#edencherries

He has you spread out over your bed, the linen of your nightgown hiked up above your waist, the straps halfway off your shoulders. He had come into the room at the end of the day, frustrated, his shoulders stiff with the weight of the day.

But that version of your husband was no longer.

He came in as you were undressing for bed. His eyes zeroed in on the way candlelight made your skin look like the softest of silks. Your shift, almost translucent in the warmth of your bedchambers, barely concealing every curve and slope in your body.

The curve of your breast, the softness of your belly, the sway in your hips as you came closer to kiss him.

He could not help the need to claim you, so he did it.

Thoroughly.

Maekar then proceeded to taste himself as his spent spilled out of you. His hands spread your folds as his tongue dips in and out of you at a languid pace. He hums, delighted in the combined taste of your fervor, the vibrations sending ripples of pleasure up your spine.

Your breath stutters in your chest as you look down at him, completely debauched

His lilac stare is on you, glazed over with an insurmountable amount of lust and love he lacks the eloquence to express. His silver hair sticking out at odd angles where your fingers have pulled, his forehead glistening with sweat. Maekar has never been one for speeches, his words often clumsy when it comes to sharing what lives in his heart, but where words fail him his hands and gaze thrive.

He gathers your shared release in his tongue, climbing back up your body to cradle your jaw in the warmth of his palm.

"Open," he rasps. You obey, parting your lips and sticking your tongue out for him to spit his seed into your mouth. Your eyes find his as you swallow. A deep grunt climbs out of his throat at the sight.

Your thighs are held open by the breadth of his torso, the hand that was spreading you for him slowly circles your entrance with his middle finger and plunges in deep. His grip at your jaw tightens, not enough for discomfort, just that firmness that makes your husband him. He adds a second finger, eyes never leaving yours, and curves them to find the spot that makes you beg.

Your whines and the wet sounds of his fingers bringing you to another climax bounced of the stone walls, growing louder and louder with each flick of Maekar's wrist.

Your back arched off the bed, hands clinging to any part of your husband you could reach, while you reached your climax. Your body was trembling, Maekar slowly pulls his fingers out of you and licks them clean under your heavy-lidded but adoring gaze.

He traces you with his eyes, every part of you, committing you to memory.

"Now I feel better," his voice was sultry, like the richest velvet. You couldn't help the giggle that escaped you.

Maekar smiled down at you, the mask of The Anvil dropped, he was just a loving husband.

A man in love.

In the privacy of your chambers, tangled between your legs, he is simply a man. Not the blood of the dragon, just flesh. His hands tangle in your hair as he brings your mouth closer to his.

"Ñuhor nyke jēda," his voice is hoarse with pleasure, barely above a whisper. His lips graze yours, stoking the fire that lives deep in your center, before fiercely claiming your mouth as he does your body. "Nyke jēdrar ao." Your prince punctuates each word with a sharp thrust of his hips, hitting the deepest parts of you with the practiced precision of a man that has learned your every sound and curve.

"Nghh—Gods, Maekar!" Your voice does not sound like your own, completely lost in the friction of your hips against your husband's. One of his hands releases it's hold on your hair, caressing down your cheek and neck, raising gooseflesh through your chest and shoulders.

"Shh—quiet. We would not want the guards to hear, now?" His voice rumbles, low and deep in his chest, "Well, I don't know…maybe you do want us to be heard."

You nod your head quickly, the corner of your husband's mouth quirks upward. A ghost of the smile that only you are privy to.

"I do," your words find you, "I wish for all to hear how good you make me feel, my love."

Maekar growls, low and primal. Your legs tighten against his waist, pulling him impossibly closer to you. His hips continue thrusting in and out of you at a punishing pace. The slapping sounds of wet skin echoing through your bedchambers.

Prince Maekar the unyielding, who will fold and bend to each of his wife's whims and wishes.

Who would've thought?

Maekar's pulse thrums under your lips, your teeth nibble over his pulse point and his hips begin to stutter. His voice breaks, an undignified sound to be true, but he could not bring himself to care as he spills inside you. Your nails rake so, so slowly up and down his back, the sigh that left him was pure relief.

"Do you feel better?" You ask, your voice soft as he slips out of you. He pants, trying to catch his breath.

You only get a half hearted grunt as an answer before he begins to slide down your torso on his way to taste you.

⟢ cont.

── .✦ translations:

⟢ Ñuhor nyke jēda - my life

⟢ Nyke jēdrar ao - i love you

Clark knows what this is doing to you, he can hear every stutter of your heartbeat, every hitched breath. He is very well aware of the effect he has on you. It's intoxicating to know you are as into him as he is into you, every sign of your want overwhelming his senses. There are days in which he simply can't help himself, and he must indulge this urge to provoke you. You came to this conclusion a couple of weeks ago with your fingers tangled in his curls, pulling his head back to make him look up at you.

The whine that escaped him replays ceaselessly in your memory. You realized in that very instant, he was exactly where he wanted to be.

He lightly skims his knuckles over the nape of your neck once more, gooseflesh erupting through your body at the touch. Clark had been playing the long game all week. This was his final move, and he knows you are not one to back down from a challenge.

So he wants to play? Fine. You can play too.

Your hand reaches for your drink, making a small show of bringing the glass up to your lips and taking a sip. Clark takes the bait, angling his head slightly so he can see you out of his periphery. Your free hand softly lays over the breadth of his thigh while you lick the salt off the rim of your glass. He swallows thickly, the tips of his ears turning a lovely shade of pink. Gently, your hand begins to climb up his thigh. Up, up, up, until the tips of your fingers barely graze the apex of his thighs. Only then, you squeeze.

The music around you prevents you from hearing the hitch in his breath, but out of the corner of your eye you see the way his chest rises suddenly—seemingly out of his control. Clark knows now, he bit off more than he could chew. His slacks are beginning to feel tighter than they did a minute ago. You are now staring straight ahead, fully locked in to the conversation while your hand is—still—kneading the flesh of his thigh, the same way you do when you are about to devour him whole. Yet your expression has not betrayed you, still smiling, innocently sipping on your drink. Clark is hoping the heat creeping up his body does not dare reach his face, not yet.

You smile around the rim of your glass, brushing your knuckles against him softly. Clark's right arm now gripping the back of the booth, focusing solely on the feel of your hands on him and also not splitting the booth in half. You halt the movements of your hand and let it lay on him, just a reminder. Fortunately, Clark's not having any of that. He brings up his left hand to cover yours—his right still holding on to the booth for dear life—and just when you thought he couldn't rile you up more, he squeezes himself with your joint hands. Damn him.

He hears your heart beat faster and smiles to himself, catching Jimmy's attention. Oh no.

"You think this is funny, Clark?" Jimmy sighs "I just wanted to go on a normal date, but no! I stumbled into another corruption scandal, and you're laughing." Clark shakes his head vigorously, you giggle. This is your cue.

"I'm sorry, Jimmy but you can't expect us not to find this funny," he scoffs but you are not finished, "how many times has this happened already? Your Don Juan charm keeps putting you in the middle of political scandals! You have to admit it's hilarious." You take another sip and shrug.

"She's got a point…" Cat mutters, Lois only nods her head.

"Fine, whatever! None of you have given me any ideas on what to do about this anyways, I'm gonna go." Jimmy is the first to stand up, ready to head home. Your hand is still being held by Clark, who is now regretting his choice to sit at the edge of the booth.

"I guess we're leaving too," Lois smiles towards you and Clark, "I'll take you home, Cat." The blonde now turns toward you, expectant. Shit.

Clark has to get up.

"Of course! Sorry, we'll get out of your way." You utter, reaching down to pick up Clark's satchel and tossing it over his lap, he stifles a groan. You stare at him and raise your brows, waiting for him to move.

"Right, sorry! Sorry..." Clark places the strap across his shoulders, effectively covering himself, and stands up. After ensuring the satchel is sitting where he needs it to be, he extends his hand to you and helps you up. Later repeating the action with Cat. She sighs and looks up at your boyfriend.

"A gentleman as always, Clark. Have a good night guys!" The blonde walks away and towards the door, followed by Lois.

"Goodnight, lovebirds!" Lois calls over her shoulder.

You take hold of Clark's hand and begin walking towards the exit to find the car. He clears his throat and lets you lead the way. You walk in silence, the only thing betraying the neutrality of your expression was the incessant thump-thump-thump of your heartbeat. Clark could hear it, feel it underneath your skin. He clutches the satchel closer to himself, as if it was keeping him grounded.

When you reach the car, you turn around, resting your back against the passenger's door. Clark's hand is trembling in your hold. The man of steel turned out to have two weaknesses; kryptonite and you. It does not matter how long you've been together, seeing this side of him is just as maddening as the first time.

"You know you are in a world of trouble, don't you?" You gaze into his eyes—finding only adoration—and sigh.

Pulling your hand from his, you hold his tie and bring him closer to you until there is not an inch of space between your bodies. His heart is hammering against his ribcage, trying to escape his body and land in your palm. He only nods as if hypnotized.

"Yes ma'am." It comes out as a whisper, quiet yet heady. He stares at your lips the entire time, waiting for permission.

Your fingers travel lower and find his belt loops, as you stand on your tip toes to find his lips. Ever the giver, he meets you half way. The kiss is delicate but hungry, he never demands more than you want to give, letting you set the pace. You keep one hand at his belt—two of your fingers carefully breach the waistband of his slacks—while the other climbs up to pull him closer to you by the collar of his dress shirt. His hold on your waist tightens, cradling you like a treasure. His treasure. You let him lift you a couple inches off the ground, not wanting to break the kiss. The hand on his collar travels to the nape of his neck, your fingers finding their home tangled in his raven curls, and pulling softly. Just like last time, he whines. Heat begins to pool low in your belly, you have to get him home. Now.

You break the kiss much too soon for Clark's liking, he often forgets you need to catch your breath more often than he does. Clark doesn't let you get too far back, chasing after you with his lips still parted. He's going to be the death of you.

"Where are you going?" He huffs, almost petulant. You can't help but scoff.

"There's many things I want to do to you right now, Clark," he sighs loudly, "so, unless you want me to do them right here, we have to get in the car." Clark nods, still looking a little dazed, a small affirmative hum climbing up his throat as you scratch his scalp.

After one last peck to your lips, he opens the passenger door and helps you inside. Clark is now a man on a mission.

⠈⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄

Once the door to your apartment was open, it was over.

Clark held it together for the entire car ride, braving Metropolis traffic as quickly and safely as he physically could.

He kissed you in the elevator, his hands sliding from your hips to your ass and squeezing. He lets you fumble with your keys for a second, preoccupied with kissing and nuzzling your neck from behind you. The hard on from the bar is still present, poking at your hip and making everything more difficult than it needs to be.

The moment you were able to turn your key into the lock and push the door open, he picked you up with one arm across your waist and walked in.

When he placed both of your feet are on the ground, your lips are drawn to his like a magnet. While your hands are scrambling to get his button up and undershirt off, he smiles in that gut wrenching way that fully displays his dimples, allowing you to have your way with him and walk him backwards towards your bedroom.

Several pieces of clothing get discarded down the hall—his white button up flies over your head, your blouse thrown haphazardly over a lamp, pants thrown over the couch, his undershirt lost somewhere near your kitchen— and you arrive to your room in your bra and panties.

Clark, still in his slacks, is slowly being cornered by you against the foot of the bed.

Your palms feel warm against the skin of his shoulders where you push him down. He sits and reaches immediately for your waist, pulling you close to his face. His nose nuzzles your stomach, inhaling the notes of your perfume along with the natural scent of your skin.

" I can never get enough of you, honey, " he murmurs against your skin as his lips pepper kisses up and down your abdomen.

The sincerity in his voice sends a shiver up your spine, a low, breathy whine leaving your mouth.

You take a seat on his lap, leaving enough space between your faces to look him in the eye. Lashes batting with feigned innocence, your hands explore every inch of his chest. Clark seems to have forgotten how to blink—still his hands don's let go of your waist. Your hands venture lower, where you know he's aching, open palm moving over the front of his slacks with firm yet gentle strokes. He moans softly, like it wasn't meant to be heard.

"What is it, baby?" Your voice is so sweet it 's almost cruel.

"I want you to touch me." He states it plainly, clearly, then adds, "please…"

His gaze is warm, lustful yes but, oh so loving.

"I can't deny you when you ask so nicely."

Your fingers undo his slacks with familiar ease, his belt buckle clatters as you toss it over your shoulder. Clark's relieved sigh when your hand makes contact with his skin now etched in your memory.

Looking down to his lap, you pull him out of his slacks and begin pumping your hand around him almost lazily. Savoring each stutter of his breath. Your eyes lock with his once more—his lips are slightly parted, eyes clouded with want. Clark's panting fills the room, his face scrunching slightly as he musters up the courage to ask for what he wants, the words evade him somehow.

"Nghh baby pl— oh gosh," he groans as his frustration continues increasing.

"What is it, honey?" You hum. Your empty hand takes hold of his jaw, forcing him to meet your gaze. His brow pinched together with desperation that borders with pain. "I can't give you what you want if you don't tell me."

"Faster, p-please," his voice is barely above a whisper. Your fingers grip a bit tighter, pushing his lips out slightly.

"I can't hear you."

"F-Faster, please." Clark's voice is clear this time, smooth almost. It sends a shiver up your spine.

"Now that wasn't so hard, was it?" Your hand grips him tighter and picks up the pace. A high pitched moan was his only response.

You pull him in for a kiss, swallowing the sounds of his pleasure. You grip him with both hands now, his cries grow louder against your mouth until he breaks the kiss. His head falls backwards, chest rising faster with each heaving breath. Clark shuts his eyes, his mind keeps spinning. The weight of you on his lap grounds him while your hands send him into another orbit. He feels his orgasm approaching.

"I'm so close, darn it!" You lean in close to his exposed neck, nipping at the flesh. The pace of your hands quickens. Your senses are solely focused on him, enveloped in the sound and feel—the smell—of him. Tracing your nose up and down his neck while whispering to him.

"I want it, baby…give it to me. Make a mess on my hands." The groan that tears out of his throat is the only warning before he yields to the pleasure of your hands. You continue your strokes until he grabs one of your wrists to stop you.

Clark is barely catching his breath when he sees you licking your fingers clean. He huffs and grabs your other hand, swirling his tongue while holding your gaze. This man is actually trying to kill you, you are certain.

He lets go of your hand to bring you in for a kiss, his palms are a little sweaty as they caress your sides. Clark lets himself fall back on the mattress and pulls you down with him. His hands grab a hold of your hips, pressing the damp cloth of your panties to his still hard cock and thrusting upwards softly. You clench around nothing and sigh against his mouth, his lips split in a boyish grin.

"Sit on my face, honey," his hips keep moving, searching for their rhythm. Your words evade you, lost in the friction and warmth of him. This does not deter him in the slightest."Please, baby. I'll be good, I promise just let me taste you, baby." Bracing yourself on his chest you begin to grind on him to match his thrusts and nod, breathless.

"Okay, let me jus—" Clark doesn't let you finish your sentence, pushing himself higher on the bed and bringing you up to his face. He looks delighted, you reach down and ruffle his curls. "…Can I take my panties off at least?" Your tone is playful, it makes him chuckle earnestly.

"You know I can take care of that," he runs his nose up the seam of your pussy, "and I promise I'll buy a replacement." The statement alone raises every hair on your body, yet, he has the audacity to kiss your clit through the cotton. He knows the answer already but you brace one hand on the headboard and nod regardless.

"Do your worst, Smallville."

Clark does not need to be told twice. You feel his knuckles ghosting over your skin as he rips the fabric to ribbons with zero effort, followed by his tongue lavishing your core. He begins slowly, purposefully avoiding your clit until he considered you had been teased enough. Both hands holding you down to him as he circles the bundle of nerves.

"Oh fuck, " you manage to whisper as your thighs tense around his head, making him moan against you. The vibrations echo against you, your hand grips the wood harder. Clark almost never swears but for some reason he likes it when you do it. Specially if he's the cause.

You lose all hope at coherence when he starts sucking. All words have been replaced with his name. His left hand lets go of your hip, chasing after the clasp of your bra and undoing it with a flick of his wrist. You hear the thud of the fabric somewhere behind you as it hits the floor. Your gaze turns back to Clark who is looking up at you with bright eyes. He hums against you, pulling a desperate moan out of you.

"Ride my face, sweetheart, " Clark's right hand slowly moves your hips back and forth, "I said I'd make you feel good." He brings his left hand up to your chest, pinching your nipple softly between his thumb and index finger. "Use me, baby."

Bringing both of your hands to the headboard, your hips start rocking smoothly at the rhythm Clark was setting. He was lapping at your pussy in tandem with your hips. The pace of your movements became more erratic as you approached your orgasm. Clark's nose bumps into your clit with every thrust of your hips, combined with his ministrations and the sounds coming out of his mouth, is enough to topple you over the edge. You cry out his name, followed by breathy whines.

"So good f'me, " you mutter once you're able to catch your breath. You look down and comb your fingers through his hair. Heat creeps up his neck and reaches his face, he can't tear his eyes from you though. You look heavenly. Staring down at him with swollen lips, flushed cheeks, completely bare. He cannot believe he gets to love you. That fate would have him here on earth, he wants to worship every inch of your skin. You move your leg to get off him, he stops you with a hand to your waist.

"Where are you going?"

"Nowhere, " you let your fingertips graze the length of his arm, "I'm just turning around, Clark." He nods and helps you move comfortably on shaky legs.

You lean forward to push his slacks and briefs down, he lifts his hips to help and kicks them off at the end of the bed. With one elbow at each side of his hips, you lower yourself to face his length. Your breath ghosts over the tip, his abdomen tenses up and you see gooseflesh erupting through his skin. He squirms underneath you.

You take the tip into your mouth, tongue swirling around it.

"Holy—hmm," his voice cracks slightly. He quickly brings his fingers to your core, coating them in your arousal before teasing your entrance. "I'm gonna get you ready, sweetheart."

He's pushing his middle finger inside you slowly. You bob your head up and down his length, bracing yourself on his thigh, coating him in your spit. His finger pumps in and out of you with practiced precision, adding a second one when you began moaning around him. His mouth sucks small bruises on the inside of your thighs, soothing over the marks with his tongue and a kiss.

His fingers begin to curl into that spongy spot inside you. The wet sounds of his fingers going in and out of you only riles you up more and still sensitive from your first, his fingers bring you to a second and more intense orgasm. You pull him out of your mouth with a loud pop. In spite of the tremble in your muscles, you throw your leg over Clark's body carefully and plop down on the comforter.

One of your calves lays over his chest, he reaches up to pepper kisses up your calf towards your thigh. He's smiling—no, beaming—at you. He moves to sit against the headboard, his skin is flushed everywhere, shiny with sweat. You move back up to your knees and climb onto his lap once more. Clark pulls you into a kiss, he cradles your face in his hands, moaning into the kiss. Your hands venture lower, lining him up with your entrance. His gasps into the kiss when you lower yourself onto his cock, the initial stretch is always overwhelming.

Clark breaks the kiss, throwing his head back and holding you in place with both hands. He is absolutely sure he's going to blow his load if you move, which is why you do.

You ride him at a punishing pace, he cums almost immediately.

"This what you wanted, Clark?" His eyes are completely dazed, he nods his head regardless. "Oh, it is?" He only moans in response, you still haven't stopped moving. "I need words, baby."

"Yes, ma'am." Your grin is almost mean. Almost.

"Honey, next time just ask me." One particularly loud smack of your hips makes him gasp.

"Where's the fun in that?" His smile is devious. His thumb finds your clit, circling the bundle of nerves with just enough pressure to make you clench around him. "I have one more in me, come with me please."

He buries his face in your neck as your hips continue to rise and fall against him, steady rhythm on your clit. The room is filled with the sounds of skin slapping against skin, muttered i love yous and breathy moans.

"I'm gonna c-" you can barely get a warning out before your orgasm tears through you, bringing Clark along with you. He cums one last time with your name on his lips like a prayer.

The thump-thump-thump of your hammering heartbeat is the only sound in your ears, you can feel Clark's racing pulse against your chest. His head pulls back to look at you, he smiles at you once more. All teeth and dimples. Your lips find his, both of you smiling through the kiss. Your arms loop around his neck, holding him tight against you.

"I love you," he mutters against your lips.

"I love you more," your whisper is husky, almost a rasp.

"Impossible." He says it solemnly, you let him win this time.

Clark feels like he’s floating, totally reasonable seeing as he is physically able to fly. However, the only reason he knows he actually isn’t—despite the fact that he has never felt lighter—is the weight of Bruce Wayne’s body over him. Pressing his thighs to his abdomen, pushing Clark’s back against the mattress as the frame of the bed creaks dangerously loud, punching the air out of his lungs with each precise stroke of his hips.

The room is spinning. He might be floating both of them a couple inches off the b—oh!

Well…if Clark wasn’t already pinned to the mattress, he definitely is now.

Bruce takes some of his weight off Clark’s thighs. Only long enough to hook his elbows to the back of the other man’s knees, lowering himself until he’s nudging Clark’s nose with his own and effectively trapping him between crisp white sheets and his scarred chest.

Clark kisses Bruce fiercely. Open-mouthed and messy.

“Nghh! gosh, Bruce—” Clark whines against Bruce’s lips, the angle pressing impossibly deep within him. His eyes widen, glassy and positively hypnotic.

Bruce groans, dropping his forehead against Clark’s with an out-of-place tenderness. He’s breathing heavy, his body almost vibrating trying to keep his orgasm at bay.

“I don’t think I’ll be—holy f—” his voice goes up an octave and trails off, Clark’s jaw is slack with pleasure that rises exponentially at the sound of Bruce’s wrecked voice. Clark only nods, understanding exactly what Bruce was trying to say.

“I-I'm close too, baby—” Bruce moans at the nickname and begins to piston his hips at a punishing pace.

The room echoes with the sounds of skin slapping on skin and debauched moaning.

With a calculated snap of his hips, Bruce pushes Clark over the cliff of his orgasm, his release painting both of their chests white.

Clark’s whines turn breathy as Bruce continues his erratic pace. Guttural groans clawing their way out of Bruce’s throat, he is so close. Clark’s trembling hands make their way up to cradle Bruce’s head where it's now burrowed against his neck, fingers pressing into his scalp.

“Give it to me—give me all of it,” Clark’s voice is shaky, it rips a sob out of Bruce.

He loses it, barely pulling out in time to finish all over Clark’s abdomen. Bruce feels like a live wire, every muscle in his body is throbbing, his pulse thrumming under his skin like a war drum. Clark could probably hear it, even without using his enhanced senses.

Clark’s fingertips against his scalp slowly ground him back to reality.

Bruce pulls back slightly, searching for Clark’s gaze, only to find him already looking at him with that disarmingly beautiful smile that he adores so much. Clark stretches his neck forward to reach Bruce’s lips.

The kiss is sweet, though no less passionate. Both of their heartbeats slowly returning to base, their kiss turning lazy as they untangle their limbs to lay down next to each other. Face to face, barely any space between them, sweet nothings murmured against each other’s mouths.

Bruce breaks their embrace—or well, tries to—when Clark’s burly arm throws itself over his chest.

“Where do you think you’re going, mister?” Clark smiles, eyebrows raised slightly. The playful lilt in his voice only makes Bruce want to kiss him again. Repeatedly.

So he does exactly that.

“Bathroom—” kiss. “To get—” kiss. “Something—” kiss. “To wipe—” kiss. “You down,” kiss. Clark hums, eyelids fluttering.

“That can wait,” Clark mutters, flipping Bruce onto his back, “it’s your turn now.” Their mouths meet in another searing kiss.

Bruce Wayne is in for a very long night.