm, and somehow… painted a giraffe?”

You laughed “It was supposed to be a tree! But then you know the cake batter went everywhere and I tried to clean it off the canvas and it looked like a giraffe, and I just went with it. Art is about improvisation.”

Joey very seriously agreed “Yeah, like when I forget my lines and just talk about sandwiches.”

You nodded “exactly.”

Rachel laughed “Honestly, y/n, I don’t know how you survive a single day.”

“It’s easy? Just invest in good paint and a fire extinguisher.” You joke.

At that moment, the door opens. Dave — tall, athletic, charming if you didn’t look too closely — walks in. He strides over and kisses you quickly but firmly.

Dave mumbled “Hey, babe.”

“Heyy,” you smiled. You’d been dating for 6 months.

Chandler suddenly mutters under his breath “And here I thought this day couldn’t get any worse. I stand corrected. Standing… corrected.”

Ross awkwardly greeted Dave “Uh, hey, Dave.”

Dave nodded at them.

You were oblivious to Chandler’s pained sarcasm, and turned to him brightly

“Chandler! Did you ever finish that weird painting you started?” You asked

Chandler grinning weakly “You mean the one where I accidentally glued my hand to the canvas and called it modern art? Yeah, it’s hanging in my apartment next to my dignity. Oh wait—that’s gone too.”

Phoebe perked up “Ooh! We should all do an art night again! But no super glue this time.”

You smiled and nodded.

“Can we paint naked ladies?” Joey spoke up

Rachel: “Joey!”

You nodded.

Everyone laughs lightly, but Chandler’s smile falters when he sees how tightly Dave grips your waist, and how you flinch slightly.

[Later that night — y/ns Apartment.]

Chandler hesitates outside her door, a pizza box in hand. An excuse, really — ‘dropping off the leftovers.’ He raises his hand to knock but hears muffled arguing inside.

“Why do you have to act like such a spaz in front of everyone? It’s embarrassing, y/n.” Dave yelled

Your voice sounded small “I was just telling a story, Dave… I didn’t mean to—I was just having fun with my friends-”

“You never think. You just act. Maybe if you shut up once in a while, people would actually take you seriously. People would probably like you more if you talked less- I mean how embarrassing do you think it is for me being with you-“ Dave spat

There’s a loud noise — like something being shoved off a table. Chandler stiffens, heart pounding.

Your voice was soft and scared “I’m sorry.”

Chandler’s jaw tightens.

“That was my vase for the art show next week.” You say sadly, as you pick up the pieces of the shattered vase. It had taken you two weeks to make.

“Oh right, the art show. Because you’re the next Picasso, huh? Get real, y/n. It’s a hobby. Grow up.” Dave yelled.

“It’s not just a hobby. It’s what I love—” your voice was broken.

“Yeah, well, maybe if you loved something that actually made money, you wouldn’t be stuck in this dump.” Dave was awful.

There’s a loud clatter — like a chair being knocked over or thrown Chandler flinches.

Without thinking, he bursts in- you never lock your door despite everyone telling you to.

You were on the floor next to a broken chair and were holding the bruise now forming under your eye.

Chandler spoke in a sarcastic tone “Special delivery! One large pizza and an even larger sense of concern!”

You were trying to hide your face and your tears.

Dave was pissed and his voice gruff. “What do you want?”

“Dave I think you should leave…” Chandler said.

You rushed to try smooth the situation “Chandler, it’s fine. Really. We were just… talking.” You were afraid Dave would hurt Chandler.

Chandler was shocked, eyebrows raised “Ah yes, talking. That classic conversation style where you verbally body slam someone you’re supposed to love.”

“Maybe you should leave.” Dave spoke through gritted teeth.

“Look Dave, I’m gonna give you five minutes to leave this apartment. And don’t think about coming back. You don’t get to treat her like shit…I’ll call the police you psycho.” Chandler spoke.

You’d never seen him so brave. And to your surprise Dave left.

Immediately you hugged chandler and broke down crying.

Chandler held you. He didn’t speak. He just let you be.

“You don’t deserve someone like that.” Chandler whispered.

[Later — Central Perk, after they leave together.]

[Everyone’s gathered. Y/ns curled up next to Chandler on the couch, cradling a coffee cup. You’re quieter than usual, but safer. Joey is loudly arguing with Phoebe about the rules of “Sandwich Record Attempt.” A game they had just invented

You lean into Chandler’s shoulder, and for once, he doesn’t make a joke. He just rests his head lightly against yours, promising, silently, that you weren’t alone anymore.

[y/n’s apartment a few nights later]

The apartment is a mess — paintbrushes everywhere, half-finished canvases leaning against walls. You are on the floor, cross-legged in sweats, mixing colors. There’s a soft knock.

“Come in! It’s open!” You yell

Chandler peeks his head around the door, holding two mugs of hot chocolate. “I bring gifts. Also, a warning: if you drink both of these, you will immediately slip into a sugar coma.”

You laugh, wiping your hands on your sweats “Perfect. That’s how I want to go.”

He hands you a mug and sits down beside you without thinking — close, but not too close. Always careful with You now.

“So… I see the art hurricane has made landfall.”

You shrug slightly embarrassed “Yeah. Sorry. I know it’s a disaster.”

Chandler smiled “Hey, it’s your disaster. Which means these are all gonna be in a museum one day.”

You look at him for a long moment, something unreadable in your eyes. “Why are you always so nice to me?”

“Because if I’m mean, you’ll hit me with a paintbrush. And I’m very delicate.” Chandler jokes almost automatically.

You smile, but it fades just a little. You sets your hot chocolate down, fiddling with a paint rag in your lap. “No, seriously. You don’t have to… fix me.” Your voice is barely above a whisper. He was being so weird after the other day.

“I’m not trying to fix you, y/n. I’m trying to be here. You don’t need fixing.” He says.

The room feels smaller somehow, filled with all the things unsaid.

“You saw what Dave was like.” You whispered “and I did nothing…”

Chandler nodded softly“Yeah.”

You spoke up, voice cracking. “I thought… I thought it was my fault. That if I just tried harder you know. And maybe this is all stupid-“

Chandler cut you off immediately “It’s not your fault. None of it is. You’re a great artist and don’t need losers like that telling you otherwise.”

You swallow hard, your fingers curling in the rag. Chandler sets his mug down and leans forward slightly. “You deserve someone who sees the way you light up a room when you talk about your art. Someone who doesn’t make you smaller just so they can feel bigger.”

[A few days later — Central Perk.]

Monica, Ross, Joey, Rachel, and Phoebe are already there. Chandler and y/n walk in together, laughing quietly about something. Your cheeks are pink, and Chandler looks lighter, like a weight he’s carried for years is finally starting to lift. You stop to talk to someone and chandler goes to sit down with the group.

Phoebe is grinning immediately “Well, well, well. Look who’s walking two inches closer than normal.”

Joey smirks“Yeah, someone’s got a crushhh.”

Chandler speaks “Crush? No. What you’re seeing is just me… gravitationally falling into another human being. Very natural. Very dignified.”

Rachel then asks “Seriously, what’s going on with you two?”

“We’re just… spending time together.” Chandler shrugged.

[Later — Monica’s Apartment.]

The whole gang is hanging out, eating pizza. Chandler and y/n end up sitting next to each other on the floor, sharing a plate. At some point, Chandler feels your hand lightly brush against his.

He freezes — heart racing — but when he glances over, y/n just gives him this small, steady smile, like you’ve been thinking about it for a long time too.

Slowly, carefully, you link your pinkies together.

Chandler stares at your hands for a second, then looks up at you. You raises an eyebrow, teasing and smiling. “Problem, Bing?”

“No problem at all.”

[Scene: Your Apartment — Late Night.]

You and Chandler are sprawled out on the couch. A terrible old movie plays on the TV, forgotten. Your head is resting on Chandler’s chest, and his fingers are lightly tracing patterns on your arm without even thinking.

It’s quiet. Comfortable. Too comfortable, maybe — because Chandler’s heart is pounding.

“Sooo… hypothetically speaking… if a guy was, I don’t know, deeply in love with a girl… when would be the right time to tell her?” Chandler spoke nervously.

You smile into his chest “Depends. Is the girl smart?”

“Very.”

“Is she oblivious?” You asked.

“Painfully.” Chandler squinted as he spoke

You giggled not getting his hints “Aw, poor girl. I hope she figures it out.”

Chandler closes his eyes for a second, like he’s physically restraining himself from slamming his head into the coffee table.

“Yeah. Fingers crossed.” He says.

A beat. Then he shifts slightly so you’re looking up at him. He’s not smiling now — not really joking. “I’m not really talking about ‘a guy,’ y/n.”

You blinks at him, confused for a second — and then your eyes widen, everything slowly clicking into place.

“Oh.” Your voice is barely above a whisper, stunned.

Chandler watches her, his heart practically trying to escape his chest.“Yeah. Oh.”

You sit up and stare at him. “You…?”

Chandler then began his typical nervous ramble. “I just — I didn’t know it would happen. One day you were Monica’s chaotic artist friend who spilled red paint on my shoes, and then you were… you were this person. This incredible, terrifying, brilliant person who made me want to be… better. And I just — God, this is the part where I say something smooth, right? I’m supposed to say something smooth.”

You laugh slightly. “You’re doing great.”

Chandler was half laughing, half desperate “I love you, y/n. I’m wildly, pathetically, head-over-weird-socks in love with you.”

He looks like he’s bracing for you to run. Instead, you let out a small, shaky laugh — and then, very softly, cup his cheek. “Good. Because I’m wildly, pathetically, head-over-chaotic-mess in love with you too.” You smiled.

Chandler lets out a stunned, breathless laugh. You lean in, kissing him — slow, a little clumsy at first, but absolutely right. He kisses you back like he’s been waiting forever.

Chandler has a stupid smirk on his face when you pull away. “So does this mean I’m allowed to make you pancakes in the morning? Because I’ve been practicing my ‘artistic’ pancakes and they are… horrifying.”

You laugh “Only if you make one shaped like a giraffe.”

“For you? I’ll make a whole zoo.” He smirked

Your hands are weak as they hold onto his strong arms, his skin already covered in red lines that mark where your nails have bitten into his arms and shoulders and back.

Clark rocks his hips slowly, every inch dragging out of you only to slide back in. You can feel the thick head of his cock brushing your cervix, forcing the breath to leave your lungs.

You squeeze around him as he kisses across your neck, the hot ache of desire already pooling low in your womb again.

“You doing okay, honey?” he asks, sucking a mark into the side of your neck.

You can barely open your eyes, your body torn between exhaustion and lust, as you just nod and mumble incoherently.

“What was that?”

“I can take it,” you say again, throat a little sore from all the moans and squeals he's pulled out of you.

A little smile forms on Clark's lips. You're always so willing to make him feel good, even when he pushes your body past its limits.

“If you want me to stop, you tell me,” he says gently, brushing his nose over your jaw. “You hear me, baby? You say the word, and I stop.”

You nod mindlessly, knowing he worries about you. But honestly? You're awfully content. You get a minimum of five orgasms every time your boyfriend fucks you — not exactly something you'd complain about.

“Just a while longer, baby,” he promises, pushing one of your legs up to your chest, then the other.

You mewl, helpless, as he folds you in half. His cock slides deeper into you at this angle, pressing right against your g-spot and making you feel even fuller.

He grunts softly when you squeeze around him, and he knows he's not gonna last much longer. He picks up the pace a little, gentle thrusts that empty and then fill you with each roll of his hips.

You whine, your oversensitive pussy squelching and dribbling as he fucks into you. Pleasure spills to the rest of your body, running hot and thick through your veins like warm honey. You feel almost dizzy with it, like it's too much and not enough at the same time.

Clark watches your beautiful face caught up in pleasure. Your pretty eyes are shut tight, your soft mouth open as broken moans spill from your lips. His cock twitches at the sight and he feels proud of himself for making you feel this good. It's the least he can do after making you withstand his cock for hours.

“You're so perfect, baby,” Clark says, moving a little faster, wet sounds echoing through the room every time his hips meet yours. “Fuck. You're so good to me.”

He leans down, kissing your collarbone and up to your neck, hearing your heart racing in your chest.

You moan, cunt sucking him in like you can't get enough. His cock presses against your cervix lightly, just enough to make you feel stuffed without it being painful.

“That's it, baby. Good girl,” he praises, nibbling at the skin of your neck. “Just let me make you feel good.”

He fucks you fast and hard and deep now, your body bouncing with each thrust, little gasps and whimpers leaving you.

The pleasure is so intense, it almost burns as it fills your womb. Your body squirms under Clark's as he fucks and fucks and fucks you. Tears of ecstasy fill your eyes, the fat drops falling down your cheeks and landing on the pillow underneath.

“Fuck, baby, I know,” Clark grunts, kissing your forehead. “I know, honey. It's so much. I promise I'm almost done.”

He's not lying. There's heat gathering low in his abdomen, making his hips stutter and his cock twitch. He's getting close.

One of his huge hands moves down, his fingers finding your clit and rubbing over it in tight, messy circles.

Your cunt squeezes him tight and your hips jerk, the touch of his fingers making you see stars. “Clark,” you moan breathlessly. “Clark.”

“Yeah, I know. I know. I'm right there with you,” he groans, leaning his forehead against yours. His hot breath fans over your face, his eyes shut tight as he feels the familiar ache of his orgasm building.

He angles his hips up, his cock adding more pressure to your g-spot and your womb, making you squeal.

You're right at the edge, the pleasure low in your belly coiled tight and hot, ready to burst at the smallest push.

And then Clark presses his fingers down on your clit and your mind goes blank as you fall right over the edge.

You moan his name as you come, your nails digging into his shoulders, gummy walls squeezing around him tight enough that he can't move anymore.

Your orgasm triggers his. He moans as he comes right after you, his hips thrusting into you hard until his cock twitches and his thick, sticky cum spills into you. He presses himself into you as deep as he can go, rope after rope of hot cum fills your pussy, his hips stuttering weakly as your cunt clamps down on him.

He stays buried deep in you as he comes down, his sweaty forehead pressed against yours.

“Fuck, baby,” he says lowly, kissing all over your face. “Are you okay? Was I too rough?”

You shake your head weakly, your chest heaving as you try to regain your breath. “’m okay,” you mumble, your voice a little hoarse.

Clark nods, relieved. He'd never forgive himself if he got too rough with you.

Gently, he pulls out of you and rolls onto his side, hugging you to him. He kisses your temple and says, “I love you, baby. So much.”

You mumble in response, already drifting off to sleep. Clark just watches you for a moment, thinking how lucky he is to be yours.

Sometimes, he feels a little guilty about how spent he leaves you, about the long hours of sex your body withstands just for him to come. But whenever he sees your blissed out expression, that content and satisfied look on your pretty face, he figures it's not that bad.

♡ please comment and reblog my work, it means so much to me and inspires me to keep writing

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Every road seemed to lead to here. Waiting, worrying, wondering. Both sides were growing tired. Clark found himself stretched thin trying to keep up with the needs of an entire world. You never asked him to not be what the world needed and you never would. People needed help, Superman needed to be there.

The conversation had come up before, flowing like water that was forming a canyon. Slow, intentional, irreparable. You wholeheartedly understood that he had a duty to the world, and Clark entirely knew that that duty didn’t make his absence from your relationship any easier to handle. It hurt him too.

Clark typically prided himself on his attentiveness in your relationship. He knew you inside and out. Every beauty mark, scar, and dimple was laid out in the map of his mind. His hands knew the precise path they needed to travel to hit every reactionary point from your neck to your thighs without so much as a glimpse in their wake. He knew what made you smile, what made you laugh, what made you cry. Maybe that just made this all harder. He knew you so well but still seemed to be losing you. Or, you were losing him?

So gradually seeing less and less of one another made it harder to notice that it was happening at all. But you felt it in a number of ways, with parts of your life empty just like they had been before you ever met. Initially, one glance at Clark had changed your entire life. Your every thought was consumed by him. His laugh, his social awkwardness, his smile and the dimples that accompanied it. You wanted nothing more than to show him everything you saw within him.

Now here you were, sitting alone waiting for a man that could never truly be just yours. Sitting around stewing about him being late felt selfish. He was off saving the world, how could you be mad about that?

You weren’t angry. Even though you were sitting at the kitchen table, leg bouncing, bottom lip between your teeth as you peeled skin off it. The vacant open window had your eyes glued to it as the only viewer for the last several hours. That window was never to be shut when he was out, you made sure of it. He needed to make it home safe.

This was a new routine that you’d grown all too accustomed to. It was your only routine with Clark that you didn’t love, actually. It always went like… getting ready for an outing together, all smiles and gentle adjustments of one another’s wardrobes. And then, with a tilt of his head, Superman would hear a call for help from across the world or down the street.

Next thing you knew, you were waiting all dressed up with nowhere to go until hours would pass and reality would hit that he wouldn’t be home in time. Clark hardly had time for work at the moment, Perry on his case about being late or leaving early far too often. This, of course, meant that he lacked time for his personal life too.

You love Clark, and he loves you. But you hardly saw one another anymore. What was a relationship where you never spoke? There was nothing to even say. He had to go, and you entirely understood. Even tonight, on your anniversary.

“I promise I will be right back. This could be really serious.” Clark still felt it necessary to defend.

“It’s okay, go. Take your time, save lives.” You gave a reassuring smile and squeezed his hand.

There was a very slight reluctance he faced when changing into the Superman suit. He hated leaving you, especially tonight. He could feel the way you were drifting, on opposite sides of the canyon forming in your relationship.

At some point in the night, you had fallen asleep leaning on the table. When you woke up the sun was rising and you were still dressed to the nines. Though, your hair had gotten frizzy. Still no Clark, so now all you had was an aching back, racing mind, and a mess of hair.

Giving in to the waiting period, you went ahead and changed into something more comfortable. There was no chance you were going on any date when he got back. He would be too tired, and honestly so would you.

One hand rubbing your eyes, the other reaching for your favorite mug. You were trying to make yourself busy so you could stay awake. Superman may be impenetrable, but you always worried for him. The window stayed open to help ease your concerns. It was one less obstacle in his path home.

Thankfully, just moments later, worry lifted from your shoulders as you heard the window sliding shut in the other room. He was home.

“Clark?” Your hand fell from your face, leaning around the doorway to actually lay eyes on him and make sure that he was safe.

The small smile on his lips told it all. He looked exhausted. Although the Man of Steel wasn’t easily battered, bruised, or cut up, it was still evident that he didn’t have an easy fight. And yet, he smiled for you. Always.

“Yeah, it’s me.” His voice was quiet, and his shoulders slumped. His smile didn’t falter, but he had noticed your outfit and hair. “You changed. I'm sorry I wasn’t back sooner.”

Your heart pangs, knowing that, even when fighting some otherworldly being, Clark was worrying over you last night. About how you got dressed up for your anniversary for him to have to go. About making you sad, or angry, or frustrated because he wasn’t there. About failing to live up to the promise he’d given that was never realistic for his lifestyle. A promise you had put zero pressure on, and he had put it all on.

“You didn’t stay up, did you?” His eyebrows furrowed, wasting no time to fuss over you.

“Just a little while.” You give a smile, failing to convince him that was true. You duck back into the kitchen and grab another mug— his favorite this time. “I’ll make some hot chocolate while you shower.”

Hanging his head, he noticed everything you hadn’t done. No running over for a quick hug and kiss before checking over every inch of him. No draping your arms over his shoulders as he held on to you and filled you in on everything that happened. No wrapping your legs around his waist as he carried you to the bathroom, where you’d both shower and you’d insist on washing his hair. Things that used to be a given, a reliable routine. They had begun to fade out just a handful of weeks ago.

But you had still left a light on for him, and the window was open to assure his return. And you had waited up. Even if he didn’t like you staying up waiting for him, he knew that it meant you cared. Things were changing, not ending. That’s what he had been telling himself. There were only so many times he could show up late to the party and there still be a celebration.

“I’m sorry,” he said it again. His boots were quiet beneath his steps.

He always made himself smaller when he got home from saving the world. The way his cape flowed within the walls of his own apartment made him feel pretentious. Like he was flashy, putting on a show for people that weren’t even around. It was the last thing he ever wanted to do or be, even if people were watching.

“Not that it makes up for me not being here, but I was in—“

“Surat,” you finish for him. You placed the small, blue pot on the stove and poured milk in it to heat. “I saw on the news. That creature was massive.”

It was a pretty generic response, and Clark would’ve used to brush it off as you were tired. But he was starting to read things differently now. He had to, since meanings were changing.

His hand rested on the small of your back to make it known he was right behind you. “Small talk.”

You glance at him as the stovetop flickers on. His hand felt heavier than you knew it really was, your mind playing tricks to make your guilt eat you alive. “What?”

“You’re making small talk.” He references, “That creature was massive, it’s generic. You’re upset.”

Eyes closed, you tried your best to avoid the conversation. Your brain was so busy that you weren’t sure what would come out if you did talk. “I’m fine, Clark.”

“I missed our anniversary, and that’s not fine.” He stood in front of you, hands rubbing your arms up and down. “I know I can’t make up for it, but I’ll do everything I can for you. I’ll get you anything you want.”

He hated when you couldn’t look at him. He knew that it wasn’t about him, that it was an avoidance of a deeper issue, but it felt like it was earned. Like he knew exactly what he’d done wrong, and of course he didn’t deserve your gaze.

“I just wanted you.” Your words could be read in a number of ways this time.

His fingers drag across your jawline, swooping hair from your face and giving him a clear view of your hiding face. He whispers, “I’m here now.”

Your eyes open, though not quite ready to look into his. Instead, you take hold of his hand and turn it facing upwards. Your other hand lightly traces over the lines of his palm, a simple action you often did to ground the both of you after his excursions.

“I don't wanna fight, Clark.” The thought weighed heavy on your mind.

“Fight?” His tone tried keeping things light, having found hope in the tracing of his palm. “Who said anything about a fight?”

“It’s the only thing we’ve done the last few times you’ve come back from these things.” Your fingers lay flat on his hand now.

Fighting didn’t have to mean a screaming match, throwing things across the room and wishing the worst on one another. There was never a fight like that between the two of you, and there never would be.

No. Instead, your fights looked like silences. Like avoiding one another, and having the same discussion on repeat about things not working, but having hope that it’d play out alright. The record of your relationship wasn’t just stuck on a loop, it was scratched and beginning to wear down.

“So we won’t fight.” He shrugged, eyes still trying to capture yours. “I’ll shower, we’ll drink coco, then get some sleep. In a little while we can talk, set up some plans for the evening. I’m all yours today.”

His lips found yours in a few gentle pecks, and your lips returned the kisses without any consciousness. To be fair, you were both incredibly tired and feeling a high need for one another. What was new the last few weeks?

“I don’t wanna sleep.” But, god, you were so tired. Your eyes were stinging, and you prayed it was for any number of reasons but what it actually was. Tears welling in your eyes.

“Hey,” Clark soothed immediately, thumb pressed to your cheek. “Hey, talk to me. Okay, we don’t have to sleep. What do you want to do? You wanna talk? Or we could have the drinks, just relax for a little while?”

You hated that you were starting to cry, and you couldn’t pretend you didn’t perfectly understand why it was happening. There was an overwhelming, looming hurt in you. For weeks you’ve waited around for Clark to come home. You missed him.

“Until you have to go again.” It felt childish. Tears rolled down your cheeks, there was no stopping it.

Clark couldn’t say anything to go against that. You didn’t want him to, and he didn’t see the point.

“I hate it too,” his thumb swiped away the tears. He knew that it was an issue but he was avoiding confronting how bad it was. Look where it led him.

“I can’t do it anymore.” You mutter, looking down at his hand in yours again.

His other hand still held your face, trying to keep up with cleaning off your tears. He wanted to wipe it all away, if only it were so simple. But he froze with your words.

“What?” He knew exactly what you said and what that meant.

“I’m really trying,” your voice was much more shaky than you would like. “You’re doing such a good thing, and I know it’s not about me, but I don’t know that I can keep this up.”

Being too much of an optimist bit him in the ass from time to time. Clark felt his own absence in the relationship, so he couldn’t even begin to imagine how deeply you must’ve felt it. But it was temporary, just while he figured out how to balance Superman, work, and his personal life.

“I’ll figure it out.” He was already trying to reason through it. “This is new, you know? And I haven’t been fair to you, I know that.”

“You’ve been entirely fair.” You wouldn’t let him take from the importance of what he’d been doing. “People would die without Superman, a date with me isn’t worth that.”

“But it matters. I’ve missed too much.” His fingers closed around your hand.

“Aren’t you tired?” You look up at him, already knowing the answer.

He was doing too much as it was. If it was possible for him to give you more time, he already would’ve. You knew that he was running on empty, and that his new position in the world was far more important than a date with you. It was the truth in your mind.

“I’ll find a way.” His eyes are looking away now, searching the floor like it would have the answers. “I’ll set a time where, no matter what, I’m spending time with you.”

“Oh, you’re going to start scheduling when the bad things will happen?” Your eyebrows furrow together.

“That’s not…” he sighs and squeezes his eyes shut. He knew where this was leading.

“I know you’ve run through every possibility, so have I. But you can’t predict when these things will happen, and our schedules just don’t align.” You didn’t want to be a downer, but it was past time to be real. Clark didn’t even have a consistent schedule to align with.

“But they will, eventually.” Both of his hands are on your one, giving it a shake. He couldn’t let go. “I’m figuring it out, it’ll take time.”

“I don’t have more time to give, Clark!” You let out an exasperated laugh. “I can’t just keep sitting around waiting for you to show, twiddling my thumbs and acting like a selfish baby because you’re off literally saving lives.”

“Don’t call yourself that,” his head dipped down, making your eyes connect.

“But it’s exactly what I am right now, and I can’t stand it. Do you get how shitty it feels of me? To be upset because my boyfriend is too busy saving people to be around me?” Your hand slips out of his, arms crossing over your chest for a self soothing hug.

Clark was right in front of you, not only capable of soothing but wishing that you’d let him. Would it be overbearing? He was afraid to do too much, to push you even further and cause something to snap.

He wasn’t going to fight you about how you felt, he couldn’t. Who was he to police someone’s thoughts and tell them whether they could or couldn’t feel a certain way? But it terrified him of what you were insinuating.

“What can I do to help you?” He ran a hand through his hair. He needed his hands to stay busy if they were going to stay off you.

Saying you couldn’t believe that he was still just trying to help you would’ve been a lie. This entire thing was centered around this ‘issue’, if it could be called that.

“Just slow down.” You reply with a shrug. “Maybe we need a break so you can focus on taking care of yourself.”

“No,” his response is quiet but quick. His top lip was between his teeth, head slowly shaking in disagreement.

“You need time, you said it yourself.” You hated the words you were saying.

“Not like that!” He looked up from the floor. He’d forgotten you were turned from him, denying him the attention he so desperately sought from you.

“Then what?” You ask.

“Time.” His hands gesture vaguely.

“But what does time mean to you?” You inhale a deep breath.

“Just,” his hands picked up his cape, thumbs rubbing into the fabric seeking a similar sensation to when you held his hand earlier. “Just time, with you, to figure out how to balance everything.”

He knew you had nothing to offer in figuring that schedule out. He himself didn’t know where to begin, let alone someone with absolutely zero experience in the area.

“I think we need to consider a break.” Your voice was so quiet he nearly couldn’t hear. Why couldn’t you stand behind it in confidence if it was how you felt? “I mean, can we even be considered a couple right now?” Your hands go to rub your temples, tension causing the start of a headache.

“Yes!” He practically cries, dropping his cape as he focuses on the conversation much more. “Yes, we can. We… We’re living together, we just had a date a couple days ago.”

“That was over a week ago.” Your correction points out his lack of time awareness as of late. You weren’t complaining, just stating.

“Okay, well, we spend every night together at least.” There was something to hold on to here, he knew it.

“That’s if we can stand to stay awake, for maybe an hour each night.” You had a rebuttal for each thing it seemed.

“I love you.” He says plain and simple. “And you love me, so we absolutely are a couple.”

“It’s not that simple.” You murmur.

“Well, it is for me.” He was beginning to feel frustrated.

Didn’t you see it? The way he loved you, the way he needed you?

The milk on the stove had begun to boil, pulling both of your attention to it. Each of you just watched it for a moment, both petrified of what might happen if you make a move. Eventually, Clark came forward and moved the pot, shutting off the stove.

His hands rested on the countertop, eyes closing and head hanging. You watched him for a moment. You knew his head was reeling with what to do, because yours was too. There didn’t seem to be a right answer and you both had your own opinions of what to do next.

“We need sleep.” You at least tried to be reasonable. “You haven’t slept in, what? 30 hours?”

“I don’t care.” His head lifted. “We need to talk, I don’t want to treat this like it’s nothing. This isn’t a save for later conversation.”

Plus, who knew when ‘later’ would be for him again, if anything were to come up. It was just getting to that point, though. You could tell you were going to continue talking in cycles.

“I’m going to bed.” You say, body turning to make your way to the bedroom.

“Wait,” he sighed and followed right on your trail. The goddamn cape swooping behind him was starting to get on his nerves. “Sweetheart, wait, please.”

His voice was begging, pleading you to just talk. He didn’t want to brush off something that was very much an issue. So much so that it had brought you to tears. He couldn’t let that slide.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, you know you can’t just ignore it anymore. Your mind was only half working, running on maybe an hour's worth of that shitty kitchen table nap from earlier and stressing over how things would unfold.

Clark’s heart clenches when you sit, glad that you’re giving him an opportunity. He steps between your legs so he could be a part of your process here. His fingertips ghost over your shoulder, so deeply craving to touch you and get some sense that things might play out for the better.

“I don’t want a break.” He was tracing circles over your shirt. “We’ve had so much distance already and I can’t stand it. Even just tonight, it drove me nuts that I didn’t get a welcome home kiss, or even a hug.” He was going to start rambling if you let him. “Not that you have to do it, and I’m glad you didn’t if it wasn’t what you were feeling, I just…”

Your eyes are off to the side, too afraid to look into his. He couldn’t let it go this time, he needed to be seen by you.

Zero hesitation, he goes down on his knees, placing himself between your legs. His hands rest on each of your knees, gently massaging them to get your attention. It wasn’t fair. It definitely got you to look at him.

He is looking up at you through his lashes with his big, sad, blue eyes as he whispers. “There you are.”

Jesus, he had tears too.

He couldn’t help it. His heart felt for you before you ever said a word tonight. He knew. That sadness and fear that had seared your heart with a most unwelcome pain had been burnt into him too.

Distance felt like a need at the moment. You hated to see him cry, and hated even more that he still looked absolutely stunning while doing it. And, it was so easy to be lulled by his touch, whether he meant for that or not. And he definitely meant for it right now. You had every right to feel any and every emotion, and he did everything he could to support you through. But it was in his nature to just comfort you. He couldn’t stand seeing you hurt.

You couldn’t look away now, even if you wanted to. “It’s so selfish of me.” Tears fell again.

“It’s selfish of me,” he began to reframe it. His hand reached up, back of his fingers swiping tears before they made it even an inch down your cheek. “To expect you to stick around. To put up with it and wait it out. And for what? Look at me. At the end of the day I have nothing more or less to offer really.”

Oh, you were looking. His eyes were puffy and red. The only other time you’d seen him cry like this was when you watched one too many Pixar movies together and his reality became a little too suspended.

Head shaking in disagreement, you sniffled and wiped your eyes with your sleeve. “That doesn’t even make sense. You’re so good, Clark. Of course I want to stick around.”

“And you aren’t?” This he would fight you on, to the grave.

Clark had been told about his tendency to put people on pedestals, and he’d been told he does it the worst with you. He didn’t care, you deserved to be there. Everything about you screamed perfection in his ears.

You were so human, having your quirks and hobbies. You had strong opinions about little things, and even stronger about big things. He’d heard all the time about how he was a hero, how no one could compare to being a hero like Superman. They didn’t understand.

You were the very air he breathed. You were what kept him going as he continued to run on empty. You were the reason the world still had Superman, they just didn’t know it.

“So we’re selfish for wanting each other.” He shrugs dramatically, hand sliding from your cheek, to your neck, to your arm. “But I want you, sweetheart. And I’m not just going to walk away.”

Both of his hands held onto your waist, hands smoothing over your shirt as they wrapped around to your back. His lips kissed your left thigh, then right. God, he hadn’t gotten to really hold you in far too long.

Your hands went to his forearms, just feeling his movements with him. You didn’t want him to go anymore, never really did. “I won’t let you sacrifice Superman for me.”

He grins, kissing your stomach and rubbing his hands higher up your back. “I’m counting on that. Someone’s gotta peel me off you every so often.”

You chuckle, not really grasping how much he meant it. If it wasn’t for Superman and the Daily Planet, Clark would spend every waking moment just like this. Bodies entangled, worshipping every piece of you.

“I’ve neglected you.” He murmured softly, kissing between your collar bones before resting his cheek there.

You’d laid together with his head on your chest plenty of times. But there was never a moment quite like this, with him at your feet and seemingly trying to be absorbed by you. Some deep part of him wished you could be stuck together this way for eternity. Like statues carved to love one another until they crumbled apart through the tests of time.

As much as he made the moment about comforting you, you knew it was equally about him. It was about your shared relationship, and he was the one that had to run around trying to maintain any and every relationship he had. He was tired.

Your hands move, fingers lightly scratching his scalp and holding his head to your chest. The beat of your heart had calmed down, and he felt each pump against his cheek. The point was made. Neither of you were going anywhere.

He hummed in response to your nails, lifting his head and placing another kiss on your chest. One of his hands cupped your cheek, the other roaming along your ribs now. You were moving together again, figuring out one another’s patterns just the same.

Your head leaned down, and his came forward to meet one another for a slow, intentional kiss. That string connecting your hearts had loosened up, allowing you both to breathe again. You met for another kiss, his tongue grazing your lips.

Soon, he began to stand from the floor, holding your body to support you as he laid you down on the bed. He was hovered above you, one hand holding him up. The cape from his suit hung over him, somewhat caving you in.

You laughed against his lips, tugging gently on the cape at his shoulder. “I still like the cape.”

“It’s coming off.” He groaned, annoyed by the fabric once more for pulling your attention away.

might do a true part 2 for it tho but this was getting long

You and Clark didn’t argue often. When you did, it was rarely over anything serious—more often than not, it was over something ridiculous, something so trivial it was laughable. Tonight’s topic? The sounds you made while cockwarming, and somehow, as with most of your petty debates, it had all started because of your cat’s complete lack of boundaries.

Now you sat perched on one of the stools at the kitchen island, your chin propped in your hand as you watched Clark move around the kitchen with practiced ease. He was barefoot, sleeves rolled up, muscles shifting under the thin fabric of his shirt as he stirred a simmering pot. The smell of garlic and fresh herbs lingered in the air, the room warm and homey despite the fact that your current conversation was anything but calm.

“He has no boundaries and no sense of privacy, sweetheart,” Clark said with a dramatic sigh, ladle in hand as he pointed toward you like a prosecutor presenting evidence. “I swear, you could be halfway through giving me the best time of my life and in comes Alpine, ready to interrupt with his furry little face like he thinks it’s completely normal.” He shook his head, lowering his voice in exaggerated dismay. “…And you let him, too. You’re the one who lets him in and then starts cooing over him every time.”

You gasped, clutching your chest like you’d been personally attacked, your voice dripping with mock offense. “Well excuse you? We’re technically just laying there while I’m enjoying the fullness. Can’t I just pet the damn cat?”

Clark turned, brows furrowed in a mix of exasperation and disbelief, both hands lifted from his sides like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Oh, so now it’s just ‘laying there’?” His tone was incredulous but the corner of his mouth twitched like he was holding back a grin. “Last time it happened, you were moaning two seconds prior like I was doing the Lord’s work and suddenly it’s ‘we’re just laying there’?… With your legs wrapped around me? Your nails digging into my back? Your breath all shaky? … Yeah, okay, sure. Totally innocent.”

He turned back to the stove, shaking his head while giving the pot another stir, muttering like he was talking to himself but very much talking to you. “And fine, pet the cat but don’t act surprised when he sits on my head like he owns me and ruins the mood or when I whisper in his ear ‘This is not a group activity’ menacingly.”

You stared at him in wide-eyed astonishment, your mouth falling open before twisting into an incredulous grin. “Ummm, I don’t moan that much when we’re cockwarming.”

Clark grinned, practically rolling his eyes as he leaned against the counter, spatula in hand. “Oh please. Yes, you absolutely do. Don’t even…” He let out a long-suffering sigh, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe he had to explain this to you. “Once you get all soft and needy and I’m just lying there like I haven’t been craving you for hours while my other head does all the thinking… Honey, you moan plenty, and I won’t apologize for making that obvious.”

You chuckled in disbelief, folding your arms across your chest like you were preparing to defend yourself in court. “I do not.”

Clark responded by blowing a loud raspberry, dismissing your words as if they carried no weight. He gestured loosely with the spatula in his hand, animated as always when he got going. “You so do. Are you forgetting I have superhearing? The little sighs, the way you bury your face in my neck when you shift your hips just right? That breathy ‘Baby… stop it…’ when I move even an inch?” He pitched his voice higher in an attempt at mimicry but without an ounce of mockery, just earnestness, which somehow made it funnier. “Yeah. That’s moaning and don’t act like Alpine doesn’t pause pre-jump every time like he’s asking himself ‘Do I really want to walk into this again?’ And then he does! So he lacks common sense too.”

Your jaw dropped, half-indignant, half laughing at the absurdity of it. You jabbed a finger in his direction, trying to hold onto your composure. “Well if you fucking move then you know there’s gonna be friction. It’s not moaning, it’s telling you to stay still.”

Clark grinned, flashing you that smug farm-boy look that always made you want to smack him and kiss him at the same time. He leaned against the kitchen island, spatula still in hand like it doubled as his gavel.

“Ah, I see. So every time you gasp and go, ‘Clark, don’t move,’ it’s not because you’re overwhelmed with sensation? Nope! Totally just a ‘safety announcement’...When your nails dig into my back? Just ‘friendly reminders’. And that little whimper when I accidentally move? Not moaning, no, just…uh…‘corrective feedback’. Yeah, you keep telling yourself that, sweetheart.”

You narrowed your eyes but your lips twitched into a smile as you tried to keep your voice steady. “You do that thing with your hips to readjust, forgive me if it feels far too much like a thrust.”

His eyes widened in mock triumph and he pointed the spatula at you like he’d just uncovered damning evidence. “So you admit it? You do moan when I adjust. You just like to lie about it and blame the cat for everything else. …And what, now you’re complaining about my hip movements? I could be perfectly still and you’d find a way to complain about it. If I’m too still, I’m being boring and cautious. If I make the slightest move, it’s because I’m out for intense and overwhelming. I just can’t win.”

You chuckled, shaking your head. “I didn’t admit to anything. What if it’s just air coming out at the movement? Even when we’re not moving much, it’s… it’s intense, you’re not exactly small, you know?”

Clark nodded sagely, like the case was already closed in his favor. “Right, right. Because now it’s just air. If I do the tiniest hip roll and it makes you sigh, it’s air. …And if a little moaning happens to come out, I guess that’s also just air, right?”

You gave a little shrug, tilting your head at him with faux innocence. “What do you define as moaning? Or should I just not breathe?”

Clark rolled his eyes again, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe he was even entertaining this debate. “The sounds you make,” he clarified, his voice taking on that calm-but-pointed tone he used whenever he was certain he was right. “You know, when you get comfortable and make those little gasps? All those small whines and whimpers that sneak out when you think I’m not paying attention? News flash, sweetheart! You’re all I can focus on! That’s what I consider moaning… Now you’re getting all picky about the word itself.”

Your eyes went wide, like you were scandalized by the accusation, even if the corner of your mouth twitched with a suppressed grin. “Are we forgetting that I’m the one with the dick inside of me?” you demanded, as if that single fact automatically won you the argument.

Clark pressed his lips together to keep from laughing, his chest shaking with the effort. “The amount of sassiness you have when we’re talking about your favorite activity is astounding,” he muttered, wagging a finger at you for emphasis. “…And no, I have not forgotten, thank you very much. I literally remember every detail about those moments, as well as the little sounds you make, in case you haven’t noticed.” His smirk deepened like he’d just played his trump card.

You tossed your hands up with exaggerated exasperation. “Okay, so let your girl exhale a little, damn.”

Clark only nodded, his expression softening even as his eyes sparkled with smug satisfaction. “I’ll let you exhale all day, sweetheart,” he promised. “As long as you don’t try to cover up all those perfect sounds as ‘air’ or ‘adjustments’ or anything else. I love hearing you get all happy and whimpery. The very least you can do is let me enjoy it without acting like you don’t moan when I stuff you… even when I know you do.”

You rolled your eyes, fighting back a laugh as you muttered, “Whatever,” but the playful lift of your lips gave you away.

He smiled at you with so much love in his eyes, his hand slipping down to discreetly readjust his hardening cock in his pants. “That’s my favorite response when you don’t have a rebuttal,” he said warmly, his grin growing smug. “I love it when you act like you’re annoyed after getting called out.” He pointed at your face, amused by the way your expression shifted. “That little pouting and all the feigned indifference…Then we do the thing for real and suddenly all that anger and irritation go away so fast… We should do this more often.”

You burst out laughing, leaning over the kitchen island just to get a better look at his lower body. “Yeah, cause it’s probably making you hard as a rock. Are we forgetting that you groan too?”

“Oh, I know I groan,” he admitted without hesitation, eyes sparkling. “But you? No. You just ‘exhale with intensity.’” His tone dripped with sarcasm but his smile softened at the end. “And yes, sweetheart, guilty as charged. You do make me hard just by being near me… and even harder when you argue with me. So stop being so difficult and go lay on the couch for me, I’ll be there in a minute.”

You grinned, your legs already going weak at the thought of what was coming next. “Same time next week?”

Clark chuckled, nodding with a grin of his own as he reached to turn off the stove before wiping his big hands on the dish rag, like he had all the time in the world. “Knowing you? Probably earlier than that.”

You were already halfway to the couch, tugging your shorts and underwear down in a clumsy shuffle, your excitement beating out any sense of patience. “Love doing business with you!” you teased over your shoulder, grinning wickedly.

It was almost comical how quickly your petty arguments withered into nothing. As Clark had asked, you stretched out on the couch, bare from the waist down, the cool air brushing your heated skin. The sight of him approaching, broad shoulders framed by the soft light of the kitchen, hunger burning in those blue eyes of his and the heavy strain of his cock outlined against his pants, made your body respond instantly, slick pooling between your thighs like you’d been waiting for this all day.

He paused just a step away, his gaze sweeping over you slowly, reverently, like you were some decadent offering placed before him on a silver platter. His throat bobbed with a quiet swallow before he leaned down, catching your lips in a kiss that was achingly tender for the heat behind his stare. The kiss deepened as he sank to his knees beside the couch, his hand cupping the line of your jaw with a gentle possessiveness, thumb stroking over your chin before it began its journey down, tracing over your collarbone and gliding over your stomach, until finally settling between your legs with a touch that felt both practiced and worshipful.

His fingers stroked you with care, first grazing lightly as if reacquainting himself with every curve and contour, then pressing with firmer confidence the moment he felt your hips lift in search of more. Your breathing quickened, small gasps slipping out before you could stop them and Clark’s gaze flicked up to watch your face, hanging on every shift and tremor.

“You’re so darn beautiful,” he murmured against your neck, his breath warm and steady as his lips skimmed the delicate skin there, pausing to taste. His voice dropped, carrying that familiar mix of affection and want. “Even when you’re trying to pick fights…So mouthy.”

His words vibrated against your throat, his lips moving in tandem with his fingers, the heat of his breath and the heat of his touch tangling until you couldn’t tell which one set you trembling more. He drank in every reaction, the way your chest rose and fell faster with each stroke, the way your thighs parted without hesitation and especially, the way your body arched subtly into his hand like instinct overrode every thought.

Clark loved this part. He loved coaxing sounds from you with nothing but his touch, giving you every ounce of his focus before taking anything for himself. This was his ritual, the way he worshipped you, slowly and entirely yours. Because once he finally penetrated you, once he slid home, he wanted the pace to be sweet, not rushed, filled with nothing but closeness. Deep and tender. The kind of intimacy where no space existed between you at all.

He kept his mouth locked to yours as his fingers moved with greater urgency, stroking you with the kind of practiced precision that made your body sing for him alone. He coaxed pleasure from the apex of your thighs with ease, dragging you higher and higher until your walls fluttered desperately around nothing, your clit swollen and sensitive under his relentless touch. You moaned into his mouth, the sound muffled but not lost to him and he smiled against your lips. A smug, growing smirk that spoke of his satisfaction, though he never broke the kiss.

The first wave of release hit you sharp and sudden, quiet but intense, your body seizing around the bliss as heat rippled through you. Clark didn’t falter. He stayed with you through every shiver, every stuttering breath while his fingers slowed into a torturous rhythm that teased your clit gently, drawing the aftershocks out until you trembled beneath him. Only when your breathing had begun to steady did he finally ease back, withdrawing his hand with a reverence that made your pulse skip.

Rising, he pushed to his feet just long enough to shove his pants and underwear down, kicking them carelessly aside until nothing stood between you. His cock sprang free, heavy and flushed, the tip slick with precum as it twitched in his fist. The sight alone stole your breath, your body clenching in anticipation. He sank onto the cushion between your thighs, his broad hands sliding up to cradle them, coaxing them open wider with the gentlest insistence.

The hunger in his eyes softened into something deeper as he lowered himself over you, his weight braced carefully so he didn’t crush you, every movement measured. With one hand steadying himself and the other guiding his length, he pressed against your entrance, eyes never leaving yours. The gaze felt like a vow in itself, a silent promise spoken without words.

Then, slowly, achingly so, he pushed inside. Your slick walls welcomed him without resistance, stretching to take him in with a heat that made both of you groan. The fullness overwhelmed you instantly, the thick weight of him filling you inch by inch until your breath hitched and your nails dug into the couch cushions. You moaned at the intrusion, unable to hold it back, the sound breaking free from your chest as your body adjusted around him, greedily accepting every part of him as if he belonged there.

He smiled at the sound of your moan as he eased deeper, the noise filling his ears like the sweetest music, proof of just how perfectly your body took him in. His head dropped into the curve of your neck and shoulder, his lips brushing your skin as a low, guttural groan tore from his chest, raw and unrestrained. The weight of being so completely joined with you, of being allowed this closeness, filled him with a mix of hunger and aching tenderness that nearly undid him.

“You okay, baby?” he whispered, his voice roughened with a need that went far beyond desire, scraping low in his throat. His hands settled on your hips, thumb stroking small, soothing circles against your skin as if he needed to remind you, remind himself, that you were safe, that this was love. “Still with me?” His tone carried both vulnerability and intensity, reverberating through the quiet room as though the question mattered more than anything else.

You managed a breathless “yes,” your voice barely more than a whisper and that was all it took. Clark released a shuddering exhale, his whole body trembling with the effort it took to stay still inside you. He pressed his forehead to yours, eyes shut tight, as if by breathing you in he could ground himself against the storm inside him.

“God,” he murmured, his voice breaking into something raw and unfiltered, “I love being inside you. It feels like… like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.”

His hips shifted with the smallest, most careful roll, not even a thrust, just a subtle grind that sent sparks rushing through you. The motion was enough to draw a sharp gasp from your lips, the very sound you’d been teasingly denying minutes ago. Clark’s mouth curved into a half-smile against your skin as he gathered you tighter in his arms, holding you as if you were something precious he could never risk losing.

He kissed the slope of your temple, lingering there, before capturing your mouth again, slower this time, less of a claim and more of a vow, each brush of his lips carrying the weight of everything he felt for you.

“Are you comfortable?” you asked softly, fumbling with the blanket in an attempt to drape it over the both of you.

Clark lifted his head just enough to look at you, his chuckle low and warm, before shifting his weight a little to settle more fully against you. The movement pressed him into your body in a way that made your nails instinctively dig into his side, earning another amused rumble from his chest.

“Yeah, baby, I’m comfortable,” he reassured, voice laced with that easy affection that always managed to soothe you. With one big hand, he reached down and tugged the blanket higher, until you were both fully cocooned in its soft weight. “Besides,” he added, the corners of his mouth lifting into a playful grin, “I’ve got the best pillow in the world right underneath me. How could I not be comfortable?”

The teasing sparkle in his eyes made you laugh, the sound soft and genuine, your earlier tension slipping away. “You’re ridiculous,” you murmured, though your smile betrayed you as you finally let yourself relax back into the cushions.

Clark hummed in contentment, nuzzling into you as though he intended to stay there forever. You absentmindedly threaded your fingers through his hair, the silky strands sliding between them, while your gaze drifted toward the TV. The screen flickered with scenes you weren’t fully paying attention to, the hum of dialogue becoming little more than background noise.

With him sprawled over you, warm and heavy, his heartbeat steady against your ribs, it felt like nothing else in the world mattered.

He closed his eyes, a soft hum vibrating against your skin as your fingers continued their gentle path through his hair. The sensation lulled him, grounding him in the kind of quiet, effortless intimacy he cherished most, the kind that didn’t need words or heat to feel profound. Even with him still nestled inside you, there was no urgency, no pressure. Just closeness…just you.

His head rested where your neck met your shoulder, his breath warm against your skin, while his hand traced idle, lazy patterns along your side as if he wanted to memorize every inch by touch alone.

“You’re gonna put me to sleep doing that,” he murmured, voice slurred with teasing fatigue. “Keep it up and I might just doze off right here…on top of you.”

“You can,” you whispered back, your tone soft and reassuring. “I feel okay. I’m comfortable.”

You felt the faint curve of his smile against your shoulder at your words before his arms tightened around you, drawing you even closer. His chest pressed to yours, syncing with the steady rise and fall of your breathing. The rhythm of your heartbeat drummed against him, each thrum sinking deeper into his awareness until it became the only thing he could hear.

It soothed him in ways nothing else could. Not the quiet of Smallville’s fields, not even the vast stillness of the night sky. This? your warmth, your softness, your heartbeat steady against his? was peace.

“Yeah?” he whispered back, his voice rumbling low in his chest. “You sure you’re okay with me sleeping like this? I don’t wanna crush you.”

Your nails began to trace gentle lines along his back, feather-light but enough to make him shiver under your touch. “We both know you won’t let that happen,” you murmured, your voice soft but certain. “And if you do, I’ll let you know. I promise.”

The reassurance made something in him loosen and he exhaled a long, quiet sigh, melting against you even more. His body, all warmth and weight and safety, molded perfectly to yours. “Okay,” he relented, his words slipping out with a lazy smile. “But don’t hesitate to push me off if I start snoring or something.” His lips brushed your skin as he added, half-teasing, half-serious, “I know I can be a dead weight sometimes.”

You chuckled, your fingers still moving slow and soothing on his back. “Okay, big guy.”

The sound of your laugh vibrated through his chest and he tucked you closer with a sleepy hum, as if the very idea of being parted from you, by sleep or anything else, was out of the question.

Clark let out a low, drowsy laugh at your response, his eyes still closed, lashes brushing faintly against his cheek. “Big guy,” he repeated under his breath, the words softened by sleep and affection, as if he wanted to tuck them away and keep them forever.

He sighed contentedly, the tension in his shoulders easing as he melted into you, his weight settling heavier without ever becoming uncomfortable, just enough to remind you that he wasn’t moving, that he wasn’t going anywhere. His breath fanned across your skin as he murmured, almost like a vow, “You’re stuck with me.”

“Best place to be,” you whispered back, your voice gentle but steady, a truth spoken without hesitation.

The simplicity of it hit him harder than anything else you could have said. Not because it meant you were bound to him, but because it meant that of all places, of all choices, you wanted this. You wanted him. A warmth bloomed in his chest, spreading outward until it ached and he hummed low in response, pressing his forehead into the crook of your neck. “Mm,” he breathed, voice rough with emotion. “Best thing that ever happened to me.”

The room seemed to fall even quieter after that, wrapped in the steady rhythm of your breaths. Still joined with you, cocooned in a blanket and the unshakable intimacy of the moment, Clark let himself surrender to it. His breathing evened, steady and deep, as he drifted off inside you, the weight of his body and his love enveloping you completely.

Without realizing it, you had drifted off to sleep too, only to wake about twenty minutes later with a small jolt, startled by the thought that Clark was moving off of you. A groan escaped your lips when you realized he wasn’t moving at all, he was just leaning over, watching you carefully. Your sudden movement beneath him made him immediately alert, his eyes widening with concern.

“Hey, baby, easy,” he murmured softly, his voice low and soothing, wrapping around you like a warm blanket. “I was just checking on you… making sure I wasn’t squishing you or anything.” He reached out, his hand brushing your cheek in gentle strokes, tracing the curve of your face as if memorizing it in that quiet moment.

“I wasn’t getting off of you, I swear,” he continued, his eyes searching yours with a mix of reassurance and lingering worry. “Just wanted to make sure you were comfortable… you alright, baby?”

He pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead, the weight of his presence grounding you. The faintest smile tugged at his lips as he chuckled quietly, the sound vibrating through your chest. “You scared the hell outta me for a sec,” he added, nuzzling against you slightly. “Thought I might’ve hurt you or something.”

You let out a small laugh, your fingers curling against his side. “You scared me,” you admitted, your voice soft but teasing, eyes meeting his.

Clark smiled, that familiar warmth flooding his expression as he tightened his hold just slightly, letting you know in the quietest way that he wasn’t going anywhere.

He chuckled softly, the tension in his chest easing at the sight of your small, reassuring smile. It had a way of grounding him, calming that little storm of worry he carried around for you. “Sorry, baby,” he murmured, voice full of warmth. “Didn’t mean to scare you. I just… I wanted to check on you, make sure you weren’t all squished.”

He then shifted slightly, easing back just enough to give you space, though his gaze lingered on the spot where he was still intimately nestled against you. “We’ve been like this for a while now… You sure you’re okay?” His hand hovered lightly near yours, hesitating, unsure if he should intervene or simply watch.

You let your fingers drift, circling your clit just enough to tease, your eyes fluttering closed as a quiet, breathy whine slipped past your lips. “…You?”

Clark’s hearing spiked in an instant, every subtle note of your voice amplified, every tiny sound of your movement crystal clear. His gaze flickered between your face and the motion of your hand, the sight of you touching yourself beneath him sending a surge of heat straight through him. His chest tightened, breath catching just a little and he let out a low, almost involuntary hiss.

“Yeah,” he murmured, voice filled with an aching need that made his words tremble just slightly. He leaned down, brushing his lips against your neck, soft and lingering, then trailed lazy kisses along the curve of your shoulder and collarbone, savoring the warmth of your skin. “Yeah… I’m fine, baby. More than fine.”

He let his hands drift over your hips, fingers grazing lightly. Every small sound you made, every subtle shiver beneath him, only made him press closer, hold tighter and savor the way you felt beneath and around him.

You tilted your head to the side, giving him better access to your neck, while your fingers pressed slow circles over your clit. “You want to move a little?” you breathed, knowing it’d been a while and he probably needed to get hard again.

He groaned softly at your words, the sound low and rumbling, his body already responding. Even half-soft inside you, it felt like home, perfectly familiar and impossibly intimate. He pressed a slow, feather-light kiss to the column of your throat as you moved beneath him, your fingers circling just the right spot to draw out delicious tension.

“Mmm… yeah,” he rumbled against your skin, voice thick with need. “I could move for you.” His hips gave the faintest, testing glide forward, a tender motion that gauged the sensations you could both handle. His hands slid beneath you, lifting slightly to shift the angle, giving him deeper access. “Tell me how much,” he whispered, lips brushing against your collarbone, “I’ll go real slow… unless you want me not to.”

You let out a soft, sleepy whimper, “T-This is good,” your voice barely above a breath and kept circling your clit, teasing yourself with slow strokes.

Clark faltered at the sound, that soft, half-drowsy whine vibrating through him. It went straight to his dick, a delicious ache that made his jaw clench as he fought to keep his movements measured and slow. He could feel you teetering on the edge, drowsy yet exquisitely sensitive, your body reacting to every glide of his hips and the gentle pressure of your fingers.

“If that isn’t moaning, I don’t know what is,” he breathed against your neck, voice low and ragged with desire. A groan rose from deep within his chest as he rolled his hips again, this time a deeper, steadier glide that made you gasp quietly into the otherwise still room. “Keep doing that,” he urged, voice husky, “keep touching yourself… let me feel you come around me.”

His hands moved instinctively, bracing your hips just enough to hold you, feeling every subtle flex and shiver as your body pulsed around him. The intimacy between you both hung heavy in the room tenderly, every small movement amplifying the connection you shared.

Clark always encouraged you to orgasm several times while cockwarming, insisting it was so it wouldn’t hurt and you’d stay comfortable for longer. Your walls tightened around him at your hesitant question, “Right now? I can still hold on.”

He let out a low, rough groan, the sound vibrating deep in his chest as your walls pulsed around him once more. Just the thought of you holding back for him sent heat spiraling straight to his core. He lifted his head slightly, eyes dark and shimmering with quiet reverence, studying you as though memorizing every curve and shiver.

“Take it,” he murmured, his voice rough and wrapped in silk at once. “Don’t hold back on my account, baby. I want every drop… every shiver.” His hand slid between your bodies, not to take control but to gently press against your clit through your fingers, offering just the right amount of pressure. He stilled his hips completely as your fingers sped up, your moans spilling unabashedly into his shoulder.

The sensation of you, so raw and open, made him dizzy. He marveled at the way you trusted him to simply be present, how he could distinguish when it was a moment for sex and when it was purely yours, like this one. You whimpered softly, biting into his shoulder for leverage and the sound went straight to his core, making him ache in ways he hadn’t expected.

He listened, utterly mesmerized, as your fingers moved with a familiar, desperate rhythm. Your breath came in shallow, hot bursts against his skin, each one sending tiny shocks of want through him. Every muscle in his body screamed to move, to take over and bring you off himself but he knew this wasn’t about him. This was about you, about letting go in your own way.

So he held himself back, jaw tight, heart hammering. He let himself be consumed by the sight and sound of you, by the way your body moved and shivered beneath him. Every small sigh, every shiver, every whimper was a piece of the story he could watch unfold and he waited patiently, his restraint an act of devotion, until you reached your peak.

Your legs twitched around him, toes curling reflexively as your orgasm peaked, your walls clenching and pulsing around him until the knot finally loosened. You pressed your body into his, vision blurring to white as you whimpered and shivered against him. He felt every tense spasm, every quiver of your body, wrapping around him like a vise, your soft whines muffled against his shoulder. His own breath hitched, hot and ragged, each pulse of your release sending tiny shocks of need and ache through his body, tightening his control to its absolute limit.

He stayed perfectly still, letting you ride out each wave, arms locked around you as if holding you like this could somehow keep the world at bay. His lips pressed against your temple, trailing slowly down to your neck, his voice a low, hoarse whisper. “Beautiful…”

Only when he felt your muscles fully relax and go boneless beneath him did he press a lingering, tender kiss to your neck. “You okay?” he asked. “Still want me here?”

You nodded, drawing shuddering breaths, letting yourself melt entirely into him, feeling every inch of his weight and warmth pressing down like the safest place in the world.

“You sure?” he teased softly, though the concern threading through his tone was unmistakable. “I know you said you’re comfortable, but I don’t want you to get tired of me just laying here on top of you like a damn weighted blanket,” he added with a self-deprecating laugh, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, lips brushing his in a quiet, intimate confession. “I could never get tired of you. You make me feel so good… so sexy… so loved.”

His eyes softened at your words, warmth pooling in his chest, heart swelling with a deep, almost overwhelming affection. You always seemed to have this innate ability to strip away his doubts, to make him feel like he deserved every ounce of love and care you gave him. Being this loved, this cherished, was something he never took for granted and hearing you speak so openly against his lips, intimate and unguarded, it made him feel like the king of the goddamn world.

"You're gonna make me get sappy if you keep talking like that," he warned, his voice low, rough around the edges, carrying a mock seriousness that did nothing to hide the tenderness underneath.

You chuckled softly, the sound blending into a moan that made him groan in response. “Can you move… please?” you sighed and without hesitation, he started. His thrusts were slow, deep enough to press you into the couch but measured with a near-painful patience, each movement designed to draw out the moment as long as possible.

Your lips parted, eyes rolling back slightly, a soft moan escaping you as he shifted and a surge of desire rolled through him, electric and consuming. He couldn’t deny the pull, the hunger coursing through him, even if he wanted to.

“You sound so pretty,” he whispered against your skin, voice hoarse, lips brushing your collarbone. “And you look even more beautiful… makes me forget all we were arguing about.”

His hips moved in that familiar, intoxicating rhythm you had begged for earlier, slow and unrelenting, each motion calculated to keep you teetering on the edge. In that moment, he knew he’d give you anything, every desire or whim, just to see that exquisite mixture of pleasure and contentment painted across your face.

You gasped a shaky breath, overwhelmed by the measured pace, your head tilting back against the couch. “Y-you okay… like t-this?” you asked, voice trembling, part awe, part disbelief at how deeply it affected you.

God, he loved the way you sounded…so soft, broken and completely undone, and how his slow movements seemed to push you closer to the edge with every glide. Your question caught him slightly off guard; for a fleeting moment, a pang of worry flickered across his mind. But when he realized you were checking on him, making sure he was enjoying himself too, that worry melted away, leaving only heat and desire. A low huff of laughter escaped him, rough and ragged, vibrating against your ear.

"Better than okay, baby," he assured, voice husky, nipping at the sensitive skin of your neck with a teasing, almost possessive bite. "Don’t worry about me; what I enjoy most is seeing you like this… completely lost in it. Doesn’t matter the pace, baby.” He pressed a lazy, lingering kiss to your neck, letting his lips trail lightly across your skin, tasting the warmth and tension there.

You frowned without meaning to, that unconscious little crease that always appeared when pleasure threatened to overwhelm you. “Didn’t—we… didn’t put anything…under us,” you whined, your voice catching on the words, half embarrassed, half needy.

Clark let out a soft, amused laugh, the sound low and rolling, never breaking his rhythm. He knew that look too well: the crease of your brow, the subtle bite of your lip, the way your hands clenched involuntarily, it meant you were feeling everything and he loved it.

"Shh," he murmured against your skin. "Don’t worry about it. I’ll clean it up later." His hand slid down to cup your ass, pulling you slightly closer with each measured thrust, anchoring you against him. "You know I’ll handle everything. Right now?" He pressed a gentle, teasing kiss to the corner of your frown. "Just let go for me… I don’t care if we ruin every damn thing in this room as long as I’m inside you."

He lingered there, letting the words sink in, giving you permission to lose yourself completely, his body molding to yours with steady, controlling pressure. Each movement was a balance of tenderness and dominance, coaxing you further into pleasure while keeping an intentional pace.

“I think… ‘m gonna squirt,” you warned, voice breathy and uneven. The pleasure was almost unbearable, each push of his hips sending electric fire through your core. Even at this measured pace, his tip nudging against your G-spot with perfect timing, the sensation was building fast, coiling tighter with every roll of his hips.

Clark groaned low, the sound vibrating through his chest and down into his hard cock. Your warning, your soft whimpers, every small quiver of your body, it went straight to him, twisting him tighter with want. He could tell exactly how close you were, how every tiny movement of his was bringing you to the edge and he knew he’d never hear a sweeter sound than what was coming. “I’ve got you,” he murmured, voice thick with need.

When it happened, it wasn’t an overwhelming eruption but a slow, progressive release that had your muscles tightening around him and your hips pulsing in sync with his. Every time he sank deep and then eased back just enough, a soft whimper slipped out, accompanied by a little slick that coated both of you more with each pass. It was a rhythm that drove you wild, intense in its unrelenting persistence, yet gentle enough to make the experience feel intimate and controlled. You dug your fingers into his lower back with every pulse, grounding yourself while he guided you through it with the precision and care only he could provide.

Clark leaned down, pressing his forehead to yours as you wrapped your arms tightly around his broad shoulders, the warmth of your embrace making his chest tighten. Your nails traced lazy, teasing paths across his skin, sending shivers up his spine as a low hum escaped his lips. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, leaving soft, fleeting kisses along your skin, drinking in the scent and warmth of you. For a moment, he just stayed there, eyes soft and wandering over your features, utterly captivated.

“So wet and loud for someone who doesn’t moan,” he whispered against your skin, a mischievous smirk tugging at his lips, his voice rough with awe and amusement.

“Shut up,” you managed, a tired chuckle slipping past your lips and Clark couldn’t help the satisfied grin spreading across his face, quiet yet full of pride. He pressed a lingering kiss to your temple, letting the warmth of his lips stay for a heartbeat longer, while his hips continued their deep rhythm, each movement more about connection and sensation than raw need.

He shifted ever so slightly, angling deeper with a single glide, just enough to make you gasp and arch instinctively into him and then held there. “Still good?” he asked, though the way your body reacted told him everything he needed to know.

Your legs instinctively parted wider, opening for him and the sight of you trembling beneath him made a low groan escape his chest. God, the way you took him, how sensitive you were, how you couldn’t even keep still, it sent shivers of raw need shooting straight through him. Every shiver, every quiver, every small gasp, was a symphony and he wanted to memorize every note.

“My good girl,” he whispered, nibbling at the shell of your ear in a mix of affection and desire. “Let me… let me show you how good you are to me.” His lips trailed down your neck, pressing soft, teasing kisses that left delicate, fleeting bruises in their path, each one a mark of his admiration for the way your body responded to him.

He paused at the hollow of your collarbone, letting the weight of his gaze and the heat of his touch linger. “Can you be good for me, baby… just keep still for a minute?”

“Y-yes…” you moaned, the word trembling against him, full of trust and desire, the sound like honey in his ears, urging him deeper into that perfect rhythm.

Clark let out a low, approving hum, the sound vibrating against your skin as his hands settled firmly yet gently on your hips, keeping you exactly where he wanted you. Not rough, just deliberate, his grip a perfect balance of control and care. He pulled back slowly until only the tip of him remained inside, letting you feel the empty ache before pushing in again, agonizingly thick and deep. The way your face twisted with pleasure-pain made his chest tighten and he watched every claw of your fingers into his back, every tiny shiver that ran through your body.

“There you go,” he mumbled. “Just feel it… all of me.” His words were thick with desire, reverence and awe. “You’re so darn perfect like this… taking me so good.”

Another slow glide out, a deliberate pause to let the emptiness sting just enough, then back in, every inch pressing against your most sensitive spots, making your body quiver and your breath hitch. His eyes roamed over your face, drinking in every detail, the flutter of your eyelashes, the subtle twitch of your lips and the way your expression melted from tension into pure surrender. He wanted to memorize it all, store it away in the corners of his mind in case the world ever tried to make him forget just how breathtakingly vulnerable and exquisite you were to him.

“Hold on, baby,” he whispered, his lips brushing against your ear. “Just a little more… I want to feel you completely undone for me.”

You could feel it, the way his cock throbbed inside you, each pulse heavy and demanding, veins standing out like ropes leading him to heaven. It was painfully hard, a burning weight pressing into your slick walls and every tiny twitch of your inner muscles seemed to send shivers up his spine. He let out a shaky, ragged breath as your soft whimper vibrated against him, a sound that made his body clench involuntarily. He knew you felt it too, the subtle, almost imperceptible pulsing of his length as it sank deep into you, betraying how close he was even as he tried to restrain himself.

His hips stuttered forward on instinct, just a fraction and you gasped in response, fingers tightening against his shoulders. “You wanna make me come, baby? Gonna squeeze me like that and pull it out of me?” His voice dropped lower, gravelly, thick with need. “Or are you gonna come first… and let me follow right after?”

“I… don’t know if I can,” you breathed, voice soft, barely audible over the mingling of your heartbeats and ragged breaths.

He leaned closer, lips brushing against your forehead, then the bridge of your nose, his own breathing uneven. His voice was a low growl now, rough and possessive. “Try,” he murmured, fingers coming up to cup the side of your face. His touch was gentle, thumb brushing across your bottom lip, tracing the line with care, as if trying to memorize every tremor of your expression. “I wanna watch you… I wanna see you come for me.”

You nodded, giving him permission without words and he moved with purpose, letting his pace quicken just enough to push you both over the edge. His eyes never left yours, dark and burning with a desperate, primal need to bring you pleasure, to own this moment with you. Every tilt of his hips, every measured thrust, was in sync with your body’s responses, the way your pupils dilated, your cheeks flushed and the tiny whines that slipped past your lips. His hands stayed planted firmly on your hips, holding you close against the cushion, making sure no part of you slipped from him.

He rocked deeper, fingers and hips in perfect tandem, each stroke tapping gently against your cervix, coaxing another wave of sensation through you. Your walls clenched around him, every pulse and twitch drawing out more from him and your clit throbbed in heated rhythm as he guided you through another orgasm, your body shaking in ecstatic surrender. The moment he felt your muscles squeeze him so perfectly, it pushed him past the edge and his cock throbbed violently inside you.

You gasped, nails digging into his back as his warmth spilled into you, thick and unrelenting. He shuddered, letting out a guttural groan as the sting of your nails mingled with the overwhelming pleasure coursing through his body. His forehead pressed to your shoulder, breath ragged and hot against your skin, hips twitching through the waves of his release, riding out every pulse with you clamped tightly around him. He didn’t and couldn’t, pull away, even as his weight settled more fully atop you.

“…Worth the argument,” he whispered hoarsely to himself, “every second of it… just to hear you come undone with me and prove you wrong.”

You exhaled, still trembling, a faint smile teasing your lips. “Well,” you breathed, “I’ll let this one slide for today…but if I were going to reply to that, I’d argue we didn’t just cockwarm.”

Clark’s grin faltered slightly just as he was going to reply once his ears caught the sudden, panicked meowing.

“What?” you asked, noticing the shift in his expression.

“Alpine,” he murmured, carefully disentangling himself from you. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. So sorry.”

You groaned softly at the loss of him, a moan that quickly turned into a chuckle as you watched him stand there in the middle of the living room, his still-hard cock cupped in his hand, body taut with a mix of frustration and focus. You opened your mouth to speak but he lifted a finger, signaling you to wait and his eyes flicked around the room, scanning, tuning and filtering. He was straining his hearing, honing in on the source of Alpine’s cries, tuning out everything else, the racing of your heart and the lingering thrum of your intimacy, until he found it.

With a soft, careful shuffle, Clark padded across the room, still cupping his softening cock in one hand like it was suddenly an inconvenience. You followed him with your eyes until he disappeared through the doorway, then, in the next instant, you heard it. A rush of air barreled down the hall, brushing across your skin and ruffling your hair like the ghost of a storm. The faint, telltale gust made you bite your lip to stifle a laugh. Moments later, he was back, moving at a perfectly normal pace as if nothing unusual had happened, except now Alpine was cradled securely in his other arm. The cat let out a plaintive little meow as Clark bent to set him gently on the carpet. Alpine wasted no time before hopping up and settling squarely on your chest, tail flicking smugly across your chin as you stroked his snowy fur.

You glanced up at Clark, bemused, mischief in your eyes. “Really?”

“I–I thought he’d finally learned about privacy,” Clark said flatly, lips pressed in a thin line. “Turns out he got locked out on the rooftop this whole time.”

You snorted, covering your mouth to hide your laugh. “And you… you went to get him like that?”

Clark’s gaze flicked down at himself, then back at you, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Super-speed,” he said simply, as if that explained everything.

“Right…” You burst out laughing, the sound echoing around the room and he stood there, waiting with that familiar mix of patience and amusement, for you to realize, while probably letting himself enjoy, that he was hard again. All because of you.

A/n: If you liked this piece, check out the archive for more and consider liking and sharing it! reblogs help others discover my writing and comments always brighten my day plus it encourages me to keep creating :) Thanks for reading, lovelies.

“Stop what? I’m just trying to make sure we’re on the same page,” you said, running your finger in an absentminded little circle against his bicep. “So I could walk around the apartment in a towel after a shower, dripping water everywhere, and that wouldn’t be breaking the rules?”

“That’s… not—” He coughed. “That’s not technically sex, no.”

“Or I could sit on your lap during movie night. Totally innocent. No rules broken.”

Clark’s jaw flexed again. “…Right.”

“And if I… oh, I don’t know…” you leaned in so your lips were just brushing the shell of his ear, “…accidentally moaned your name in my sleep?”

He turned to look at you fully, and the shift in his eyes made your knees a little weak—like you’d just poked at the Superman side of him instead of Clark. “You keep testing me, sweetheart, and Friday’s going to be very, very long for you.”

“Bold of you to assume I’ll regret winning.”

He hums, all calm and unbothered, but you can see it—how his hand lingers on the counter, knuckles whitening just slightly. “You remember what happened the last time we made a bet?”

You try to play innocent. “Nope. No idea what you’re talking about.”

Clark gives you a look, the one that says he’s running through every single memory in his superbrain and knows you’re lying. “You ended up handcuffed to my bed for three hours.”

You snort. “And you loved it.”

“Mm.” His lips twitch, fighting a smile. “Not the point.”

“You’re right,” you say, sidling past him toward the couch, deliberately brushing against his chest on the way. “The point is that you’re going to be paying for my oysters and champagne by Friday night.”

He follows you—because of course he does—and drops onto the couch beside you. “And the point is that you have zero poker face.”

“Oh, please.” You grab the remote, flicking on Netflix. “I’ve got plenty of poker face.”

Clark doesn’t even answer—just drapes his arm over the back of the couch and lets his thumb graze the bare skin of your shoulder.

You last fifteen minutes before you start to squirm. He notices, naturally, and smiles faintly like the predator he’s pretending not to be. “Wednesday night, huh?” he murmurs, eyes on the TV.

You grit your teeth, leaning back into his arm like you’ve got something to prove. “Friday, Kent. I’m making it to Friday.”

And that’s when he leans in, lips brushing the curve of your ear. “Guess I’ll just have to make sure you’re good and restless until then.” You know, in that moment, you’re so fucked.

The next morning, steam still clinging to your skin from the shower, you tug on a thin silk night slip, one thaf is definitely not bet-friendly—and pad into the kitchen.

Clark’s already there, hair damp from his own shower, in a fitted blue t-shirt that makes your pulse do funny things. He’s sitting at the table, reading the Daily Planet on his tablet, coffee in hand, and working his way through a plate of eggs 

You pause in the doorway, catching his eye for just a second, then—without breaking contact—you reach for the hem of your night slip and tug it up. Over your hips. Past your chest. And off.

Clark freezes mid-bite. Fork halfway to his mouth.

“Morning,” you say breezily, tossing the slip onto a chair and padding over to the laundry nook, bare ass bouncing. You bend tossing in towels with your ass high, knowing full well he can see everything. The air’s cool, nipples tight and aching, and you swear you hear him exhale a curse under his breath.

Laundry done, you saunter into the kitchen, open the cabinet, and pour yourself a cup of coffee like you’re not putting on a one-woman burlesque show before breakfast.

You take the mug to the couch and plop down next to him, crossing your legs. “Whatcha reading?”

Clark doesn’t look. “News brief. Morning update for the Planet.”

“Mhm.” You sip. “How’s that going?”

He swallows, jaw tight. “Fine.”

The silence stretches. You shift, scooting an inch closer. Then another. Until your thigh brushes his. His voice is slightly hoarse now. “Sweetheart—”

“Can I have a hug?” you interrupt.

“Not a good idea.”

“Didn’t ask if it was a good idea.” You set your coffee down and slide into his lap before he can react, straddling him.

Clark’s hands fly to your hips—not to pull you closer, but to keep you in place—as if that’s somehow going to help. You loop your arms around his neck, leaning in until your breasts press against his shirt. “It’s just a hug, Smallville. Not breaking any rules.”

Clark’s eyes are locked anywhere but on you, like he’s memorizing the wood grain of the coffee table. His thumbs flex against your hips before he catches himself and goes still. “You’re—” His voice comes out rough, like gravel. He clears his throat. “You’re naked.”

You tilt your head innocently. “Am I?”

He gives you that look—the one that I’m two seconds from throwing you over my shoulder. “You know you are.”

“Right. Which… is fine.” You shift just enough that the movement drags your nipples across his chest. “Because being naked isn’t against the rules.”

The rest of Tuesday is… fun. For you. For Clark, it’s some kind of Herculean test of willpower.

By Wednesday morning, you’ve traded the silk night slip for nothing but one of his button-ups—and not much else. 

By Thursday, you can tell he’s hanging by a thread. Which is exactly why you push.

That night, you’re in bed together. You’ve been good—technically. No touching “where it counts.” No breaking the rules. But as he scrolls through something on his phone beside you, broad shoulders relaxed against the headboard, you get an idea.

You start slow—just sliding a hand over your own stomach under the blanket. Then your fingers drift lower. You bite back a sound, but the mattress dips as his head turns. “Sweetheart?”

“Hmm?” You keep your eyes closed, breath soft and uneven now.

Clark freezes. “What are you—” His voice drops. “Oh, no.”

“Not breaking the rules,” you murmur, lips curving. “I’m just… helping myself sleep.” Within seconds, your fingertips find slick heat, and your hips give a tiny involuntary roll. The sound that slips past your lips is embarrassingly needy. You hum, teeth catching your bottom lip. You keep going, rubbing slow circles, your breath catching in quiet, uneven little gasps. 

His phone’s still in his hand, but his jaw is tight now. “You trying to get me to lose?”

“Mm,” you breathe, eyes closed. “Not… technically…”

The blanket shifts over you as your hips move again. Your whimper is quiet but not quiet enough. Clark groans under his breath, rolling to face the opposite direction like distance will save him. “You’re impossible.”

You smile to yourself, dragging your fingers lower, dipping into your own heat. The slick sound is filthy in the quiet room, and the next moan that slips out is louder. He inhales sharply through his teeth, but doesn’t move.

“Fine,” you pant, your own voice starting to shake with how badly you’re aching. “Guess I’ll just keep doing it myself… thinking about your cock instead of my fingers… about how big you’d feel inside me right now…” That does it. His free hand shifts under the blanket toward his own waistband, and a second later you catch the faintest movement of his fist working over himself. Your hips stutter. “Clark—”

“Don’t start,” he grits out, jaw tight. “You started this game.”

You let out another moan, high and breathless, and that’s it—his phone clatters to the nightstand. In one motion, he’s on his side facing you, catching your wrist under the blanket and pulling your fingers from yourself.

“Move ‘em,” he orders, you barely have time to inhale before he’s replacing them with the hot, thick press of his cock, sliding in slowly. You moan, nails digging into his shoulders as he stretches you full.

Clark braces one palm beside your head, the other gripping your thigh so tight you swear you’ll feel it later. “Four days,” he murmurs against your ear, voice low and dangerous. “I made it four days with you teasing me like that. You owe me.”

Your nails rake down his back, earning a low grunt. “Fucking… knew you wouldn’t last,” you manage between moans.

Clark’s laugh is dark and breathless against your skin. “I lasted,” he pants, slamming into you harder. “You didn’t.”

You gasp when his hips snap forward, the headboard knocking against the wall. “I—” you start, but it melts into a moan.

“Could’ve kept my hands to myself,” he goes on, driving the words between thrusts, “but then you had to sit there and—god—touch yourself right next to me.” His pace picks up, his fist bunching the sheets near your head like he’s holding back from just railing you into the mattress.

His forehead presses to yours, sweat slick at his hairline, and his voice drops to a dark murmur that makes you clench around him. “God—fuck—” you whimper, the words breaking into a moan when his cock drags against that perfect spot inside you. You’re so wet now that every snap of his hips is filthy and loud under the blankets, slick and obscene.

“You hear that?” Clark groans, fucking you harder. “That’s how fucking desperate you are. Four days, and you’re dripping all over me like a slut who can’t keep her hands to herself.”

He bites down on your shoulder, groaning like he’s just as far gone, hips jerking into you with mindless, hungry force. “Gonna cum in you,” he grits out. “Gonna fill this perfect little pussy so deep you’ll still feel me tomorrow.” You choke out a cry, your back arching as your orgasm hits—sharp and devastating—your cunt pulsing around him, slick spilling down between your thighs. He fucks you through it, chasing his own high, his thrusts growing erratic.

When he finally eases back just enough to look at you, you feel the hot spill of him leaking out between your thighs. His fingers slip down, pressing against your swollen cunt pushing his cum back in making you jolt.

“Not done,” he murmurs, watching your face as he keeps moving inside you, slow and filthy. “I’m gonna fuck it deeper so you remember who you belong to.” And with that, Clark Kent—boy scout farm boy, world’s greatest hero—starts all over again, ruining you until you can’t even remember what day it is, much less who won the bet.