Capri👻(18+ blog)

“We?” you echoed, setting the book aside. “Spencer, you know I’m a terrible cook. And risotto is an hour-long, elbow-grease, constant-stirring kind of situation.”

“Exactly,” he said brightly. “It’s the culinary equivalent of an FBI stakeout. I thought you’d enjoy the teamwork.”

You stared at him. “You planned a date night that involves fifteen minutes of zesting?”

He shrugged. “The recipe says the aromatics really come out if you’re patient.”

“You’re lucky I love you.”

He grinned and extended a hand to pull you off the couch. “Come on. I already started getting out the ingredients.”

—

Twenty minutes later, you were in full prep mode: barefoot, stirring lazily while Spencer hummed Debussy and lined up lemons like surgical tools. He measured everything with the precision of a neurosurgeon while you chopped shallots by feel, refusing to follow any of the instructions he kept reading aloud.

“The recipe says to use only the outermost zest,” he said.

“It also says to stir clockwise, which is insane. I’m winging it.”

“Winging it? While making something as delicate as risotto?!” he asked, clearly a little horrified.

“You knew what you signed up for.”

He passed you a glass of white wine. “True.”

You argued over whether the wine should go into the pot or your mouths first. He poured a little into the rice; you poured more into your glass. And somewhere in the middle of Spencer’s incessant reading of the recipe instructions, you managed to flick a bit of zest in his direction. It landed on his lower cheek.

“You’ve been tagged,” you said.

Spencer narrowed his eyes. “That’s food-grade sabotage.”

He stepped closer as you reached up to brush it away. Your fingertips grazed the soft skin beneath his cheekbone, and for a moment, everything else faded.

His eyes caught yours.

“Think you missed it,” he said quietly.

The air shifted. Something unspoken and familiar threaded between you, slow and deliberate. The kitchen wasn’t quiet — the stove was still bubbling — but it felt like the world had narrowed to this: you, him, the warmth between your bodies and the lemon-scented air.

He moved first, turning the burner down to low heat. One step, then another, until your back hit the counter and his hands found your hips.

“This feels like a dangerous way to cook,” you murmured, breath hitching.

“Who said we’re still cooking?”

His mouth met yours before you could answer — slow at first, exploratory. Then hungrier.

You reached up, fingers threading through his hair as he deepened the kiss. The countertop pressed into your back, cool against your overheated skin, and Spencer’s body curved in close, bracketing you in with careful hands and a hunger that was anything but cautious.

He tasted like citrus and something warmer underneath, and his mouth moved like he was trying to memorize you. His hands slid beneath the hem of your top, reverent and warm, fingers spreading across your waist like he couldn’t get enough of touching you.

“Can I…?” he murmured, already kissing along your jaw as he tugged at your shirt.

“Yes,” you whispered. “All of it.”

Clothes came off piece by piece. Your shirt first, then his, then the rest of your clothes. He stepped between your legs and lifted you onto the counter with ease, his hands never leaving your body. Your thighs parted for him instinctively, knees hooking around his hips, and he settled there like he belonged.

“You’re so soft here,” he said quietly, brushing his fingers just beneath your breasts. “Every time I touch you, I forget how to think.”

“Lucky for you, I like the rare occasions when you forget things.”

He smiled and bent to mouth at your collarbone. “Dinner can wait.”

“Mhm. Until much later,” you breathed, tugging him even closer by the waistband of his pants. “Much, much later.”

Then he dropped to his knees.

Spencer looked up at you like you were a miracle. Like he had all the time in the world. His hands curled beneath your thighs and pulled you to the edge of the counter, his thumbs brushing soft, dizzying circles into your skin. You were already wet, aching, trembling — and he hadn’t even touched you yet.

“God, look at you,” he murmured. “You’re already dripping.”

“Spence—”

“I know.” His voice was low, coaxing. “I’ve got you.”

And he did.

His mouth met you slow and steady, the first broad lick making you shudder. He sucked your clit into his mouth, tongue working in slow, hypnotic patterns that made your spine arch and your hands fight for purchase in his hair. He didn’t rush. He never rushed. He devoured you like he was studying the effect of every single flick and swirl, listening for the change in your breathing, waiting for the exact sound you made when he—

“Oh—fuck, right there, don’t stop,” you whined.

He groaned into you, the vibration ricocheting through your whole body. One hand tightened on your hip while the other slipped lower — fingers teasing at your entrance, then easing inside, slick and perfect and deep.

“Spence,” you gasped. “You’re gonna make me come.”

“That’s the idea,” he murmured, voice wrecked and smug. “Come for me, sweetheart. I want to feel it.”

That was all you needed to hear. You came hard, clenching around his fingers, thighs shaking against his shoulders, your breath catching on his name like a prayer. He worked you through it and didn’t stop until you tugged at his hair, until you were too sensitive to bear it, until you gasped his name again.

When he stood, his face was flushed, mouth slick, eyes blown wide with want. You pulled him in and kissed him — messy, grateful, open-mouthed, tasting yourself on his tongue.

“Need you,” you said against his lips. “Now.”

He helped you unbutton his pants, pulling them down just enough, and you reached for his cock the second you could. It was already hard and leaking, flushed red at the tip, thick in your palm.

“Jesus,” you whispered, stroking him once. “All this, just from going down on me?”

He moaned, twitching into your grip. “You have no idea.”

You stroked again, a little firmer, thumb circling the head. “I think I do.”

He cursed softly, pulling your hand away and nudging your thighs apart. “Need to be inside you.” He pressed himself forward teasingly against your entrance, dragging the tip of his cock through the mess he’d made of you.

“Let me see you,” he said. “Look at me.”

You did. Eyes locked, he slid into you in one long, slow thrust, filling you so deeply it stole the breath from your lungs.

“Oh my god,” you whispered, clinging to his shoulders.

“Shit, you’re so tight—so warm.” His head dropped forward, forehead resting against yours. “You always take me so perfectly, angel.”

He stayed there for a beat — buried to the hilt, breathing hard, like he was trying to keep himself from losing control too soon. You curled your legs around his waist and rocked your hips, coaxing him into motion.

“Move,” you whispered. “Please. I need you to move.”

He did — Spencer always did exactly as you asked, especially when it came to this.

The first few thrusts were slow, exploratory. Deep. He rolled his hips like he wanted to find every new angle that could make you fall apart, and god, did he find them. He gripped your hips tighter, anchoring you to the edge of the counter, and started to fuck you in a rhythm that was steady and filthy and simultaneously so fucking tender it made your chest ache.

You felt every inch of him — every drag, every push — and you moaned into the open space between you as he pulled back almost entirely before sliding in again, harder this time.

“You feel so good like this,” he groaned. “Like you were made for me.”

His lips brushed yours between words — a soft kiss, then a firmer one, then a pause where you just breathed each other in. You could feel him everywhere. The stretch. The weight. The press of his body into yours, solid and overwhelming in the best way possible.

You slid a hand between you and traced your fingers across his chest, over the rapid beat of his heart. “You always fuck me like you love me.”

He stilled for a moment — just to get a good look at you — and then his mouth was on yours, kissing you like a promise, like that was the answer.

“I do,” he murmured into the kiss. “I love you so much.”

Then he thrust into you harder, deeper, making you cry out. His rhythm picked up — more urgent now, more desperate, hips snapping forward in a way that made you clutch at him, panting into his neck.

“Tell me what you need,” he rasped, voice cracking with restraint.

“You,” you gasped. “Just like this. Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

He groaned — a raw, helpless sound — and adjusted his angle, shifting his hips just enough to brush something deep inside you that made your whole body jolt.

“Oh god—fuck. Spencer, I—”

“Right there?”

“Right there.”

His hand slid between you, thumb circling your clit with maddening precision, the pressure just right, the rhythm relentless. Pleasure climbed fast and hot, coiling tight in your belly, stealing your breath.

Spencer kissed you deeply then pulled back to watch the way your expression was twisting. “That’s it, angel. Good girl. Let me feel you come on my cock.”

Your climax crashed through you harder than the last, raw and overwhelming, your body tightening around him in waves you couldn’t stop. You were still coming when he groaned and fucked into you deeper, faster, chasing his own high through the pulse of yours.

“Fuck, you’re still coming, aren’t you?”

You were. Still trembling, still squeezing around him when his rhythm broke. You managed a nod in response.

“Come with me then,” he gasped, fucking you through it. “Please, sweetheart—oh, fuck.”

And you did.

Your orgasms crested over each other like lightning striking twice — sharp and hot and completely blinding. You held his face in your hands and kissed him as you both fell, his hips grinding into you, cock pulsing deep inside as he came with a groan that sounded like surrender.

And when it was over, you stayed like that — wrapped around each other, shaking and breathless, his chest heaving against yours.

—

Somewhere during the haze of afterglow, the pan on the stove let out a loud, angry hiss.

Spencer’s eyes flew open. “The risotto!”

You burst into laughter, still wrapped around him. “Oh no.”

He gently lowered you off the counter, half-dressed and glowing, and the two of you stumbled over each other trying to get to the stove. He grabbed a spoon and stirred furiously while you added a splash of broth, then another.

Miraculously, the rice hadn’t burned. Browned a little — okay, maybe a lot — but not beyond saving.

“I think we stirred just enough before we got distracted,” he said, a little breathless, still flushed from everything that just happened.

You leaned against the counter beside him, giggling. “Are you saying we successfully had kitchen counter sex without totally ruining dinner?”

He grinned, nodding. “We’re a statistical anomaly.”

Spencer helped clean you up before you both redressed in scattered pieces of clothing, keeping close watch on the pot and on each other. Spencer stayed barefoot in his dress pants, and you pulled on his button-down, which hung past your hips and still smelled like him.

He stirred the rice while you read aloud from the recipe, skipping half the steps and adding your own commentary.

“‘Let simmer on medium-low until the remaining liquid is absorbed,’” you said, voice exaggerated. “Or until one of us gets impatient and turns up the heat.”

“Do not mess with the starch development, woman.”

You laughed, stealing a spoonful when his back was turned.

—

When it was finally done, you both sat on the floor with the pan between you, backs against the cabinets, legs tangled, sharing bites straight from the wooden spoon. The risotto was shockingly good despite the way it had nearly burned — creamy and bright, with just the right amount of lemon.

“I hate that you were right about this,” you mumbled around a mouthful.

“Victory tastes like Meyer citrus,” he said smugly.

You nudged his shoulder. “You’re ridiculous.”

He wiped a bit of risotto from the corner of your mouth with his thumb, then kissed the same spot. “Maybe,” he said. “But you’re still here.”

You leaned your head against his shoulder, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath.

“I’d cook with you again,” you said quietly. “Even if you do read recipe blogs like crime scene notes.”

“That’s the highest praise you’ve ever given me.”

He rested his cheek against your hair. Around you, the kitchen smelled like butter and lemons and wine and something warmer you couldn’t quite name. The dishes could wait. The future could wait.

Tonight, you had warmth, and starch and citrus, and even better — each other.

ᝰ.ᐟ

masterlist

You stretch now, half-heartedly, and the soreness reasserts itself with a wince. You hiss through your teeth quietly.

Spencer is still asleep, one arm slung across your stomach, face buried against your shoulder. His hair is a halo of tangles, his breath steady and warm against your skin. He smells like his usual bergamot soap mixed with sleep and sweat and sex.

You think to yourself that it should be illegal to look that peaceful after doing what the two of you did last night.

Your fingers twitch, tempted to wake him just to say so.

But you don’t have to. A beat later, he shifts — just enough to murmur something soft and incoherent against your shoulder blade and press his nose to your skin.

“Mm,” he hums, a little more awake now. “You’re warm.”

“So are you.” You blink your eyes open and glance over your shoulder back at him. You move again, trying to sit up, and this time the soreness flashes sharp.

Spencer lifts his head and blinks blearily at you. His hair is in his eyes, and he looks younger like this, all sleepy and soft. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” you say, even though your hips are definitely plotting a day of revenge. “Just a little sore.”

He smiles like he was expecting that answer. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He hums, amused. “Where?”

You give him a look. “Where do you think?”

Spencer grins fully now, eyes crinkling at the corners, and he kisses your shoulder. “You’re welcome.”

You scoff, but it’s breathless. “Cocky.”

“Confident,” he counters, smug. His hand moves, gliding down your side, dragging the sheet with it. “You didn’t seem to mind at the time.”

“No,” you admit. “But I am going to be walking funny all day.”

He tucks his face back into the curve of your neck, voice low and scratchy with sleep. “That’s my favorite kind of damage.”

You laugh, but your eyes flutter shut again as he moves over you and rolls you onto your back. He kisses down your collarbone, a little lower, then lower still. His hand spreads over your stomach like he’s staking a claim, and his mouth follows suit.

“Spence,” you warn gently, though your voice is already going soft around the edges. “You don’t have to.”

“I’m aware of that. I want to.”

You lift your head to look at him. He’s already halfway down the bed, nosing at your hip, lips brushing skin. He glances up at you, hair falling in his eyes, smile lazily forming.

He presses a kiss just below your navel.

“Besides, breakfast,” he says, licking his lips with shameless smugness, “is the most important meal of the day.”

Another kiss, lower.

“And I very much like the taste of you in the morning,” he says, and the grin that follows is pure sin — cocky and sleepy and devastatingly pretty.

There’s no room to argue, not when he’s already mouthing down your thigh, parting your legs like it’s second nature, like this was inevitable from the moment you woke up. His fingers curl under your knees, coaxing you open even further, and he breathes in against your skin.

You brace a hand against the sheets, the other sliding aimlessly into the tangled mess of his hair. “Spencer…”

“Shh.” He presses a kiss to the inside of your knee. “Let me make it better. You said you’re sore.”

“That doesn’t mean you need to—”

“I know what it means,” he says, firmer this time. His voice drops low, smooth and certain. “It means you let me wreck you last night, and now I get to take care of what’s mine.”

That word lands hard, curls low in your belly. You don’t answer — you can’t. You’re too busy trying to steady your breathing. He’s already shifting closer, already locking an arm under your thighs to hold you in place.

You feel the brush of his mouth where you’re still tender and already aching again, and the first drag of his tongue is slow and deliberate.

“So sweet,” he hums softly against you. “You know the average person has up to 10,000 taste buds?” He glances up, breath hot against your skin. “Pretty sure mine were made just for you.”

You squirm involuntarily — too sensitive, too much, too soon — but his grip tightens just slightly, pinning your thighs down with practiced ease. His fingers splay against your hips. You’re not going anywhere.

“Stay still for me, angel,” he murmurs, voice warm and unbearably soft, challenging you to complete an impossible task.

You try. God, you try. But he knows your body too well by now. He knows exactly how to curl his tongue just right, how to flatten it where you’re already throbbing — like he’s learning your body the way he learns languages, through repetition and obsession. Like it’s the only fluency that ever really mattered. He moves with a rhythm designed to undo you molecule by molecule, like you’re his favorite unsolved equation.

“That’s it,” he says against your skin when your thighs start to tremble. “God, you’re so soft like this.”

He noses deeper, then closes his mouth around your clit and sucks, and your entire spine arches off the bed.

“Spence—”

“I’ve got you,” he soothes, licking back up, hand sliding to your stomach to press you down with gentle, unrelenting pressure.

You squirm again, and he catches your movement immediately.

“I said stay still,” he warns, low and firm. You whimper, and he smiles against you.

He shifts one arm to slip a hand beneath you, fingers curving under your ass to tilt your hips higher, and when he sinks his mouth back down and—fuck. Your whole body jerks.

“Too much?” he asks, voice hoarse.

You shake your head, breathless. “N-no. Feels good.”

“I know it does, angel girl.”

It’s not fair, the way he’s still so vocal even with his mouth buried in your cunt — praises every breathless twitch of your hips like it’s a gift, worships every sound you make with a reverence that borders on unbearable. His tongue moves like he’s memorizing you, like he’s been starving, like this is the only thing he knows how to do anymore.

He tightens his grip again and devours you, slower this time, deeper, and you come like that — spread out and trembling, jaw slack, hands fisting uselessly in the sheets. Breaths leave you in broken gasps, and still, he doesn’t stop — licking you through it, slow and thorough, like he’s savoring every drop.

You expect him to pull back once your breathing slows.

He doesn’t.

Your thighs twitch, instinctively trying to close, but he just presses them wider with maddening ease — like your body belongs under his hands. Like he’s barely getting started.

“Uh-uh,” he murmurs, voice rasping with satisfaction. “Not done yet.”

“Spence—” It’s barely even a protest. More like a warning, and he knows the difference. Knows the way your hips buck even as you pretend you can’t take more. Knows that the shaky whine in your throat means please, not stop. Knows you too well to listen when your mouth lies and your body begs.

“You can take it,” he whispers, tongue hot and sure. “You’re gonna give me one more, sweet girl. Yeah?”

You try to argue, but then his tongue flicks just right — again, and again, and again — and your spine bows like a live wire. You nod helplessly.

“You taste so good,” he breathes. “Don’t make me beg. One more, angel.”

He holds you down, murmuring praise between licks, talking you through it in a voice that’s simultaneously achingly tender and overwhelmingly filthy, and you feel yourself unraveling all over again. Your thighs tremble, heels digging into the mattress, and he doesn’t stop. Not until you’re gasping his name on a broken sob, not until your second orgasm rips through you with twice the force, leaving you wrecked and open and shaking.

Only then — when you’re boneless and panting and whimpering beneath him — does he finally ease up. His mouth slows. Softens. Presses one last kiss to your overstimulated skin.

He looks up at you, flushed and glistening and smug, but his eyes are all warmth.

“Good girl,” he says, kissing your thigh again. Then again, higher. “So sweet like this.”

You can barely manage a breath, let alone a sentence.

He grins, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand as he pushes your trembling legs gently back together, palms smoothing over your skin like he can’t quite stop touching you. He crawls back up the bed, gaze sweet and tender, and kisses the corner of your mouth. Then your jaw, then your collarbone, then your shoulder.

“Hi,” you finally manage, dazed.

He huffs a soft laugh, leaning over you to press a kiss to your forehead. “Hi.”

You blink up at him, and for a second, neither of you says anything. The quiet hums, warm and full.

“You okay?” he murmurs.

You nod, still in a bit of a trance. “Yeah. Yeah, just…”

“Wrecked?” he teases, brushing a knuckle down your cheek.

You roll your eyes in faux annoyance. “Completely.”

He smiles and settles beside you, and you curl into him instinctively.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you mumble.

“I know. I already told you, I wanted to.”

Your cheeks warm. “Still doesn’t count as a real breakfast.”

Spencer grins. “Speak for yourself. I’m full.”

ᝰ.ᐟ

masterlist

Except, well, obviously, he isn’t. You would qualify him as your favorite person in existence on any given day, and therein lies half the problem. 

Because right now, he’s just sitting there, reading, while his fingertips scrap absent-minded shapes along the slope of your neck. Each harmless pass managing to turn your thoughts to mush and bones to jelly. 

At this point, you’re convinced you’re less a person and more a limp collection of nerves slumped against his side, pretending (poorly, might you add) to watch a show you mentally abandoned about ten minutes ago.

You’re too busy contemplating just how blatantly you’d need to behave to distract him from those words and coax him into pursuits you deem far more exciting. Pursuits that involve significantly more touching.

His grasp on you briefly firms, just a heartbeat of strain if that.

You know it was surely accidental, but your body can’t compensate for the difference. You try to swallow the intrusion of indecent thoughts like sour medicine.

The dose doesn’t take.

You can’t help but wonder what it would be like to be pinned beneath him, discovering firsthand the perfect contradiction that is Spencer’s innate gentleness and the strength you’re suddenly craving from his hands.

You’re not crazy for this, you reassure yourself desperately. He’s safe. He’s the literal personification of comfort, disguised in scholarly tweed and tender kisses. 

Fantasizing him into something rougher, a little less cautious... it doesn't cancel that out. It just colors it deeper. Some might consider it acceptable, even. Right?

“Spence?”

“Hmm?” He answers preoccupiedly, the pad of his finger wetting against his tongue before flipping another page.

“What do you, um… what do you know about breath play?”

You hate the way your throat tightens immediately as the question leaves your mouth. (The universe is a huge fan of irony, you’ve discovered.)

“You know I love when you ask me questions,” he begins slowly. “But something tells me this one isn’t purely theoretical.” His regard eases as his eyes track over your shoulders, now curving inward. “Am I right?”

“Yeah.” 

You could try to pretend otherwise, but you’ve come to realize, faking it is futile with Spencer. You’re sure he already knows. He’s had months to figure you out, and he treats that like a privilege — just one he’s very good at using to his advantage.

“Alright, sweetheart. Enlighten me. What exactly has you curious?”

You flap your hand, unsure what you’re even trying to say with it, and instantly feel ridiculous. Silly even. 

But Spencer smiles like he thinks you’re charming and suddenly your embarrassment feels a little less terminal.

“I guess like, what’s the science behind it? Is it an adrenaline thing? A psychological thing? Or is it just, you know… a thing?”

Spencer’s hand drops from your neck, sliding to rest on your shoulder instead. It’s not exactly abrupt, but it’s unexpected enough to spark a little twinge of disappointment that sneaks out in the form of a tiny frown.

You hurry to erase it, but not fast enough.

“I only moved my hand,” he clarifies, “because I don’t want to introduce any external variables into this discussion.”

You stare, brows pinching together. “External variables?”

“Yes.” He nods. “If I kept touching your neck while describing breath play, I'd risk subconsciously steering your reactions. Maybe stirring up curiosity, maybe aversion, or maybe something more complicated. Removing the physical cue ensures you form your opinion independently.”

You squint at him. “That’s… weirdly considerate. And possibly a tiny bit intense, Professor.”

“It’s an intense topic.”

“Oh. Right. Guess that tracks.”

He’s got that look now, that particular smile he only pulls out when you’ve made him laugh without intending to. You should feel annoyed. You’re not. It's more like lucking into treasure when you were content sifting through scraps. 

“Okay, so… think of it like this,” he starts, already slipping into that half-professor, half-boyfriend tone. “When you restrict airflow, even briefly, your body interprets it as a stressor. That triggers a fight-or-flight response. Your heart rate spikes, adrenaline kicks in, and your brain releases dopamine to counteract the stress.”

He pauses slightly, eyes searching yours to ensure you’re still with him. You are, mostly. Enough, anyway.

“That dopamine rush is what makes it feel so good to some people. It’s the same principle behind things like sky-diving or high-intensity workouts, the brain perceives a mild, controlled threat and rewards you with a chemical high.”

You open your mouth to interrupt but Spencer’s lips are already curling into a sideways grin, like he’s already one step ahead of you.

“And before you ask, yes, it’s completely safe when done correctly. The key is control. It’s never about actual danger, just the illusion of it.”

You hesitate for a second, then ask, “I mean… how do you know when someone’s doing it right versus, like, actively trying to murder you?”

“First of all, it shouldn’t feel aggressive or sudden. You should feel an edge of intensity without genuine fear or distress. Your body’s reactions shouldn’t tip over into panic or actual pain.” He leans forward, his proximity suddenly sharpened. “And secondly, it has to be with someone you trust implicitly. This isn’t the sort of activity you’d want to try after a few drinks at a questionable frat party.” He lifts a brow. “Selfishly, I’d much rather you not explore something this delicate with anyone but me.”

“Spencer.”

“Just being responsible, angel,” he says lightly, completely unrepentant as he dips forward, pressing a quick kiss to your cheek. “I’d hate to imagine you in the inexperienced hands of someone less qualified.”

You press your lips together, glaring in a way you hope reads as stern instead of hopelessly flustered. “Don’t make fun.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” Which, given his shit-eating grin, is an outright lie. His hand finds your knee and squeezes. “Any other pressing questions?”

“Have you ever done it?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.” You fumble momentarily, grasping to find footing that doesn’t involve imagining him with someone else. “Um, so, was it — did you like it?”

He tugs your knee a little closer. “I think you’re asking because you hope my experience will give you some clarity about your own feelings.”

You freeze, because, well, yeah, that’s exactly what you were doing. And hearing it out loud makes it harder to dodge.

“The thing is,” he continues softly, patiently, “my answer won’t really help, sweetheart. My role is fundamentally different, both physically and psychologically, from yours. You're the one feeling the rush. I’d be the one carefully controlling it.” He tilts his head, studying your reaction. “What you need to ask yourself is how the idea itself makes you feel.”

You stare down at your hands, willing an answer to manifest. But the truth is, you don’t have one.

Everything you know about this is secondhand. The way your friends talk about it, joking over drinks like it’s no big deal. The way it’s portrayed in movies, always intense and dramatic. The way a passage in a book makes you pause, reread it over again, just to be sure.

But all of that is distant, safely removed from your actual life. None of it feels like you.

“It’s complicated,” you admit, squirming under his gaze. “It feels interesting in theory. Like, hypothetically exciting. But actually enjoying it? That’s still an enormous, intimidating question mark.”

Spencer’s eyes flick over you once, assessing, before he nods. 

“Alright,” he says. “Well, this is a safe, controlled environment. We can take it step by step, nice and logical, okay?”

You nod quickly — probably too quickly. Spencer’s mouth twitches, but he’s kind enough not to call you on it.

His hand moves back to one side of your neck.

“Let’s start by narrowing it down,” he continues, “If I touched you right here —” his voice dipping intimately, “— what’s the first thing you feel? Excited? Nervous? Both?”

Spencer’s hand is cold, just on the edge of uncomfortably so, but by now, you’ve learned to anticipate it.

The first time, he’d explained away the chill, intertwining your fingers while he launched into a gentle explanation about blood vessels, circulation, and temperature regulation, as if medical jargon might warm you up faster. Your dazed, crush-drunk state had earnestly tried to soak up every word.

The second time, however, there had been no hope of retaining anything. His fingers tracing circles around your clit, whispering against your neck something vaguely scientific — vasoconstriction, maybe? — the words entirely lost beneath your own breathy sighs.

Maybe some responsible corner of your brain caught it and tucked it away for later. But right now, all you can feel is the heat flooding your skin, surging up to meet those same chilly fingers, smothering any hope of remembering a damn thing.

You wet your lips. “Yeah, I…I think I like it.”

Spencer raises an eyebrow. “Think?”

You try to swallow, but it’s clumsy. Like your brain forgot how, his touch is so light, it barely registers, and you're honestly not even sure he is touching you or if your brain's inventing it, already drunk on the idea.

“I do like it,” you clarify quickly, ears burning. “But it’s not like you’re doing anything unusual yet.”

“That's because I’d rather ease you into it than overwhelm you.” 

His eyes remain locked with yours as he slowly adjusts his hand, four fingers resting on one side of your neck, thumb curving around to the opposite side. 

“And this? How does this make you feel?”

You don’t plan to react, but your breath tangles mid-inhale, catching on something sharp. Too fast in, not enough out.

Your fingers tap aimlessly against your thigh, unsure where to go, what to do with all this feeling and nothing to burn it on.

Spencer must notice, because a second later, his free hand finds yours, cold fusing with warm.

“I like the weight of it,” you whisper, barely trusting your voice. “Feels… assertive. In a good way.”

Spencer hums before leaning in, close enough for you to see where his lashes clump at the tips, impossibly dark. 

“Yeah, it probably does feel that way,” he says, thumb brushing under your ear. “Doesn’t mean I’m trying to take control. Just means I like knowing I have your attention.”

You almost laugh. He has your attention, your focus, your heart, and a few other things you probably shouldn’t name. But you just nod like he’s not entirely right.

“What now?”

“That depends on you,” he says. “We can take the next step, and I can apply gradual pressure to let you experience the sensation, monitor your response.” His eyes drag over your face. “Or we can pause. Talk it through. Or we can stop.” A squeeze to your hand. “There’s no wrong answer.”

“I want to take the next step,” you say, trying to hide the urgency. “But I might not react the way I’m supposed to.”

“There’s no supposed to,” he says, thumb sweeping over your wrist. “You don’t have to react in any particular way. We’re just exploring. No expectations.”

“Okay,” you nod. “Just… talk me through it?”

“Always.”

His fingers tighten. Just a little. Almost like a symphony getting louder, but one instrument, one beat at a time. You don’t breathe, just to feel it better.

“Let’s stay here a second. Let you get used to it.”

The size of his hand dwarfs your throat, fingers splayed wide directly over your jugular, encompassing delicate skin and fragile bone. 

You’re not blind to the strength of him. But what strikes you is the control he exercises over it. The ease with which he could hurt and instead chooses to draw out something else entirely. Every move angled towards pleasure, not power.

He’s studying you now. You know it without meeting his gaze. You can feel the scrutiny everywhere, razor-sharp eyes stripping back every layer you thought you were hiding. Measuring. Tracking. 

But you realize it’s more than just simple observation. It’s also craving, masked behind patience. 

“Still okay?”

You nod.

“Alright I’m gonna tighten a bit. Tell me if it’s too much.”

He thumb sweeps over your windpipe without closing off any air. Your thighs clamp together accordingly, locking around your joined hands.

Spencer laughs, not at you, never that, but with the same quiet pride he gets when one of his obscure theories turns out to be correct. 

Trust you to be another equation effortlessly solved by his clever fingers.

His hand slips from yours, redirecting to nudge your legs apart, stern enough that resistance doesn’t even cross your mind. 

As he nestles between your thighs, you wonder if maybe you were purpose-built for this. Shaped by fate into the perfect receptacle for Spencer. It’s not the most absurd thought you’ve had when it comes to him.

“You know why this works?” His voice dips into something possessive, fingers kneading into the plush give of your thighs, sliding upward, a constellation of goosebumps being left in their wake. “Because you like knowing I could keep you here, but also knowing I’d never have to.”

You’ll never understand it — how Spencer manages to reach into the depths of your mind, extracting the exact words there, murmuring them back to you as though they were born on his tongue.

Your hips shift restlessly beneath him, craving friction you hadn’t even consciously acknowledged, your skirt climbs higher, revealing inch by betraying inch of skin without an ounce of remorse. 

Spencer’s gaze falls instantly, eyes growing heavy, pupils expanding into endless darkness, mirroring the ache brewing inside you.

“I’m going to introduce something called intermittent restriction, okay?” he says. “That means I’ll apply pressure for just a few seconds, long enough for your brain to notice, but not long enough to make you light-headed. Then I’ll release. That cycle, restriction and releasing, triggers a rush of oxygen back into your system.”

His mouth finds your jaw, so softly that the rush of your pulse seems premature.

“Your nerve endings will become hypersensitive, responsive to even the slightest touch.” And just to prove a point, his fingertips slip between your thighs, tracing fire over already scorching skin. “This, for example,” he whispers, “will feel ten times as intense.”

The pressure on your throat fades as his hand shifts upward, finding a new home cradling the back of your neck, fingertips twining through your hair. 

You’re left staring at his mouth, every heartbeat a fervent prayer — kiss me, please, please, kiss me.

Then, slowly, he tilts your chin upward, sweetening your unspoken wish.

When he draws away, your breath trembles, coming in shattered fragments. Your vision dims slightly at the edges, leaving only Spencer in vivid clarity.

“Is that something you’d like me to do?”

“Yes,” you breathe, everything in you reaching. “Yes, please.”

He nods slowly, pressing a kiss to your nose.

“Good. You know the safe word, but if you can’t talk and want me to stop, just tap my wrist twice.” He demonstrates against your neck. “The second it stops feeling good, we stop. No explanations needed.”

His hand settles again at the column of your throat, fingertips fitting into the tender hollow beneath your jawline. He tilts your head back, and for a second all you can think about is how exposed you are. The weird crease on your collarbone. That one spot that gets blotchy when you’re turned on.

You wonder if he sees all of it. If he likes all of it. 

He looks at you like none of it surprises you. Like he expected every detail and already decided it was his favorite part.

“What if I do it wrong? Like, should I be —?”

“Hey,” he soothes, thumb gently rubbing slow circles against the underside of your chin. Gentle kisses trail along the line of your jaw toward your ear. “You can’t do anything wrong.” He catches your earlobe between his teeth, tugging. “Just relax and let me do all the work, angel.”

“Oh,” you exhale quietly as every part of you goes warm and liquid.

“That’s it,” Spencer murmurs. “There’s my girl. You ready?”

“Yeah,” you mumble, “love you.”

His smile deepens, fondness glowing through him as he bumps your chin with his nose. “Love you.”

His breath is minty when it brushes yours again, tinged with that strange clove candy he orders from some European site. You’re still trying to place it when his hand moves — and just like that, you’re out of air.

It should set off alarms, should terrify you, but strangely all it does is strip away the noise, everything crystallizing. 

It’s exactly like the first morning after you fell asleep beside him, waking up in tangled limbs, realizing you’d never truly rested before him, the world realigning itself in high definition, as though you’d finally found the perfect pair of glasses after years of blurry half-truths.

Time seems to move in slow motion, each elongated second stretching into something much more infinite. When his fingers ease up, you feel the air whoosh back into your lungs, somehow sweeter than before.

“Good girl,” Spencer praises softly, lips curving into a smile you can feel even with half-closed eyes. “How did that feel for you?”

You pause. “I think I need a little more evidence before I can give a definitive answer.”

You conveniently omit just how much you liked it. How every cell in your body is quietly pleading for him to do it again, and soon. Immediately, if possible. Though judging by the look in his eyes, you’re not exactly fooling anyone.

“Ah,” he chuckles softly, thumb stamping over your bottom lip, “spoken like a true scientist.”

“Well,” you breathe, “there are worse traits I could’ve picked up from you.”

His fingers squeeze around your throat once more.

You’re dimly aware that his other hand has taken up occupancy on your thigh. How long had it been there? Five seconds? Five years? 

Both seem plausible, neither important. It’s there, and your lower half is already chasing the feeling, searching in desperate little movements. Anything — his palm, the couch cushion, a miracle — would suffice to ease the fever spreading through your hypoxic brain down to the sticky heat between your legs.

His fingers skim down to the edge of your panties just as his grip on your throat dissolves. One sensation gives way to the other, making it impossible to know where relief ends, and desire begins.

You, however, don’t take the opportunity to gasp for breath. Instead, you chase Spencer’s lips, gifting him your last lungful of air in a kiss that is decidedly messy and anything but falling under the category of graceful. He takes your clumsy devotion in stride, hands moving to haul you tighter against him, slotting your legs tighter around his waist.

You pull back only when your body calls for it, not your heart. And when you do, your head spins a little, most likely oxygen-related, but it feels more Reid-related. 

His mouth lingers barely an inch from yours. “Take a deep breath for me, angel.”

One shallow inhale, and then it’s gone. But it doesn’t matter, because his fingertips are dipping beneath your panties in the same motion, stroking through your folds, dragging pleasure through you so intensely, you’re scared you’ll break apart right then and there. 

He was right, you’re so unbearably sensitive, nerves bursting open beneath his touch, each one catching like a spark on dry glass, spreading before you can stop it.

He clicks his tongue softly, clearly pleased. “Look at you, making such a mess for me.”

There’s nothing rushed about the way he moves, but your body doesn't seem to know that. Frantic anyway, trembling anyway, gasping like he himself is a trap you’ve willingly walked into. 

He doles out air like it’s been earned, a mercy, always paired to the slow tease of his finger gliding up and down your folds, spreading you open, painting your clit with everything he’s pulled from you.

He gives you just the tip of his index, barely inside, and then pulls back like he's punishing you for wanting more than he offered.

You’re soaked now. Slick enough that it’s starting to drip where your pelvis meets his thighs, a growing mess that’s probably already bled through to the couch.

“Tell me what you’re feeling,” he murmurs. “I wanna hear everything running through that beautiful head.”

“I’m not — there’s not much going on up there,” you confess. “Just need your fingers. ”

“You have them,” he says.

“Inside,” you whimper. “Need you inside.”

He releases your throat just as his finger slides in.

“That’s what you needed, huh?” He smirks. “You sound so pretty when you beg for it.”

And your body answers for you, clenching around the intrusion, like it’s trying to hold onto him, pull him closer, keep him.

You used to watch his fingers like a secret obsession. Long before he’d ever touched you. The slope of his knuckle, the faint ridge of old scars, the exact spacing between his middle and index finger — you’d count it, like maybe the detail meant something.

Now one of them is buried inside you, barely, and it’s already too much.

When the second slides in, it feels like being opened from the inside out. Again. Like every other time he’s had his fingers in you. Or his tongue. Or his cock. You’d think your body would be used to this by now. It never is.

A moan punches out of your chest unfiltered. Your hands reach up for something to hold, finding purchase at the overgrown curls at the nape of his neck, fingers tightening there.

He leans in, eyes half-lidded, voice hushed. “Always so tight for me.”

“Spencer…” You reach, fingers closing around his wrist, moving his hand back to your throat. Your voice comes out pleading, every bit as vulnerable as you feel. “Please?”

He stops. Breathes. Absorbs it like a gift he hadn’t expected to be given twice. But he doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t need to.

“So polite, baby.” 

Your next inhale gets caught beneath his palm. Your lungs stay empty, but your body lights up in its place. Pulsing. Drenched. Stretched open around his fingers. The sound of it is filthy, wet and messy and loud enough to drown out whatever noise you just tried to make.

You’re grinding down on him now, mindless, rutting against the heel of his palm like shame doesn't even exist anymore.

Your head is light, skin buzzing, orgasm barreling toward you like a tsunami you can’t outrun.

“I wish you could see yourself like this,” he murmurs, breath warm against your cheek.  “You’re so beautiful. Every single time.”

You want to answer. Maybe cry. Maybe laugh. Maybe beg. But your core answers first — vision goes spotty, thighs twitching uncontrollably.

And then everything clenches, cracks open and takes you with it.

There’s a second of silence, brain fogged with nothing but static. Heat, stars, white noise. You only notice his absence when your body jerks, still chasing pressure that’s no longer there.

Your hands find him clumsily, clutching at his wrist, trying to pull him back without a word.

“I’m here. You’re okay. Come here, angel,” Spencer says, already folding you into his chest.

Your face stays pressed to his shirt, breath still shaky where it escapes in uneven puffs. Spencer’s hands stay steady on your back, but you can feel his heart beating a little too fast under your cheek.

“Not gonna ask yet,” he says lightly, “but my brain is running a post-scene checklist at full speed. So just… squeeze my hand if anything feels wrong. Please.”

“What counts as feeling wrong?” You ask. His heart skips a beat beneath you, and you wince. “Not that I feel that way. I definitely don’t. I promise. I’m just curious.” 

He strokes your hair once, twice.

“You’re sure?”

You nod, eyes fluttering closed as you nuzzle closer, lips brushing his jaw. “Mm. Yeah. Just a little floaty. And in love with you. But that’s normal.”

“Floaty and in love,” he repeats, pretending to consider. “Dangerous combination. Might have to keep you under observation.” He kisses your temple, voice gentling, “But seriously, if you feel off in any way. Dizziness, fingertips tingling, even a little headache, I need to know right away, okay?”

“Okay, okay,” you say, squeezing his shirt. “And, um… totally unrelated… how long is the average recovery time before we can do that again?”

“Realistically,” he starts, “we should wait a while. Especially since it was your first time experimenting with that.” Your lower lip starts to just slightly. He grins. “But… if you were interested in cutting off my oxygen, I might have a few ideas.”

You don’t even get the chance to react. One second, you’re in his lap, and the next — you’re airborne, guided up, forward, and set down over his face like he’s been planning this all night.

You let him take your breath. Now he gives you his in return.

All he gets from you is a soft and airy moan, but it makes his stiff cock jerk in your quivering confines anyway.

“Then tell me.”

His words fall over you like summer rain. You don’t know if it’s a command or a plea — and he doesn’t, either, really — but he just wants to hear you.

Your mouth parts in a silent moan when his hips rock back and forward again, never quite pulling all the way out of you before fucking into you again, inch by agonizing inch. Your nails dig crescent shapes into his shoulder blades, and Steve revels in the distant burn.

“C’mon, sweet thing…” he pants above you. The breath of his words fans warm against your chin as his broad nose nudges against the side of yours. “Tell me… Tell me I’m making you feel good…”

A flicker of panic dashes across your fucked-out features at the simple command — you wouldn’t know what to tell him, how to tell him without sounding utterly un-sexy. But then his hips tilt back between your parted thighs, dragging his stiff cock out of you until your drooling pussy clenches around the bulbous tip, and then pushes slowly back into you again.

He forces you to feel all of it — every inch of his cock as he fills you once more. The thatch of hair above his happy trail that ruts mercilessly along your swollen clit, more so when your hips buck on their own accord. The scruff of his chest that brushes your sensitive nipples when you tighten your hold around his shoulders.

You couldn’t make out the words if you tried.

You cage your bottom lip between your teeth and squeeze your eyes shut tight, missing the look of worry that flashes across Steve’s scruffy face. His measured thrusts falter at your silence, lean hips stilling between your thighs.

“Does it… Does it not feel good?” he mumbles awkwardly into the quiet of his bedroom.

Your eyes fly open then, heavy-lidded and swimming with a leftover pleasure. You almost can’t believe he’s asking you that. Like you aren’t already so close to your orgasm, like you haven’t already drenched the sheets below you.

“Yeah… It— It feels good…” you tell him through panted breaths, quiet and hardly audible. Your eyes dart back and forth between his chocolate ones. Something short of agony twists at your pouting features. “Why— Why’d you stop?”

Steve grins all over again, though it wavers at the edges with a lingering worry.

“You got all quiet on me…” he murmurs, smoothing one wide hand over your cheek. The skin there is slightly sticky from a thin layer of sweat as he smooths rouge tendrils of hair from your temples with a softly calloused palm. His touch is as warm and firm as his heavy balls still pressed against your ass. “I wanted to make sure it was good for you, too…”

You shift slightly, caged beneath his golden body and the mattress below. You shrink into yourself instinctively, though there isn’t anywhere to go with you pressed so intently against him.

“Sorry…” you whisper.

Steve shakes his head. The chestnut tresses hanging over his forehead sway over his eyes, which go squishy around the edges when he smiles down at you with a melted chocolate gaze.

“You don’t have to apologize… I get it. It’s okay.”

He punctuates his reassurance with a kiss. His lips taste like spearmint, nicotine, and the sweet-salty tang of your cum when they press against yours. Your mouths slot together in a lingering, longing thing like they were meant to do it — like he was made to kiss you, like his only purpose was to kiss you.

Your lips smack when you pull away.

“Can you…” you hear yourself ask, then trail off a second later when you catch yourself.

“Can I what?” Steve hums knowingly. His lips curl into a lazy smile moments before he leans down to press them to your cheek. He doesn’t really kiss you there, but rather brushes the plush skin along your sweat-slick one. The breath of his words fans across your jaw and sends chill bumps pebbling across your bare body. “Use your words for me, and I’ll give you whatever you want.”

My cock, he means. Or the world. Or the ocean. Whatever you could possibly ask for, he’d fight like hell to get.

Your breath catches when his wet mouth meets your pulse. You wonder if he can feel the thrumming of your rapid heartbeat there. “Can you keep going?” you plead in a breathless whisper.

Steve grits his teeth to fight back a moan when your words make his cock twitch inside you. The scruff of his chin scratches your shoulder when he nods. “Yeah. Yeah, baby, I can… I do that for you…”

The process starts all over again, the merciless rocking of his hips. He pulls out just enough to make you sigh at the empty feeling, then he fucks back into you until his balls slap the plush skin of your ass. Your back arches off the mattress as your nails dig into his golden shoulder. Your moan gets buried in your throat, in a hardly audible whimper.

“Let me hear it, baby,” Steve pleads through labored breaths as his fists ball into the pillows on either side of your head.

His lidded gaze, glassy with a layer of honey, flits across your fucked-out features — eyes squeezed shut, head tossed back, bottom lip caged between your teeth. The sight of you below him is heaven alone, especially compared to how demoniacal your cunt feels wrapped around him.

“Let me make you feel good. C’mon.”

You vaguely feel his right hand squeeze between your sweaty bodies as he continues his measured thrusts. His finger brushes over your stomach, and past the thatch of hair above your pussy, before finding purchase on your clit — already sensitive from your previous orgasm, which he had given to you with nothing but his mouth.

Your body reacts before your mind does. Your hips buck with a shock of electricity. Your thighs clench around his lean hips. Your mouth parts to exhale a broken whimper.

“Right there,” you hear yourself say. “Oh, my god— Right there.”

The praise makes Steve’s even thrusts falter for a moment. A groan rumbles in the depths of his throat. “Yeah… There you go,” the boy slurs. “You sound so pretty for me— Fuck. I knew you would…”

His words make you keen. “Steve…” you whimper when you feel your orgasm suddenly approaching, like a knot in the pit of your stomach that’s growing tighter and tighter, threatening to snap at any moment.

He tries not to burst entirely at the way you say his name.

“What is it, honey?” he coos. “You close?”

“Yes…” you sigh.

“I know you are, baby— I can feel it,” he says through gritted teeth, as his own pleasure starts to build. “You’re getting so tight around me, baby, I can— shit. I can barely move—”

Your pussy clenches tighter around him, all but weeping for him now. Steve’s fingers on your swollen clit only add to the ache, which feels borderline overwhelming now. Your face screws in a pained sort of look as your thighs tremble on either side of his waist. You writh beneath his golden body, trying to both chase your orgasm and run from its intensity at the same time.

“Please, please, please…” you hear yourself begging, though for what, you couldn’t say. “Please, Steve…”

“I’m right here, baby,” the boy coos, words slurring from his own encroaching orgasm. He keeps one merciless hand on your clit, which swells beneath his fingers, while his other shifts to hold you. He keeps himself propped up with his elbow while his palm settles over the crown of your head. His fingers curl gently in your hair as he murmurs to you, “I’m right here. Take what you want. You know I’ll give it to you. You just gotta… holy shit— You just gotta fucking take it, baby—”

Something about his words sends you over the edge. The way he says them to you so softly, maybe, or the way they come out slightly strangled as he fights back his own pleasure.

“There you go…” Steve sighs when he feels you cumming around him, velvet walls clenching through the silk you leak for him. He watches through the haze of bliss clouding his vision as you finally succumb to your orgasm, twitching and writhing behind him through every wave of pleasure. “Take it, baby. Take it—”

His voice breaks. A pain sort of groan sounds deep in his throat as his own orgasm threatens to unravel him. He punches into you once, hard, and then buckles down over you. He suffocates you beneath his warm, heavenly body while his aching cock jerks within the pulsing walls of your pussy, spitting several ropes of warm cum deep inside of you.

“Fuck, baby,” he whimpers into your neck, where he hides his flushed face that screws in a pained look of overwhelming pleasure. “Fuck—”

He stills against you with one last, shallow thrust. The remaining tension floods from his body as he sinks heavily onto yours, with every intention of melting with you there. It’s the closest to heaven he’s ever felt — hell, probably the closest to heaven he’ll ever get — with his sweat-slick skin sticking so deliciously to yours.

“Stay…” he hears you whisper when he goes to pull out of you.

The soles of your feet press into the back of his scruffy thighs. Steve pulls just far enough to see your face, and finds you wearing a pleading, pitiful sort of look — brows scrunched, eyes wet, mouth pouted from his kisses.

“Don’t pull out,” you beg through heavy breaths. “Please. I… I wanna stay like this for a while…”

When you plop down in his lap, he doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t groan —annoyed he may be, but cruel he is not. A hand flies automatically to the small of your back as you settle your weight against one of the armrests. 

His eyes relax, though his frown lingers. 

“Did you hear me?” you ask. “I said I’m sorry you got the blame.” 

“Well, I don’t want you to be sorry,” he says, like it’s obvious. 

“It’s nice to be sorry when the people we love get bitched at.”

“Who said I want apologies from you?” he asks, believably pissed until he continues, “You literally never do anything wrong, ever. Shut up.” 

“I like your tone.”

“Just. Why does everyone hate me?” 

You laugh, which does nothing to help his bad mood. Hand bracing against the slight of his jaw, you lean in slowly until you’re kissing his tense mouth. He stays like a statue, letting you kiss him without leading into it, perhaps without even closing his eyes. Your own are shuttered, leaving the world dark as you turn your hand against his cheek to draw nothingshapes into his stubble. The softest of soft touches until you’ve climbed to his cheekbone. Then you turn your hand back and sew your fingers into his silky hair. 

His lips give a little. He melds under touching, can’t keep fighting the smile his lips want to curl into as you scrabble at his face and hair. Your free hand slinks down his neck to flirt with the triangle of chest he’s exposed, holding there, twitching uselessly when he parts his mouth and licks at your tongue, your teeth, a subdued sigh escaping him like he’s found something warming there.

You pull away enough to check he’s totally into things before you give a sigh all your own, a whiny, breathy thing meant to provoke him and somehow entirely real, brought upon by the splayed, thick fingers of his hand where they’re gripping your back. He shoves your shirt up to feel your skin. Nothing more than that. Just to touch you. 

He settles as you pull apart, face chasing yours before he realises you’re catching your breath quietly. 

“Do I hate you?” you ask, catching the want in the glaze of his eyes as he sinks back into the couch. 

“You love me,” Steve says, as though this is a very generous thing to give, made worse by his obvious breathlessness. 

All the bitchy heat seems to have drained from Steve in one fell swoop. His hand softens where it’s been gripping your back, his jaw losing that wretched rigidity. He pokes you in the chest and kisses your nose when you look down, which somehow turns into slow, sluggish kisses pressed half-open around your nose and against the corner of your lips. 

“Lost my shit all day when all I needed was you,” he murmurs, with the good sense to sound somewhat shame-faced. 

“When all you needed was to blow off steam,” you correct. 

“That’s not what that was,” he says, tipping your chin up to kiss you again. When he speaks again, it makes your lips buzz. “S’like you snuffed out all the bad. You don’t get how much I need you.”

Loser, you think, heavy and unapologetic in his lap.

The tapping on your bedroom window came at 10pm, like clockwork.

You could see Steve’s goofy smile through the glass, waving to you from where he was crouched in the bushes outside. You couldn’t help but laugh as you climbed off your bed, making your way over and lifting the window.

Steve climbed inside with a little less grace than he had when he was 16 sneaking into girls’ rooms after their parents had gone to bed. His ass hit the ground with a low thud before he lifted himself, brushing off his jeans and pushing up the sleeves of his pullover.

“Kind of crazy I still have to climb through your window like we’re a couple of teenagers,” Steve said quietly, resting his hands on your hips and pulling you close.

“Yeah, well,” you said, plucking a twig from his hair before brushing your fingers through it. His eyes fell closed at the feeling, smiling contentedly. “My parents still think I’m a child.”

And no one even knew you and Steve were together yet.

After years of being best friends - strictly platonic - no one thought twice about how close you and Steve were. Everyone knew Steve had harbored feelings for Nancy for years, and thought he still did. It got to the point where Steve and Jonathan argued constantly because he thought Steve was trying to win Nancy back.

Truthfully, that was just Steve. He was a bit of a show-off.

When things between you and Steve had turned into more a few months ago, it hadn’t exactly been your intention to keep it a secret. But with the end of the world scenario Hawkins was currently living, no one was paying that much attention to what the two of you were doing.

And it was kind of nice. Like your own little world.

Steve pulled you closer until your body was pressed against his, his large hands sliding around to grip your ass over the tiny shorts you were wearing. He bent down, his breath fanning across your cheek, making you shiver. He pressed his lips to your neck, and without even thinking about it you tilted your head to the side, giving him more access.

“It’s kind of exciting, though,” he mumbled against the skin of your neck. Your breaths came a little harder, your eyes closing. “Sneaking around…” His fingertips danced up the backs of your thighs, pushing up the hem of your shorts until they grazed the curve of your ass, the edge of your panties. “Having to stay quiet when I fuck you.”

“Steve…” you breathed, hands coming up to rest on his chest. You still weren’t used to the way he made you feel now. The way he made your head spin, your lungs ache, the throbbing between your thighs when he spoke to you like this. There was nothing friendly about the things he did to you.

He murmured your name back in return, and it sent a shiver up your spine. His teeth grazed the skin of your neck, and you drew in a gasp, hands tightening into fists in his shirt.

Steve moved, walking you back towards your bed. When your legs hit the edge of the mattress, you fell down onto it, bouncing softly on the plush material. Your room hadn’t changed much since you were younger, despite your 20th birthday having just passed. You still had the same white frilly pillowcases and fluffy pink duvet. You had been embarrassed about it the first time Steve came over, but there was something he liked about taking you apart piece by piece on that stupid bed.

You moved back to lay on the pillows while Steve kicked his sneakers off. He didn’t take his eyes off you, crawling onto the edge of the bed, running his hand slowly from your ankle up to your thigh. He squeezed the plush of your thigh, pushing your legs apart and crawling between them.

The rough denim of his jeans rubbed against the backs of your thighs as he settled there. He leaned over your body, hand moving up to your hip, then beneath your t-shirt, tracing over the skin of your stomach with an unexpected reverence. His calloused fingertips brushed against the sensitive skin of your sides next, and you exhaled a shaky breath, the sensation like ice through your veins.

“You’re so pretty,” Steve murmured, and you weren’t sure if he was telling you or just noting it to himself. He pushed your t-shirt up just to the bottom of your breasts, pressing featherlight kisses against your stomach. His lips trailed higher, smirking as he felt how hard you were breathing. He pulled back, looking down at you - how did you look so wrecked already?

Disappointed by the loss of his touch, you opened your eyes. “Why’d you stop?” you asked, the pout on your pretty lips making Steve’s own pull into that cocky smirk you knew all too well.

“You’re needy tonight,” he observed, thumb tracing circles over your hip. You could tell it was boosting his ego, which he really didn’t need. “I’ve barely even touched you yet.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you said, although even Steve could see how weak the protest was. Even though Steve was your boyfriend now - you were still getting used to that - you often fell into that playful bickering from years of friendship. “You’re not that good.”

Steve planted a hand by your shoulder, leaning back over your body. Any teasing died on your lips the second his body pressed into yours, and you couldn’t help the moan that escaped when you felt his hot tongue against your neck, right over your pulse point. Your hand shot up to grasp at his bicep, clinging to him tightly.

You could feel the smirk against your skin. “I bet you’re already so wet,” he murmured. He pressed his lips to your neck, nuzzling his nose against the curve between your neck and shoulder. “I bet if I touch you right now, I’ll see just how good I am at getting you worked up.”

“Christ, Steve,” you breathed. As much as you wanted to tease him, to make him work for it, you couldn’t hide what he was doing to you. Your body was reacting to every touch, every word, to an almost embarrassing level. 

His free hand slid back down your side until he reached the waistband of your shorts. He relished in the little gasp you let out when he slipped his hand beneath, into the lace panties you had put on specifically for him, his thick fingers gently tracing through your folds.

“Oh,” he groaned, feeling the proof of everything you’d tried to deny. “God, baby, you’re soaked.” He pulled back to look down at you, his hazel eyes burning into yours with an intensity that hadn’t been there minutes before. “Just for me, huh?”

He pressed his fingers against your clit, already swollen and throbbing with need, and there was no way you could have denied it even if you wanted to.

“Uh huh,” you moaned, looking up at him with every ounce of desire written clear across your face. It nearly took Steve’s breath away, how perfect you looked. He was straining against his jeans so hard it was starting to hurt, desperate to free himself and fuck you already. 

“You make me so hard,” he muttered, his hand moving down until his index finger was pressed against your entrance. Your body thrummed with anticipation, craving to be filled by him in some way, any way, and you could see on his face that he was going to give you exactly what you wanted—

The phone rang, shrill and startling in the charged atmosphere of your bedroom.

“Shit,” you cursed, letting out a deep sigh. Steve pulled his hand from your shorts, sitting back on his knees with a huff and the disappointed look of someone who had just dropped his whole ice cream cone on the ground.

You leaned over the bed to your nightstand, lifting the phone from the receiver. You and Steve exchanged a look before you pressed the phone to your ear. “Hello?”

Your name came through the other end of the line in an exasperated breath. “God, it’s been a day.”

You sat up a little, leaning back against the pillows. “Hey, Nance,” you said, meeting Steve’s eyes. He raised his eyebrows, staying silent. “What’s up?”

“I am just so tired of guys, to be honest with you,” Nancy said, letting out what she’d clearly been holding in for a while. “I swear Jonathan just turns into this…this caveman when Steve is around! It’s like the smart, sensitive guy I fell for is just gone, and all he cares about is winning me, like I’m some…object.”

The speaker on the phone was loud, letting Steve hear every word she said. He chuckled quietly, and you rolled your eyes, kicking his thigh lightly. You didn’t understand the rivalry Steve had with Jonathan. It seemed like Steve just thought it was funny to piss him off.

“Yeah, it’s stupid,” you agreed, trying to give Nancy your attention even while Steve was being as annoying as possible, tickling your feet. You kicked at him again, and he laughed, dodging out of the way. He moved in to kiss your cheek, flopping down on the pillows next to you. “Um…” You tried to tune Steve out, because he was being incredibly distracting. “Have you talked to him about it?”

A sigh. “Of course. But you know he won’t admit anything. He won’t admit he’s jealous of Steve.”

Steve looked way too smug for his own good. You ignored him, holding a hand up to block out his face. He snatched your hand, placing a kiss against your palm. “Of course he won’t. He’s a man.” You glanced over at Steve, who looked mock offended at that.

“And don’t even get me started on Steve.”

You froze at that. Steve raised his eyebrows at you, looking even more amused by the turn the conversation was taking.

“Oh, yeah,” you said weakly, because you weren’t really sure what else to say.

“I know he’s your best friend,” Nancy said, as if she hadn’t talked to you about Steve countless times before. “But I wish he would just move on. We dated years ago, and it didn’t work out. I just wish he would…I don’t know…get over me.”

You and Steve exchanged amused smiles at that - because she had no idea how much Steve had already moved on. “Maybe he just needs to meet someone,” you said, fighting back the giggle as Steve’s lips began brushing over your neck again, down to your collarbone. You swatted at his arm half-heartedly, although you didn’t really want him to stop.

“I’m starting to worry he never will,” Nancy said. “And I care about Steve, I hate to break his heart, but it’s just not going to happen.”

Your breath hitched as Steve’s lips trailed down your body again. As he reached your stomach, pushing your shirt up again and kissing above the waistband of your shorts, you looked down at him with furrowed brows. The mischief gleaming in those hazel eyes was familiar, but rarely a good thing.

“Yeah,” you said, your voice more breathy than you intended when Steve spread your legs, his lips pressing against your inner thigh. Your jaw dropped when his teeth scraped against the sensitive skin, your head falling back on the pillows. Was he fucking insane?

If Nancy noticed how distracted you were, she didn’t say anything. “I mean, he’s a great guy and all,” she went on, “You know that. I’m sure he’s gonna make some girl very happy one day.”

You looked down, making eye contact with Steve as he smirked up at you, slipping his fingers beneath the top of your shorts and sliding them down your legs. A flush crept onto your skin, the room all of a sudden feeling much hotter. Steve placed another kiss on your thigh before he leaned forward, pressing his lips against your clit through the lace of your panties. Your free hand tightened in the sheets. “Y-Yeah, for sure.”

“He’s handsome, funny, sweet, romantic. He loves his grand gestures.”

Steve looked far too smug as he listened to her praises, but he was focused on his mission. He stuck out his tongue, licking your folds through the already soaked material of your panties. You drew in a sharp breath, fighting back the urge to groan. “Yeah, he’s…he’s great.”

“But he can also just be a total…meathead!”

You looked down at Steve then, holding back a laugh. “Oh, yeah, for sure.” It was his turn to roll his eyes at you, but all thoughts of teasing vanished from your brain as he slipped the lace off your body, leaving you bare for him. The cool air against your wet pussy had you clenching your thighs together, but Steve spread them again, looking down at you like he was starving and ready to absolutely devour you.

“I mean, honestly,” she went on as Steve nuzzled against your core, his nose brushing against your clit in a way that made your whole body jolt. “Everything has to be a competition for my attention. It was so stupid, him and Jonathan racing each other up the radio tower. They could have gotten hurt, but all they cared about was showing off for me, like I’m going to pick the ‘strongest man’, or whatever they think women want.”

Listening to Nancy talk about Steve trying to impress her almost made you giggle. Steve loved to show off, that was for sure, but Nancy was definitely getting the wrong idea. You bit back a grin at the memory of how Steve had fucked you from behind in the WSQK supply closet after, hard and fast with the adrenaline still pumping through his veins.

“So stupid,” you agreed. You had to slap your hand over your mouth when you felt Steve’s tongue finally delving between your folds, greedily tasting every inch of you, how sweet and wet you were. His fingers dug tightly into your thighs, fighting back his own groan of pleasure.

“Like a couple of neanderthals,” Nancy sighed. “And it’s making Jonathan into a total pain. He’s just moody all the time now, and it’s because Steve keeps provoking him. I mean, I know you’re close, but don’t you think Steve can be such a…a total ass?”

“Oh yeah, a total ass,” you said. Steve quickly wiped the playful grin off your face when he wrapped his lips around your clit, sucking, his fingers sliding between your folds again. The whimper escaped your lips before you could stop it, and you bit down on your hand hard enough to leave a mark when he pressed a long finger inside of you.

Your hips lifted off the bed, grinding against his face and hand like you were desperate for more of whatever he’d give you. He groaned so quietly you could barely hear it, but the vibrations against your aching clit had your thighs trembling. He slowly grinded his hips against the bed while he lapped at your cunt, a second finger sliding into you and curling deep inside.

Your hand with the phone dropped out to your side, Nancy’s voice still somehow audible as she continued on with her rant. You grabbed one of your pillows, holding it over your face and burying your moan in the stupid frilly pillowcase, heat coiling low in your belly. God, he was going to make you cum so hard with that stupid mouth of his.

Steve flicked his tongue over your clit again, fucking his fingers in deep until he was hitting that spot over and over again with a level of precision that only came with experience. It almost pissed you off, how quickly and perfectly Steve could make you fall apart.

Your orgasm was building fast. Your back was arching, body writhing on the bed, breaths coming in hot and heavy. Your thighs trembled around his head, and you let go of the phone to tangle your fingers in his messy hair, giving a sharp tug that made him groan even louder this time.

The vibrations from his moaning, his tongue working over your sensitive clit, and his thick fingers fucking you hard and deep were bringing you to the edge faster than you cared to admit, but it was the whimper he let out as he grinded his cock down hard against the bed that was your undoing.

You let go of his hair, both hands gripping the pillow and holding it tight over your face as you let out the most desperate, needy moans, loud enough that the whole house would have heard you. Steve worked you through it, making sure he drew out every last bit of pleasure, every tremor from your body, tongue working slowly now as he brought you back to earth.

The phone call had gone completely forgotten, until you heard Nancy calling your name over the line.

You pushed the pillow away, grabbing the handset and bringing it back to your ear. “Sorry, my mom needed something,” you said quickly, praying Nancy hadn’t heard any of the noises you had just made.

“Oh, it’s fine, I have to get going anyways. But I’ll see you tomorrow!”

You tried to catch your breath as relief flooded your body. “Yeah, of course. Goodnight, Nance.”

“Night!”

The line went dead, and your body visibly relaxed. Thank god she hadn’t noticed anything weird. Steve was still kissing your thighs, his hazel eyes looking up at you from between your legs with an intensity that made your heart thud hard against the wall of your chest.

The second the phone was back on the receiver, Steve crashed his lips to yours like he couldn’t take it for another second. You could taste yourself on his tongue when he licked into your mouth, kissing you in the most filthy, needy way. He bit at your bottom lip and you moaned, fingers digging into his biceps. He rutted his hips against your thigh as he kissed you, and you could feel every inch of him through the tight denim.

He pulled back from your body, lips and chin still wet with your release and his eyes glazed over with lust. He took in the sight of you, so wrecked and beautiful, laying there in nothing but the loose t-shirt you had stolen from his closet at some point.

“God, look at you,” he muttered. His fingertips traced over your skin with the kind of reverence reserved for something holy. “Jesus. You’re unreal.”

You wanted to scold him for the stunt he’d pulled while you were on the phone, wanted to tell him that was risky and stupid and would have been so embarrassing if Nancy had figured it out, but those thoughts quickly disappeared when he grabbed the bottom of his shirt, pulling it over his head and tossing it to your bedroom floor. You almost moaned as your eyes shamelessly raked over his chest, all lean muscle covered by that thick, dark hair you were way more into than you ever expected to be.

“See something you like?” he teased, calloused palm pushing your t-shirt up your body until your tits were exposed. Your nipples hardened in the air and he brushed his fingers over the stiff peaks of them, making you shudder.

“Steve…” you said, breathing his name like a plea. 

“Yeah, baby?” he asked, eyes never leaving your chest. He gripped your breast in his left hand, squeezing it - fit so perfectly in his hand, he thought - his thumb rubbing over your nipple.

“I need you,” you admitted in a whine. You hated letting him see how badly he affected you, because it always went straight to his big head, but you couldn’t help it. You pushed your hips down, grinding against his thigh, desperate for his touch even though he’d just made you cum on his tongue and fingers minutes ago.

“Fuck,” he hissed, pulling back from you as if he’d been burned. His hands moved to his jeans at lightning speed, the clink of his belt buckle loud in the quiet of the bedroom as he undid it as fast as he could. “I can’t- shit, I need to fuck you right now.”

He shoved his jeans and boxers down in one go, groaning as his thick, aching cock was finally freed. He kicked his pants off to the floor, wrapping a hand around himself and giving his cock a few quick strokes as he stared down at your body. He was so worked up from what you’d done, his tip flushed red and a drop of precum beading at his slit that made your mouth water.

Steve leaned over your body, leaning his weight on one strong arm planted above your shoulder while his other dragged the head of his cock through your folds. “I bet you liked that, didn’t you?” he said, his voice a low growl in your ear.

It took you a minute to realize he’d asked you a question, too busy focusing on the feeling of his cock pressing against your entrance, wishing he would just take you already. When he didn’t give you what you wanted, you opened your eyes, looking up at him. “What?”

“I said, I bet you liked that,” Steve murmured, pushing his cock inside just barely, not even a full inch, making you whimper as he pulled back out, “I bet you liked having to stay quiet so Nancy wouldn’t know what I was doing to you.” He dragged himself back up through your wetness, pressing against your clit. You drew in a gasp, grabbing onto his shoulders.

“Steve—“ you said, as firmly as you could manage when every nerve ending in your body felt like it was on fire. “You shouldn’t have done that, it was risky—“

“Your body doesn’t lie,” he hummed, leaning down to kiss along your collarbone, his tongue teasing your skin before sucking a mark onto the delicate flesh. “You were soaking my fingers, baby. I could feel you clenching around me every time you had to stay quiet.”

You shuddered beneath him, like his words sent a chill through you. All you could do was let out a quick exhale as you felt him at your tight hole again, and he gently rubbed his nose against your jawline, breathing in the scent of your body wash combined with the smell of sex.

“No one knows how fuckin’ filthy you are,” he groaned, his low voice rumbling against your skin. “No one knows how much you love getting fucked. No one but me.”

He moved his hips forward in a slow roll, his cock sinking into you inch by agonizing inch. You keened at the feeling, his cock stretching you out — more like splitting you open — and Steve groaned low in his throat, your tight heat enveloping his length like fucking heaven.

“Oh, fuck,” you rasped once he was fully seated inside you. Your thighs were shaking, and Steve gripped the plush skin, hiking your leg around his waist. His forehead dropped against yours, both breathing heavily as he rolled his hips against you, setting a pace that was slow but deep, punching the air from your lungs with each press.

Steve kissed you, only sweet for a moment before it turned hungry, bruising, massaging his tongue against yours and sucking your lower lip into his mouth. You whimpered, and Steve’s hips bucked forward, grunting against your lips as he lost his rhythm already.

“Fuck,” he hissed, pulling back to admire your body as he fucked into you. He couldn’t hold back anymore, hips rutting hard and fast against yours, watching your tits bounce with every thrust. Your bed creaked beneath the movements, joining the sound of the breathy moans you exchanged, his skin meeting yours. “You’re so fucking tight and hot — the best pussy I’ve ever had, baby, I swear to god—“

Your head dropped back, crying out as you felt that delicious drag of Steve’s thick cock in your velvety walls. Every ridge and vein of him, the way he was so big and curved just right, and he always knew the angle to fuck you at to hit that spot every single time.

“Yeah,” he gasped. “Oh, shit. Fuck, that turned you on, didn’t it baby?” His voice was a low rasp, and he grabbed your wrists with his free hand, pinning them above your head. The way it stretched your body pushed your tits out, and Steve groaned at the sight, momentarily distracted. “I think you like the idea of getting caught with me. I’ve never felt you so fuckin’ wet, Christ.”

As much as you wanted to deny his words, your body reacted on its own, pussy throbbing around his cock, making his pace falter and a choked moan break from his lungs.

“You don’t even have to tell me,” he grunted, wearing his best cocky smirk, although the flush on his cheeks and the way his features kept twisting into pleasure gave away how weak he was for you, too. “You’re— oh, shit—“

He let go of your wrists to grab your thigh and hold you open wider, sinking somehow deeper. You bit down on your lip so hard you tasted blood, trying not to be loud enough for your parents to come knocking. Steve’s tongue darted out to lick his lips as he looked down at you, the sweat shining on your skin, your furrowed brows and parted lips, the tiny little moans he was pulling from you with every movement.

“You are so fucking hot,” he groaned, almost to himself. “So beautiful. Fucking perfect. Made for me.”

“Yours,” you agreed, and the word had barely left your mouth before he was crashing his lips back onto yours, both moaning into the kiss, breathing each other’s air until your head spun.

You raked your nails down his back, long red scratches blooming against his freckled skin. Steve moaned raggedly, hips stuttering as he cursed out a breathy “Fuck,” against your lips.

Steve leaned back on his knees, his hands sliding down your sides before reaching your hips, holding onto you with a bruising grip. He pulled your hips down against his thrusts, using your body to chase his own pleasure, the muscles in his neck and chest tightening as he felt that familiar electricity crackling up his spine.

“Say my name, baby,” He rasped. He was so close. “I wanna know who’s making you feel this good.”

“Steve,” you moaned, reaching up and grabbing onto your pillows, desperate for some kind of leverage as you felt yourself about to fall over the edge. “Oh, god— fuck— Steve!”

Your eyes nearly rolled back in your head as it hit you like a wave, pleasure washing over your body like you’d never felt before. You buried your face in the pillow, muffling the scream you let out as your body tightened around him, squeezing his cock tight within your walls.

“Oh, sh- fuck!”

Steve’s body pitched forward with the intensity of his orgasm, catching himself on his right arm, his left hand gripping so tightly onto your thigh you knew there would be bruises. His hips stuttered against you, his cock pulsing inside your tight walls, filling you with every drop of his cum until he had nothing left.

He stayed buried in you, relishing in the feeling, before he finally pulled out, laying on the bed next to you. He was breathing hard as he wrapped an arm around you, pulling you against his sweaty chest.

You looked up at him, carding your hand through his messy hair. He hummed, leaning into your touch. He grabbed your wrist as you went to pull away, pulling you closer and kissing you with a surprising amount of tenderness after what you’d just done.

He pulled back enough to look you in the eyes with that grin that just screamed Steve and emotion clear as day in his hazel eyes. “I love you.”

Your heart raced, the way he was looking at you sending heat through your veins in a whole different way from before. “I love you too, Steve.”

His hand rested on your hip, tracing slow circles on your skin. “Maybe we should tell people. About us.”

“Yeah?” you asked, hand trailing through the hair on his chest. “You want that?”

“I do,” he said, leaning forward to place a kiss against your forehead. “We probably shouldn’t let Nancy keep thinking I’m obsessed with her when I’m doing this with you.”

You laughed, the memory of the phone call with Nancy making your cheeks heat with embarrassment. “Okay,” you agreed. “We’ll tell people.”

The idea of going public with Steve, everyone knowing you were much more than friends after years of insisting and proving otherwise, was a little scary. But more than that, you were excited. You wanted to be able to be affectionate with Steve in front of your friends. To kiss him, to hold his hand, to let everyone know how much you loved him.

“Does that mean you’re finally gonna leave Jonathan alone now that he knows you’re not after Nancy?” you asked with a teasing smile.

He looked down at you, his brows furrowed with the level of sass only Steve Harrington could achieve. “Now, I never said that.”

as always, comments and reblogs are so so appreciated!

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your solution lives in the room down the hall. he wears dorky glasses, refuses to cuss, and somehow hides his immaculate body underneath ill-fitting suits.

one drunken night promoted your farm-boy roommate to become your resident sleeping pill. and he's a sweetheart about it. of course, he is.

all you have to do is go to his room in the middle of the night and open the door. as a light sleeper, he immediately wakes up, blinking his groggy blue eyes open, looking awfully like a certain superhero -- that is, if superman could get bedhead.

one simple, "i can't sleep," and he'll lift the blankets to let you into the bed. you crawl in next to him, enjoying the natural heat of his body as he pulls you close. "sorry for waking you up..." you whisper, looking up at him.

"it's fine," his voice is deep and rough from sleep, "wasn't even sleeping that hard." that's a lie. you heard him snoring a bit before you came in.

"okay." you softly place a hand over his cheek, "can you help me sleep?" his hands tighten against your waist at the proposition.

"of course," clark murmurs quietly, already leaning in until his nose touches yours. you mirror the action, pressing your lips to his, melting against his soft lips. he takes his time, languidly moving his lips over yours and tasting your sweetness with a swipe of his tongue.

eventually, clark moves to pin you against his bed, kisses now traveling down from your lips to your neck. one hand supports him above you while the other explores your body. you let out a soft moan as he squeezes the fullness of your tits, his thumb dragging over your covered nipples until they're poking against your shirt.

"you're always so sensitive here." he whispers, pinching the hardened bud until your back arches in pleasure. "so needy..." he presses his hips against yours, forcing you to feel the bulge that's tenting the front of his pajama bottoms.

"fuck me to sleep, clark" you whine, attempting to grind yourself against his hardness.

"i'll take care of you," he reassures, placing a final kiss against your shoulder before flipping you over. your cheek presses against a pillow as he lifts your hips up so your ass is propped up to just the right angle. your sleep shorts are pulled off, revealing your bare lower body to the dark bedroom.

a warm hand drifts against your lower back, over the curve of your ass, and the top of your thighs. you feel him slowly spread your legs apart, just enough for him to see your slick opening glisten for him under the moonlight that streams into his room.

"just put it in."

"but we haven't pre--"

"please."

the bed rocks as he moves behind you. the sound of his pants being pushed down, followed by a familiar grunt as he takes himself in his hand, makes you press your thighs together in anticipation.

"tell me if it hurts..." he's already breathless as he pulls your hips up again and shoves a nearby pillow under you. you feel the warmth of his cock press against your slit, rubbing it against your wet entrance until it's lubricated enough to slip into you. he groans when he feels you flutter around him as he enters you slowly. "g-geez...ease up a bit."

"sorry, you're just...big." you wheeze, gripping the sheets under you as you try to get used to his size.

"i'm sorry, sweetheart." even with the apology, he continues to push in, cock throbbing as your cunt sucks him in. you're so warm, tight, and perfect around him, it takes everything for him to hold back from moving.

you're pretty sure you're drooling against the pillow when he finally bottoms out, filling you to the brim. your eyes struggle to stay open from the sheer amount of ecstasy that pulses through your body.

"you okay?" he asks sweetly, "can i...can i move?" the timid way he asks the question juxtaposes how his body is completely ruining you for anyone else.

"move," it comes out as a weak plea, "please, move."

he starts off slow and gentle, only pulling out halfway before pushing back in. each drag of his cock against your soft walls has your eyes rolling back. his size makes it so he's constantly pressing against your g-spot, stimulating places that you didn't even know you had.

"you're so soft 'nd pretty..." he rambles, a large hand pressing against the dip of your lower back to help him push in even further. "gonna give you what you need, honey." you choke out a whimper as he speeds up his thrusts. you can hear the wet sounds of him fucking into you, sloppy and obscene, probably making a mess of your thighs and the bed sheets.

you can't even prepare yourself for how quickly your climax hits you. the mixture of his soft grunts, the insistent grinding of his cock right against your front wall, and the way his hands pinned your body against the bed pushes you off the edge. suddenly, your body is shaking with hot pleasure, tightening around him as your eyes flutter closed.

"a-are you--" clarks hips stutter at the feeling, "oh, gee whiz, you're gonna make me--" his thrusts get sloppier until he reaches his end and finishes inside of you. it takes a second for him to recover from his orgasm, but once he does, he rolls off of you, breaths still heavy as he fondly looks over at your fucked-out body.

just like that, you're out like a light, sleeping soundly with a small satisfied smile on your face. he doesn't know how you do it. one minute you're moaning his name, the next you're in a deep sleep.

clark pulls the pillow out from under your hips and throws it off the bed so he can pull you against his body again and snuggle you close. you fit so perfectly in his arms, resting so peacefully -- and it's all thanks to him.

clark positions your hips so he can slip into you once again and feel the mess that he pumped into you. he can hear the slight hitching of your breath as he plugs up your messy cunt. knowing that he can make you feel good even when asleep makes him throb within your walls.

he presses your wrists into the mattress, spanning both with a single hand. the other slips beneath your lower back, lifting you slightly to angle you just so, tilting your pelvis until your body yields, and the thick head of his cock slides past resistance and into that aching, receptive place that only he can reach. he leans down and fucks into you even deeper, barely needing leverage. and the stretch burns in the sweetest way, your velvety walls fluttering helplessly around him as he settles fully inside. he touches where your own fingers couldn’t dream of reaching, and you swear you can feel him in your stomach—though the rational part of your brain insists that’s impossible. the whole time, his sky-blue gaze never strays from yours. clark never looks more in love than when he’s fucking you face-to-face.

prone bone is his answer to your worst behavior. when you’re riding the edge of insolence—petulant, flashing him that do-something-about-it-mr-superman smile as if the hero in question isn’t already thinking about fucking the brattiness out of you. he simply hauls you to the bedroom and lays you flat, one palm braced between your shoulder blades, the impossible weight of his body blanketing yours. you squirm halfheartedly, a little breathy clark slipping from your throat that sounds more performative than penitent. he lowers his chest to your back, mouthing kisses along the cartilage of your ear. you feel the flex of his abdomen each time his hips grind forward, cockhead sliding slick through your folds—leisurely, almost casual. this is the position where you feel all of him. your body opens by instinct, pussy yielding to the stinging pressure of his cock pushing in, deeper, deeper—until your lower belly tightens under the stretch. he’s merciless. slow, yes, but also inexorable. every thrust carefully angled to keep you just on the brink without ever letting you fall. his cock pressed flush to that tender spot inside you that aches when he withdraws and throbs when he returns. you’re caught in the exquisite ache of it, the slow torture of being filled past capacity and held there. because you asked for this. clark never withholds what you need.

mating press is for when he’s been gone too long. off-world emergencies, global catastrophes. days—sometimes entire weeks—where he’s had to wear the mantle of saviour instead of simply being your lover. and when he finally returns, he folds you beneath him, knees pulled tight to your chest, ankles resting over his shoulders like a promise he’s come back for good. his cock pushes in sinfully deep, every inch filling you in a familiar way that resonates through your whole body—stealing the air from your lungs and thus robbing your voice before you can form a sound. you lose track of how many times you’ve cum, and still, clark holds your thighs apart as he fucks the loneliness out of himself. hips pounding into the mess between your legs, his brow furrowed in grief because hurts to be away from you that long. his voice breaks when he tells you how he missed you. words fail to reach your lips because you’re fucked so deep it feels cervical, whole galaxies exploding behind your eyes. when he cums, it’s a guttural, raw release—spilling inside you, just as your walls fluttering and sucking him deeper, pulsing in perfect, thunderous synchrony with his own hammering heart. clark can never bear being away from you for too long.

reflection: this... this fucking story... it took me so long to get to and then it took me so long to write. i had to rewrite the beginning since i lost part of it copying and pasting shit back and forth. it had complications as well during the editing process. so i'm glad it's DONE cause i will not be looking at this again for a very long time.

take heed: cursing, meddling friends, established relationship, tyrant!carmy, fluff, discussions of red flags, s3!carmy (since this is when i started this), richie and carmen beef, fighting, arguing, mentions and depictions of physical violence, fluff, soft!carmy, carmy in love, referenced and implied sex, police, carmen and richie get arrested, handcuffs, subby!carmy, needy!carmy, smut, lack of as well as effective communication, praise, creampie.

word count: 8,224

I know I have good judgment, I know I have good taste. It’s funny and it’s ironic that only I feel that way. I promise ‘em that you’re different and everyone makes mistakes. But just… don’t.

A racing bead slides down your glass of water, condensation creating a slight ring on your coaster, the ice clattering as it sinks further into the instrument. The lemon perched on the rim isn’t all that interesting, but that’s where your gaze rests as Christie complains about her boyfriend and his complete lack of romance in her relationship. Emily reassures her, how she’s too good for him, how she needs to have a talk with her incompetent boyfriend of three years. Julie’s the only one actually eating, cutting into her steak, carefree as can be.

You’re hyper aware of Carmen’s hand on your thigh, his thumb stroking back and forth. You steal a single glance to see he’s trying to focus on what she’s saying, but he has his other hand over his mouth, his eyes half-lidded. You’re pretty sure he’s close to falling asleep, but he’s doing his best to be polite for your sake.

Just then, a few chimes startle you, giving a slight jump. It ceases Christie’s ranting, heads shifting in unison, spotlighting you and Carmen. That’s the last thing you want.

“S’me, sorry,” Carmen mumbles, removing his hand from your thigh to retrieve his phone from his pocket. He looks down at his device, eyebrows knitting together.

“Gotta take this. Be right back.”

He stands up from the table, phone in hand, and offers the girls a small smile and a wave. Then he kisses your cheek and leaves towards the exit of the restaurant. His absence weighs heavy as you follow his path all the way until he’s out the door. Instantly, you feel eyes on you, mapping them from your peripheral vision.

Bracing yourself, you slowly turn back. Christie and Emily are staring your way, Julie still locked in on finishing her food. As a means to hold off their impending attack, you grab your water and drink from it, keeping your eyes on the table. The cool liquid helps soothe your throat, which feels a bit itchy from the nerves creeping up your body.

You lower the glass, tapping the side of it. You flicker your eyes up, and yes, they are still looking at you.

“Oh come on, don’t start,” you huff, immediately on the defense.

“Are you kidding? Him? Really?” Christie utters, seemingly ready to do just that.

“He’s a good guy! I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You feign ignorance and shrug your shoulders for good measure.

“Did he have to send your plate back three times?” Christie argues regardless.

“Well… He has his own restaurant, so he has high standards.”

Just by looking at your cut, he could tell that the cook was off. It wasn’t what you ordered so it makes sense to you that he’d pick up on it and tell the waiter to have the cooks get it right. Carmen merely wanted you to have what you wanted in the first place… that’s a considerate trait!

“Doesn’t excuse his shitty manners with the waiter,” Emily adds. You do cringe a little at that.

“Red flag,” Christie says, to which Emily nods along, her expression pitying.

Carmen wasn’t rude to the waiter exactly, more so responding to the visible agitation forming on the server’s face in continuously returning only to be told of another issue. That would irritate anybody, but you’re somewhat stuck on how you can word this explanation without sounding like you’re in denial of what they’re trying to tell you. You can’t help but wonder if this is what other women sound like with shitty boyfriends, if there’s something you refuse to pick up on.

You swallow thickly as you look at Christie and then at Emily, and then back at Christie, and back to Emily. You need to speak and stop them from verbally stoning your man and do so without rejecting their worries entirely.

Seeing your indecisive panic, Julie lifts her head.

“I like that he spoke up for you,” Julie chimes, a little muffled from the piece of steak she places into her mouth.

You glance at her in relief, a small smile forming itself onto your lips. At least she’s not joining in on your crucifixion.

“Thank you, Julie,” you state graciously.

“Sure, but something’s gotta be wrong if the most he’s talked is to complain about the food and service,” Christie bites back.

Emily snaps her fingers and points to Christie in an annoying physical gesture of agreement. It’s not fair. They’re judging Carmen rather harshly. He has his quirks, but it doesn’t mean he’s a bad guy. He looks out for you. He cares about you. He wouldn’t make a fuss over nothing.

“Are you fuckin’ kiddin’ me right now, Nat? That’s great. Oh so fuckin’ great, just what I needed,” Carmen’s muffled voice breaches past the glass of the window next to your table with the girls. Their heads fly up and stare at him and then at you.

Fuck.

“The one night I’m not there. S’all goin’ to shit!”

“He’s… he’s a chef. That’s how they talk sometimes,” you murmur in a small, less confident tone than before. Even Julie scratches the side of her face awkwardly without coming to your cover.

“Nah, fuck you! I’m on my way. Don’t do anythin’ stupid.”

You merely take another long sip from your glass of water. You hate the knowing looks on Christie and Emily’s faces. But what probably aches more is the sympathy etched on Julie’s.

I heard that you’re an actor, so act like a stand-up guy. Whatever devil’s inside you, don’t let him out tonight. I tell them it’s just your culture and everyone rolls their eyes. Yeah, I know. All I’m asking, baby—

After the fiasco at dinner a week ago with your friends, you haven’t talked to any of them. There’s too much triumph in Christie and Emily and the last thing you want is to hear them gloat about how right they were about your new guy. It’s why you were so hesitant to introduce him in the first place. It’s not that Carmen isn’t a good boyfriend because he really is sweet with you, but you know there’s traits to him that would turn others off if they didn’t know him like you do.

It was his insistence to tag along on the outing with your friends, illustrating how important they are to you, and therefore he wanted to go. You knew you should’ve just cancelled on the girls, but you also couldn’t think of an excuse to tell Carmen. He didn’t budge when you attempted to persuade him to stay in. He took it as you being ashamed for a moment and while you do have your doubts, you hate the idea of hurting him more than anything else.

Julie’s disappointment, however, has sat with you since then. Carmen hasn’t contacted you since that night when you dropped him off at the restaurant while he spewed soft apologies and kissed your lips through the window. You hang onto that moment through the red flags Julie laid out for you in a text you read but didn’t answer. None of them saw how he didn’t want to go into work. None of them saw his mouth stained with your lipstick. None of them saw him going back for more, his thumb fix the smudged pigment, his frame lingering longer against your car door than he should’ve with his kitchen in need of him.

None of them saw him in need of you despite his responsibilities.

Conflicted, you fall backward into your bed and stare up at the ceiling. A familiar sting floats throughout your eyes, admittedly missing your man and simultaneously giving weight to the concerns of your friends in his absence. That’s when your phone chimes, a text on your lock screen.

Hey, baby. Have you eaten? Want to come down to the restaurant?

Please, please, please don’t prove I’m right. And please, please, please don’t bring me to tears when I just did my makeup so nice. Heartbreak is one thing, my ego’s another. I beg you don’t embarrass me, motherfucker.

The crescendo of chaos escalates steadily with every step you take into the tumultuous state of the kitchen ahead. Hesitation prohibits you from walking confidently in, cringing from the mix of sounds, from pots clanging to voices growing louder and louder. You recognize the various personalities and you hate how easily you pinpoint the distinct tone of Carmen’s in the cacophony you join into.

“Just get him the fuck out of here before he pisses me the fuck off!” Carmen grits, close to screaming from the volume he adopts.

“And this is you calm, jagoff? He was tryin’ to help your sorry ass. Forgot you don’t know how to accept that shit,” Richie gripes back.

“You wanna do this now? Here? In the middle of fuckin’ service? Don’t you have a fuckin’ circus to host or somethin’ out there to make us all look like clowns? Go do whatever the fuck it is you do.” Carmen is seething, unbridled anger and passion pouring out of him in waves.

“Fuck you, you fuckin’ baby,” Richie shoots. He places a hand onto Fak’s shoulder. You notice Fak’s befallen expression, most likely the reason Carmen and Richie are arguing the way they are as Sydney maintains enough composure to not snap her pen in half.

Speaking of baby—

“Baby, you came,” Carmen gentles his speech, immediately approaching you with the fire absent in his voice. The way he saunters towards you indicates the shift in character.

“The drive alright? No trouble?”

He greets you with a peck onto the corner of your mouth. The closer he becomes, the more you smell ingredients on him. Something savory, something bitter, the underlying hint of sweat, oil, grease, cologne you bought him. His hand envelopes yours, his long digits occupying the spaces between yours like they belong there. They mold like they always have.

“No trouble,” you confirm slowly. You can’t help but think back to all the things your friends said, but then again, he’s being so delicate with you. Glass in his hold in the midst of clashing horns and bullheaded egos.

“You’ll run into trouble messin’ with him,” Richie gruffs as he navigates Fak to the swinging door connecting to the dining area, “good to see you, sweetheart.”

Carmen rolls his eyes.

“Don’t call her that,” he blurts in agitation.

“Ignore him. C’mere,” again softening his voice as he starts to lead you away from the mess of the kitchen.

You follow him into his office, sit down into the chair he guides you into. As he steps back, he pushes a dry hand anxiously through his slick curls, then it joins the other on his hips. There’s papers sprawled on top of his desk, the eyes of food critics watching you both, but he focuses on you alone.

“The Faks put those up,” he explains firstly.

“I have a new dish for you to try. It’s a fuckin’ mess out there, but the food’s good, I promise.”

He departs before you can ask what it is, how he’s been, where he’s been for that matter. You understand he’s in work mode, transitioning back and forth between being your doting boyfriend and a stressed, manic chef.

You twiddle your thumbs in your lonesome as you observe the disorganized papers, his messy scrawling in the margins, the flickering table lamp hanging on by its last legs of the bulb’s life. You try to ignore the feeling being here gives, the intense one of being watched, the many eyes of the critics above haunting you in a way you can’t describe. It makes you wonder how much they stress Carmen out.

“Door!” Carmen robotically calls as he enters back into the office. For a moment, the kitchen’s volume reaches your ears, and then it fades to a gentle hum once the door closes again.

“Here, beautiful. Tell me what you think. Honest opinions only.”

He sets the plate of food into the space in front of you, stepping back to let you have it. You glance at the concoction below, steam simmering from the top of the delicately prepared fish and a sauce you don’t recognize. Actually, a lot of what Carmen cooks and talks about tends to fly over your head, nodding along as you sit pretty on his counter at his apartment and he yaps over what ingredients go well together and how to improve dishes. You love watching him in his element, with his passion, and he’s good at this shit; you trust his skill and judgment.

As you reach for your fork, he suddenly jolts to the plate.

“Fuck, hold on,” he mutters.

He wipes the sauce off the rim of the plate with his thumb, observing it for any other blemishes before he nods and steps away once more.

“There. It’s perfect now, go ahead.”

Is this because Carmen is a perfectionist? Is it an obsessive tendency of his? Or is it because he wants everything to be perfect for you? Is that naive to think? Shit, your friends have gotten too much to your head.

You wait an additional five seconds, offering him the interlude to create another change if he needs it. He sheepishly tilts his chin in acknowledgment, realization dawning on him of his tedious action. You grin at him in amusement to dispel any worries, and like clockwork, the lines in his forehead lessen.

You then cut a piece of the fish, your fork sliding through the tender meat easily, like melted butter. Dousing it in the accommodating sauce, you lift it and then take your official bite. Flavors dance in your mouth as you chew, your tongue satisfied with your choices, your belly appeasing the soft growling it undertook before you came here.

“It’s amazing, Carmy,” you say once you swallow.

“Really?” he asks. You love how much he values your opinion, how he seems to light up with your validation.

“I love it,” you confirm with a nod, already cutting another portion for yourself. He eyes the next piece you deliver into your mouth, an eased smile forming on his lips as he sees your mirthful expression.

“Think we can add it, then. S’got your approval.” He leans over and presses a kiss onto the top of your head. Tingly, fluttering swarms of wings brush your stomach.

Carmen presses his back to the wall as you continue to eat, doing so with more enthusiasm now that he’s not completely focused on watching you eat out of respect. He does, however, steal his not-so-sneaky glances as you make work of finishing his dish.

“So, uh, Richie was talkin’ about this bar,” Carmen begins to say. You look up with a mouthful of food, your hand hovering above your lips as you chew, unsure of where he’s going with this.

“And I know neither of us are that big on drinkin’, but… since I bailed on you and your friends the other day, maybe we can go next Sunday ‘fore the holiday and invite them?”

That’s not what you expected from him whatsoever. You even chew your food slower as you stare at him, attempting to hide the disbelief, and the nerves scattering throughout your system. Your friends didn’t exactly have a good impression of him, and he ignored you for a week since then, so you’re conflicted for a number of reasons. Your creased eyebrows must convey some of that conflict.

“I didn’t mean to leave like that and I should’ve called you the day after, but it slipped my mind. You know how bad I am at usin’ my phone,” he explains at a quicker pace than his suggestion’s slow utterance.

You sigh, placing your fork down as you clear the food from your mouth.

“Carmy—”

“Shh, shh, shh, no Carmy,” he defends, hands raising.

“Lemme make it up to you. You can tell them that drinks’ll be on me and… and I’ll be better ‘bout callin’ and textin’. I’ll fuckin’ annoy you if I have to.”

Ugh. When he says things like this, with those pleading eyes, it’s hard to listen to logic. You didn’t plan on addressing it, Carmen being the one to bring it up. You wonder how long he’s thought about it, if he realized his mistake early, and spent a majority of the week characteristically worrying if he fucked up, in turn not calling or messaging you.

“I’m sorry, baby. I’m so sorry,” he goes on when you don’t readily respond.

“Let’s have a nice night. You can get all dressed up and do your makeup and your friends’ll be taken care of—I’ll take care of you. I’ll text you every day, I’ll call in the middle of a rush, just… let me fix it. I can fix it.”

The apology you waited for is presented to you almost with a neat bow as Carmen fidgets, visibly distressed by the idea of you being upset with him. The corners of his inner eyebrows are turned upwards, his muscles seemingly vibrating from his inability to hold still, and he shifts from one foot to the next, back and forth, his nerves frayed. While you’re skeptical, this can be advantageous.

This may be an opportunity to rectify your friends’ judgement of Carmen. A do over. A way to show them what a great guy he really is.

He did, after all, make you a really good meal, and he commonly does this for you. Not a lot of men cook, and not a lot of people are as good at it as Carmen is. His temper may flare, but he’s still sweet and affectionate. He lingers for more of your kisses, he apologized, and he’s promising to do better. This is the one you’re head over heels for.

Why did you ever have any doubts?

“… Okay, okay. We can go. I’ll message the group chat. I don’t think any of them will turn down free drinks.”

His smile breaks loose, stilling his jostling body. Then he surges forward and plants kisses all over your face as you laugh.

“Thanks, for trustin’ me. You won’t regret it,” he expresses with a relieved sigh.

“I better not,” you murmur as he continues to kiss your forehead, your eyebrow, your cheekbone.

He works his way down to your mouth. You want to protest because of the sea bass, but he doesn’t care, muffling your words through attaching your mouths together. It’s a string of kisses first, celebratory pecks, and then each one grows in length. He eventually seals his mouth over yours with purpose, indulging in a deeper connection, nose bumping yours as your heads shift.

This is more like it. Your faith in Carmen feels rewarded and endorsed. All in all, he’s a good boyfriend. You tend to remind yourself of how new to this he is, having previously explained to you how he never had a relationship as serious as this one. It’s where some of your grace comes from. Because he’s trying his best. Your friends will see exactly how amazing he—

A knock on the door disrupts your heavy kissing with Carmen. Carmen breaks away with a disgruntled sound.

“What?” he shouts, your ears ringing from the sudden raise in volume, his anger of being interrupted prominent.

“You gonna come back to work, dickhead? Sugar’s lookin’ for ya’,” Richie grumbles through the door.

Carmen rolls his eyes, obtaining one more peck for the road.

“Keep eatin’. Come get me when you’re done. Marcus’s dessert today’s fire.”

He backs off and you watch as he reenters work mode, opening the door.

“I can’t have five fuckin’ minutes to myself,” he heaves as the door swings closed.

Please, please, please.

“Do you want to go out for breakfast?” Carmen asks, in the middle of kissing up your neck. Each one sends tremors throughout your body, almost erasing your thoughts in the early morning.

He spent the night, rushed to your place as soon as he got off work, intending to be glued to your side as much as he can be now that he’s back in your good graces. It’s his day off and tonight, you’re both supposed to meet up with your friends as well as Richie, Gary, Sydney, Marcus, and hopefully only one Fak.

Although breakfast at a restaurant sounds nice, your head travels back to the outing with your friends when Carmen sent the food back numerous times. Does that mean he’ll do that this morning? No, but you also have no idea what his behavior will be like tonight, so you’d much rather stay in where it’s just you and him, keeping him all to yourself.

“Let’s stay here,” you say, hands cupping his face to regain his attention before he descends and spends a long time with his mouth on your breasts.

“You sure?”

“Uh huh. I have toaster waffles.”

He laughs at that, grasping your wrists, and then kissing both of your palms. You enjoy the sound of Carmen’s laughter immensely. If anyone should feel at ease and well within mirth, it’s him. His job is so demanding and he tends to stress at every turn.

“Or we can have actual homemade waffles. Got a waffle iron?”

Leave it to Carmen to reject the easy suggestion for you to eat. You’re positive you’ve seen the same toaster waffles in his freezer. He frets because it’s you, a fact that garners a fuzziness in your head and chest simultaneously, a fever of sentiment.

“You shouldn’t cook on your day off,” you mumble.

“You gonna do it?”

You huff a little. A grin spreads onto your features. You cook for yourself all the time, but you shy away from cooking for Carmen. You’re scared of his reaction and what he might say, if he’ll judge you too hard.

“… We should go out for breakfast,” he repeats after you don’t respond right away. He starts to get up off your body.

You groan, reach for his shoulders, and push him onto his back. The sudden switch in positions alerts him, grasping your hips as you wind up straddling him. There’s zero fight in him in this transition of events, pliant beneath you, curious as he observes you from where he is.

“We’re going to go out later. So we should stay in.”

“What? There a limitation on how many times we can go out today?” He asks in amusement.

“No… but I don’t want to get ready yet,” you further excuse.

“But if you get ready now, you’ll be ready for later. Probably just have to change.”

“And wear a full face of makeup for almost twelve hours straight?” You groan in response. Carmen playfully rolls his eyes.

He cups one side of your face, his thumb petting your cheek. It’s the way he looks at you that calms the anxiety inside of you. It’s reverent, admiring, tranquil. Reserved for you alone.

“We can get somethin’ fast. Don’t gotta wear any makeup. I’ll let you wear my sunglasses and the hoodie you stole.”

You offer a sheepish expression at the mention of his hoodie. He’s not buying it, his grin morphing into a smirk.

“It’s too hot out to wear my hoodie,” you mutter, purposely referring to his hoodie as yours with great emphasis. By the grip that tightens on your hip, you think he’s debating flipping your positions again.

“Startin’ to think you’re avoidin’ goin’ out with me.”

You do your best to deadpan, guilt pooling in your stomach at his teasing, and yet painfully accurate accusation. It’s about damage control. You still have the unknown of tonight to face so you don’t want to confront anything similar until then if you can help it. But you can’t tell Carmen any of this. It would end up hurting his feelings and you have to configure your currently wavering faith in his character first. You hope tonight will offer that clarity.

By doing it this way, there’s a strong chance a negative perception will really challenge the way you see Carmen. That’s scary to think about because even with the possible prediction, you’re not ready to let go of Carmen whatsoever. He’s a good boyfriend and you care about him deeply. Who knows what tonight will entail.

For now, you fix your face, take his wrist from your cheek, kiss the inside of his hand, grasp his other wrist from your hip, and then slowly pin his arms above his head. At the gradual motion, his eyebrows raise, and his smirk lessens into a line that ultimately parts in anticipation.

“Can’t a girl keep her man to herself for a little longer?” You ask in a whisper, a sultry note possessing your thought-out words.

“W-What about b-breakfast?” He stutters, affected and tensing as you begin to kiss down his neck. His reactions when you turn things on him are always so visceral.

“I do have a waffle iron. We can cook after.”

The allusion causes his breath to hitch, or maybe it’s how you’re nipping at his pulse point, soothing the ache with your tongue. The beats against the pink muscle steadily increase.

“After…?” He asks with a knowing gulp, surrendering in seconds, if his head tilting back to grant you further access isn’t any indication.

“After.”

Well, I have a fun idea, babe. Maybe just stay inside. I know you’re craving some fresh air, but the ceiling fan is so nice. And we could live so happily if no one knows that you’re with me. I’m just kidding… kinda, but really, really—

Red and blue flash back and forth on your downfallen face, highlighting the pretty gloss on your lips, ping ponging from one side to the next, flirting with the idea of mixing into indigo. Your arms are crossed against your chest as if it’ll shield you from the disappointment festering within you, but the sting is sharp and internal, and a thick knot expands in your throat that you can’t seem to swallow. People are watching you. They’re looking at the spectacle, passing snide remarks back and forth, laughing unabashedly at your expense since a majority are drunk. You do your best to ignore it, keep your gaze ahead as they cuff Carmen and lead him towards the police vehicle.

He meets your gaze, one eye swollen, but both are remorseful. Carmen looks like he wants to say something, but he seems defeated, and you’re sure it has to do with the despondency written on your features. He drops it, hangs his head, slumps his shoulders, and lacks any sign of resistance as he steps into the back of the car and the officer closes it up behind him.

You feel the presence of your friends nearby, their eyes on the back of your head. Things had been going so well, from dancing and laughing to the drinks shared, Carmen much more comfortable with his own friends there to help him relax. That is until he walked off with Richie to get more drinks and then suddenly they were fighting with some men at the bar, the cops were called, and now you’re praying neither of them have to spend a night in jail.

But you can’t avoid this forever. You slowly turn around to face your friends. The only one not smirking at you is Julie, who looks genuinely sympathetic.

“… Go ahead,” you say. Your voice, despite the few tears that slipped from your eyes, is solid.

“Look, we hate to say we told you so,” Christie states, seemingly jumping at the opportunity to do just that. Emily nods her bobble head along with her words.

“Can you guys not do this right now? He’s still in the fucking car,” Julie huffs. You appreciate her defense. Especially since your own fight is currently dimming from how ridiculous you feel.

Embarrassment swirls in your stomach along with the revolting churn of anxiety and fear. You don’t know what’s going to happen, you hate how hurt Carmen is, physically from the violence and visibly emotional from your demeanor. You hate that they were right… and how much you want to march up to the officers and argue for Carmen’s immediate release.

“We didn’t tell her to date a criminal!” Emily jabs back. Somehow, you don’t flinch from how she put it, too worn out to do so.

Julie, on the other hand, is reaching up for her earrings.

Sydney lightly jogs her way over to where you are. She places a hand onto your arm.

“Hey, we’re gonna split up the cars and drive down to the station. Do you wanna ride with me?”

Sydney’s appearance quells the impending tension. Julie lowers her hands from her right ear, glaring at Christie and Emily who seemed just as ready for an altercation despite the cops still being so close by.

Turning away from them to fully face Sydney, you inhale a deep breath. Your shoulders are high in the air as you hold it and debate on what you should say to her, warring in your mind between anger and consideration and some excuse. She lifts an eyebrow at your hesitation.

“Uh… I… I don’t know if… I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

Sydney straightens up, tilting her head. She seems to think about what she’s about to say and how she’s going to say it from how she pauses to regard you.

“Why not?”

Because it’s fucking complicated. You’ve defended Carmen to your friends on more than one occasion and on their second outing with him, he gets arrested. They’ve told you how he has his red flags, how he doesn’t appear to have longevity in terms of your relationship lasting. You don’t want to grant any of it any merit, but you were already worried about tonight. Even in your worse case scenario, you didn’t see this coming. The unpredictable nature of it is another element for you to consider.

Yet, you care about Carmen so much. You don’t know why he got into that fight. You do, however, know that he’s bruised and injured, and he had every intention of making tonight better than his initial meeting with your friends.

It doesn’t make any sense. He’s so sweet to you. He’s not a perfect boyfriend, but he always tries his best. He learns from his mistakes and he promises to do better—to be better for you.

“What did you tell the cop?” You ask, needing to stray from her inquiry. She had, after all, recounted her story from seeing it go down.

“Um… Basically that the asshole with the mullet was saying something about his friend who almost died ‘cause of something Richie did in the past, Carm and Richie tried to calm shit down, and then mullet-asshole threw the first punch,” she explains quickly, like she just wants to hit the key points.

“I don’t know, they asked me a lot of questions about it. I just want to go and make sure they’re okay. Are you coming with or not?”

You understand her impatience with the situation. Her friends are locked up in the back of a police vehicle and she has to retell what she told the cop after standing around with him for twenty minutes, almost the full half hour. But now that you have more details, you feel relief overtake your system.

You steal a glance back at your “friends” and Julie. Christie and Emily seem to have heard it loud and clear since they avoid your gaze and look away with annoyed expressions. Julie’s the only one smirking.

Turning back to Sydney, you decide it’s time to stop being on the fence. You should’ve known Carmen wouldn’t start a physical fight out of the blue without reason.

“I’m coming.”

If you wanna go and be stupid, don’t do it in front of me. If you don’t wanna cry to my music, don’t make me hate you prolifically.

“You’re not mad?” Carmen asks quietly, boyish as he shifts in his seat.

“No. I get it. You were helping your family.”

You, Sydney, Gary, Marcus, and Fak put the money together on the spot to bail out Carmen and Richie since there weren’t any severe injuries obtained and mullet-asshole, as so affectionately nicknamed by Sydney, corroborated with what Sydney told the officers and what Carmen and Richie defended themselves with. The car ride back was rather quiet, and you know Carmen was simply processing everything, but you held onto his hand for the entirety. He slowly relaxed and even held onto you tighter a quarter of the way in.

“And if I wasn’t?”

Carmen’s bruised eye twitches as your gaze meets his. He appears to be so vulnerable right now, and not just because of your current positions. His question could mean a lot of things, but you’re sure it’s in inference to the way you were looking at him as the police took him in.

“… I should’ve stuck by you tonight, I’m sorry. You needed me and I was shutting down because…”

“Because…?”

You play with the metal in your hands, shifting it back and forth. Carmen’s eyes flick to them in anticipation and then back to your features.

“Because I let my friends’ judgement of you get to me,” you say slowly, incredibly reluctant since you don’t want to upset him.

His shoulders sag a little, looking down into his lap. Thought writes itself on his face, what he debates on saying aloud. Carmen is an expert at living in his head. You really hope tonight doesn’t make him think he has to draw back into his shell that was already difficult to penetrate.

“Oh… Yeah, yeah, they don’t like me very much, do they?”

You step close, the revelation intriguing you.

“You knew?”

“Saw the looks they gave you at dinner before you took me to the restaurant. Didn’t look very approvin’.”

It dawns on you, Carmen’s absence after that night. He waited to get back in touch with you and now you’re positive it’s because of the dampened impression he left on your friends, and not just because of his bad habit of using his phone. That’s probably why he insisted on inviting them.

Not only was it a do over for you, it was a do over for him.

“Oh, baby… I’m so sorry. I should’ve told you.”

Something possesses you in that moment, against rhyme and reason, prematurely sliding yourself into his lap. With the addition of your body straddling him and obstructing his previous view, he looks at you with a shake of his head. His arms wind around your waist and he pulls you in closer.

“S’okay, seriously. I get why you didn’t. Truth sucks sometimes.”

You sigh, giving your head a shake of your own.

“No, fuck that. It was stupid of me to ever doubt you. I don’t care what they think. You’re an amazing guy and I’m so fucking lucky to have you in my life.”

Carmen seems shocked to hear your defense of him. But his lips curve upwards at the corners, his smile slight, but all the more impactful.

“Besides, Julie likes you. Should’ve seen how she was about to fight Christie and Emily like you did tonight,” you muse, pecking the tip of his nose. The chuckle that comes from him helps ease the ache in your chest for putting him in this mindset.

“Then she’s my favorite of your friends. I can do without the other two.”

He’s not the only one. If this experience tells you anything, it’s how you don’t need to hang out with certain people anymore, and that doesn’t include Carmen.

“Believe me, they’re not my friends.”

His smile fades a bit. Thought crosses his features as he draws circles on the small of your back with his index and middle fingers.

“You sure? I don’t want you to lose out on people ‘cause of me.”

Sincerity embeds his tone. It’s sweet. Christie and Emily talked down on his character and he wavers to see if you’ll give them another chance. Carmen trusts what you think and it’s very clear he wants you to be happy, even if he doesn’t always show that correctly. His intentions have always been pure.

Your head comes forward and you peck kisses onto his lips. He kisses you back after the first, maintaining as much of a connection as he possibly can between every one. His breath pets you, his mouth chases, parts for more of what you have to give. If you wanted to, you could distract him from this conversation, completely deter him from the heavy speech to what he asked for before you started talking like this.

“The only way I’d be losing out is if I lost you,” you whisper.

It’s the truest thing you can utter at this moment. You don’t mind losing fake friends. You can do that without a doubt or regret and losing Carmen would be the biggest of all.

The corners of his eyes crinkle, his grin reforming, dimples evident. He lifts his hands to cup your face as he pulls you in for another kiss. This one is not short-lived, deepening from the tilts of your heads, the tantalizing feeling of your tongues entering with satisfied hums. His starts from his chest, rumbles, reverberates up his throat to your mouth.

“Still want to play…?” you ask breathlessly.

He peers at you from under his rising upper eyelids, not answering you with his words, but his grip on your face loosens. You follow his queue and accept the reins, the transition of control, shifting your thighs open wider to adjust your position on top of him. As you do, you grasp his wrist and guide it behind the chair. He saves you the trouble of putting the other one there, joining that hand, both waiting for your next action.

He’s so fucking good for you, you can’t help but surge for another kiss. It’s messier, includes more tongue, your teeth on his lips so you can elicit groans and needier sounds from him. They rise in pitch as your hips undulate into his, his clothed erection pressed against your center, and despite the layers of clothing separating the two of you, there’s heat from his swollen length that screams of his inner desire.

You reach behind him with the aforementioned metal and then you begin to slide the pieces into place. One cool loop around his wrist, blindly winding, a ticking noise, and then the definitive click. Carmen slides lower in his seat to buck his hips up into yours. At the same time, the second click resounds, his handcuffs officially on and subduing him to the chair.

And there’s only word that leaves his lips in a groan against yours.

Please, please, please (please).

If there’s one thing Carmen has trouble doing, it’s relinquishing control. Back in the car, once you parked, he asked for you to take it from him, trust in the sea of his irises as he awaited a response. You momentarily debated declining his request because of everything that went down, with him and his complex emotions of the night in mind, but it’s hard to say no to someone with a gaze that intense, that beckoning, that loving. You hadn’t even talked about anything yet and he was willing to ask for something he wanted—needed from you. And after all this time you’ve spent wrongfully doubting him, your acceptance came from a place of offering him what he deserved.

You never should’ve doubted him. This is your repentance.

“F-fuck,” he gasps, nails digging into his palms.

“Why’re y’so tight?” He slurs his words, automatically moving his lips against yours when you initiate soft kisses.

As you do, a pleasant burn radiates across your thighs, splayed wide open atop his lap. He expands further while lodged inside of you, his girth pulsing, inches nudging your walls past their limit of give. You don’t move, smiling against his lips as he whimpers, holding still as you continue to kiss him so gently that you hear the clink of his rustling cuffs behind him. This is Carmen being obedient, needing you to give more, but you’re just getting started. He knows better than to be so greedy straight out the gate. He has to thoughtfully pick his battles, saving his voice that strains in noises as you purposely clamp on him, clutch him tighter. He attempts to hide his punched out sound by sucking your bottom lip, head moving forward, eager for what’s promised.

“I wasn’t this tight this morning?” You ask as you retract your mouth from his. He makes another sound, no longer able to veil himself using a kiss.

“You were. Don’t know how you still are.”

You grin and start to deliberately roll your hips. His tip is right where it needs, notched up into a spot that has you moan as you reunite with his cock and slide down. Carmen inhales sharply, the veins in his arms protruding beneath his raised skin like a snake slithering across the floor, muscles rendered useless in their efforts of pulling on the requested restraints. The breath in his lungs departs from his lips in the same fashion of the smoke he takes in after a difficult shift: relieved, soothed, and searching for the next puff. While you’re not made of nicotine, he chases after your mouth like you are, growing in volume as you pull it away and leave him vulnerable to the noises he can’t suppress. The pinch between his brows displays pain, but as his lips part further and he struggles to keep his eyes open, you know it’s not that. It’s pleasure he’s desperately trying to accept.

“You’re killin’ me, oh fuck—”

Please, please, please (please).

Because you won’t let him kiss you, his head falls into your neck, the tip of his nose lighting up the sensitive flesh with grazes, drawing into your skin what he can’t utter at this moment besides “mmgg,” “uh,” and “fuck.” You undulate faster as a response, pull another terse whimper from the pit of his chest, increasing the throb in his cock. Inches expand and contract, molding your walls to take him. The ache is a dichotomy of fulfillment and need, satisfaction and addiction, the more you fuck yourself on his dick welcoming ecstasy, but signaling how fast it can end, how soon demise is, and how neither of you can stop. He stretches you out to a mind-numbing fullness you’ve never achieved with anyone else, and that’s because Carmen is yours. Any reality where he’s not is one you reject.

“You’re so, so warm. Can you… Can you…?”

Whatever Carmen is asking for continues to be disrupted by the moans vibrating against your neck. It’s not like it’s any easier for you to speak at the moment as you ride him, so you attempt to rack your brain for what he wants without having to think too much. This is wiping your brain of coherence, your quivering thighs and his perfectly spearing cock digging deep to the point of where your head feels dizzy. But you register how he continues to nuzzle his face into your neck, not kissing or biting it like he normally would to last or hike your sensation. At first, you assume it’s to conceal the obscene sounds rocking his toned frame, maybe hide the fragility of his features twisting in careening pleasure, but it hits you as he hooks himself to the crook and whines, his mouth flush to your skin without gnawing.

Carmy wants to be held.

You wrap your arms around him, not pausing in your rise and fall, fingers sliding into his curls to cradle him. He gratefully kisses your neck, pants hot breaths, celebrates your successful interpretation with a hushed god, yes.

“I got you. Feel it, baby, feel it…” You coo.

Please (please), please (please), please.

The more this continues, the more antsy Carmen becomes. Down to his last particulate, he shoves his hips up for more friction, attempting to get himself to the finish line. His strength is jarring. If you weren’t holding onto him like you are, he might’ve thrust you right out of his lap. You jostle from the motion, squeak out your own howls of need from how he tramples into that trigger inside that pushes you closer to where he’s at. But this isn’t how it’s supposed to go and Carmen knows that.

Sensing your impending scold, he whines as you pull his face away from your neck. His pupils are blown, lips slick and parted, his poor eye swollen and almost closed, but he maintains his heady, lust-drunk gaze with yours.

“Carmy…” You begin, trying to find it in you to tell him what he’s supposed to do.

But he surprises you.

“Can I cum? Please? Please? I gotta cum, please let me cum, baby,” he stammers out, his upper body sagging forward for your touch.

He barely sounds like the man you see in the kitchen. He’s without anger, without burden, without walls that took time to break down. He’s sans grief, even for a moment, willingly in a haze you induced. He asked for this. He craves this. He’s begging you for this. He’s at the cusp, desperately hanging on as your hips undulate, as his jerk, greedily taking more from your body in every sense. It can be over at any second. He exacerbates his ability to remain on the ledge, but he’s single-minded, reaching for the stars before the fall.

“Yes, you can cum. Cum in me, be good and fill your pussy up, Carmy.”

A millisecond later, as soon as he hears yes come from your mouth, he erupts. He strains against his cuffs as he spouts your name, spouts ropes of cum into your cunt, whimpers from the rest of your sentence. You maintain your hold on his face as you bring him to euphoria, to the pinnacle, his body coming to a trembling stop beneath you. You slow your hips and finally allow him to occupy your neck once more. He messily kisses your flesh, wet from spit, from the accumulation of drool, slurring out his praises.

You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.

I can’t lose you.

Don’t ever leave.

You’re my everything.

You embrace him close, kiss his temple, let him get everything he needs out. When he’s done, you’ll reassure him. You’ll remind him who you belong to, if you haven’t convinced him already. You’ll sweet talk him to shy smiles and uncuff him.

And because he’s Carmen, he’ll return the favor and give you a mind blowing orgasm, pick up where you left off.

He’s not like the other motherfuckers who’ve embarrassed you. Not at all.

(Ah)…

“So, this is where Clark Kent grew up, huh? I can see it now, you’re running in that field, yelling at your dad on the porch, sneaking a nudie mag in your backpack through that door—”

A large palm flattens over your mouth, muffling your next words. Slumping your shoulders dramatically, you look up with mirth in your eyes. 

Clark is standing in front of you, his expression defeated. It’s clear he’s half-regretting inviting you to house-sit for his parents with him for the week, but the flush on his cheeks indicates that your teasing isn’t all bad. 

“I’ll have you know I never had any magazines that weren’t PG-13.”

He speaks with a mock-injured tone, hand slipping down to rest on your back as he guides you through the screen door into the old-fashioned living room. 

“What kind of degenerate do you think I am? Ma raised me right.”

You should be teasing him further. If you had your wits about you, you would. It’s unfortunate that the feeling of Clark’s hand on your lower back makes you go a little loopy. You’re lucky he hasn’t caught on to what his touch does to you, or you’d be screwed. 

Flushing slightly, you dance out of his grip, running a finger over the shelves. 

“So, are you gonna, um, give me a tour? Lots of anecdotes, I want the true Clark Kent experience.”

His low chuckle is indulgent, a finger hooking into your belt loop as a means of tugging you towards the door. 

“If you want it, you’ll get it. Just don’t be mad at the tour guide when this takes a while.”

You have to shake the daze from your eyes before you can hear the story he’s telling about accidentally cracking the kitchen countertop.

The Kent house is exactly how you’d expect it. It’s quaint, the decor reflecting the cozy tastes of his parents. Each room has a reminder of Clark though, whether intentional or not. 

The doorway to the bathroom has markings of his growing height in childhood, including the five-month period where he went from 5'8" to 6’3”. The office has a dent in the wall, where Clark sheepishly tells you he kicked a soccer ball by accident when he was ten. It leaves you feeling as if you knew him when he was young, by proxy of the many scrapes he got himself into. 

Nothing does it like his bedroom, though. The final stop on his tour, Clark forgoes any preamble, simply opening the door and letting you wander in. 

It’s a stark contrast to the rest of the house, the brown paneled walls plastered with various posters and pictures. You can’t help but grin, seeing the trophy case with all his football awards near the window. 

“Wow, Kent. Didn’t realise you were Boy Wonder, too,”

You cross the room, immediately fiddling with the academic awards that are hanging on the far wall. 

“I mean, is it even fair at this point?”

You can hear him huff out a deep breath, picturing how he’s surely lifting one large hand to rub the back of his neck, his flannel straining against the bulge of his bicep and—

“It really wasn’t that big a deal, Smallville’s got a pretty good high school for the area.”

His voice cuts through the static in your brain, the barely-there heat of his chest radiating towards your back snapping you into reality at once. Humble bastard.

Turning to face him, you step as close as you can, hands finding their rightful place on his shoulders. 

“I think you’re selling yourself short. Besides, it’s better for me if you’re exceptional. I get to pat myself on the back for locking you down.”

You go in for a quick peck, pressing your lips to his slightly-chapped ones for a brief moment. Parting from him, the two of you seem transfixed by each other’s eyes, Clark leaning back in for another when a distinctive poster catches your eye, making you turn your head.

Clark’s lips land on your cheek as you rile yourself up for more teasing. 

“Clark! The Mighty Crabjoys? Are you kidding?”

He lets out a groan, hands settling at your waist as he attempts to turn you back toward him. 

“Yes I did listen to them, yes I was an insufferable poser as a kid, yes you would have mocked me relentlessly, now please?”

His lips seek yours, molding against you for another moment before you pull back again. 

“No, wait, don’t distract me. That’s there unironically? Like, you listened to them, and listened to them so much that you just had to—”

You’re cut off again, tasting the cornbread you’d had earlier on his tongue as he laves it over your bottom lip. Suddenly you’re not all that bothered with the poster anymore. 

It’s his turn to talk now, it seems.

“Can we please stop talking about the poster?”

His voice has deepened a few octaves, sounding eerily similar to his Superman voice. It’s doing bad things for your panties, feeling your thighs rub together involuntarily. You’re rendered mute, nodding wordlessly up at him. 

A self-satisfied smile settles on his face, using his grip on you to walk you backwards until the backs of your knees hit the bed. 

“Thank you, honey.”

He’s pushing you down softly, lowering you until you settle against the plaid sheets. You’re given absolutely no time to register anything else about the bed, not when he’s settling over you, all broad chest and thick thighs and beautiful face. 

“Clark…”

“Yeah? What is it?”

It seems like he’s relishing the opportunity to get you back for all your teasing, leaning on an elbow resting near your head as his other hand slips down to grip your hip. It’s unfair how he gets to you. 

“I want… You know what I want.”

You can barely stand to look at him, his eyes are so big and kind. You could get lost in him, drawn in by his gravitational pull. 

“Yeah, I do know, don't I? You want your clothes off, sweetheart?”

Your head begins to nod before you even register it, making Clark laugh as he sits up to tug off your clothes. 

Once you’re sufficiently undressed, you’re feeling a little unfair. He’s still wearing so much. Clumsy hands fly to the hem of his shirt, pushing it up gently. 

“You too, Clark. Not going to let me be the only one in their birthday suit, right?”

He blushes, but follows the movements of your hands, shucking off his shirt and jeans, although the black boxers he’s got on remain there, much to your dismay. The moment he’s bare enough, he’s climbing right back over you, lips pressing to yours with insistence. 

Clark generally lets you take the lead with kissing, letting you explore his mouth with as much zeal and vigour you can muster. He’s content to moan into your mouth, hands running wild over all the newly-exposed skin at his disposal. 

Rough fingertips travel up to your hair, smoothing it back as your tongue brushes against his. A soft squeeze to your breast when you gasp for air before diving right back in. Slowly, slowly, he begins to make his way down your body.

You falter a little as he lingers over your stomach, rubbing a thumb over your lower belly, feeling yourself ache for him. Your own hands spring into action, caressing over the planes of his abdomen as you move lower and lower. 

However, a hand encircles your wrist before you can reach his boxers, Clark’s abashed face looking at you.

“Not yet, baby. Can’t—oh, gosh,”

He throws his head back in pleasure when you forge forward, boldly gripping him through the thin fabric. 

“Clark, please. You said you’d give me what I wanted.”

He seems to falter, but his touch doesn’t move, redirecting your hand to rest on his shoulder. 

“You know we can’t… yet. I don’t want to hurt you, sweetheart.”

Damn it. Damn his big fucking eyes and his honeyed voice. You can’t complain, no matter how much you’d want to. Not when he’s looking at you like that. 

With a sigh, you slump a little, voice slightly petulant. 

“Fine.”

He sees right through it, of course he does. 

“Oh, I know. It’s so hard, isn’t it, letting me touch you?”

You’d have a cutting reply on the tip of your tongue if his hands weren’t roaming again, his left cupping the back of your head as the right makes its way down to where you’re dripping. 

Your legs spread automatically, letting his fingers brush against your soaked folds. You have to moan, the feeling of his larger fingers always overwhelming at first. 

He swipes through your folds, once, twice, until his index finger is covered in slick. You’d be embarrassed, but it’s hard to feel anything but pleasure when Clark is touching you. Slowly, he brings his index up to your hooded clit, pressing down on it with practised precision. 

It’s like he’s feeling it too, the way he starts to pant at the sight of you getting enveloped in bliss. This is a part of your routine because you need to be worked open, yes, but it’s also selfishly for Clark’s own satisfaction, you both know it. 

The pleasure arcing up your spine has you arching your back, right leg jerking involuntarily. It only seems to spur him on, index leaving your clit. 

Acknowledging your whine with a kiss to the temple, Clark moves his hand slightly, positioning his finger a little lower. 

“Here we go, honey.”

He pushes further, thick finger brushing your gummy walls deliciously. Every time Clark fingers you, you worry that you’ll never be able to go back to your own fingers again. His are like the rest of him, broad, work-worn and skilled. The way he slowly increases the pace of his movements have you squirming under him, hands scrabbling at his shoulders. 

“Doing so good for me, baby. Take it like a champ, every time.”

His hushed praises are sent straight to your core, hot breath fanning over your cheek as he adds another impossibly large finger to the mix. 

The stretch burns, in the way that has you gushing around his digits. You’re openmouthed, unable to stop the endless torrent of moans and whimpers that leave you. 

“Clark—!”

He smiles a little, watching how your hips are starting to grind down on his palm. 

“Yeah, honey? Feeling good?”

You nod frantically, staring wide-eyed up at him.

One more finger joins the two already plunging in and out of you, and the staggering onslaught of sensations pushes you over the edge. 

A final brush of his palm against your clit and you fall apart, choked moans spilling into the air as your hips stutter.

“Oh my god, ohmygod, Clark!”

He knows to work you through it, slowing his pace until the wave has crested, and you’re looking up at him with big, wet eyes. 

Pulling his hand away from you, he dips down, capturing your lips with his. 

“How’re you feeling, honey? Want to stop?”

You’d rather die. You tell him so, reveling in the shock on his face. He seems to forget how badly you want him until it's shoved in his face, so you do just that.

Snaking a hand between your bodies, you brush the waistband of his boxers again. 

“Please, Clark? You know I can take it. Just wanna feel you.”

He’s a sucker for you, you both know it.

That’s what has him shoving down his boxers with graceless hands, what has him blushing when you compliment his cock for the umpteenth time. 

He’s hovering back over you, the mattress dipping by your head and hip, where he’s braced himself with a hand and knee. His other hand has found purchase on your thigh, kneading at the plush flesh idly. 

You wonder absentmindedly if there will be any marks left later. He’d be mortified. You’d love it.

“Sweetheart, you ready? Gotta take this slow,”

He’s let go of your thigh, gripping his cock at the base so he can swipe through your folds. You both let out guttural moans, laughing at each other when the pleasure subsides. 

“Yeah, Clark. I want it.”

He’s embarrassed by your confession, like he always is, but that doesn’t stop him from pressing his hips forward a fraction. The blunt tip of his cock pushes past your entrance, the stretch causing another moan from the both of you. 

You’ll never get used to it, the all-encompassing pleasure that comes with the first few inches of him. 

He’s slow, taking his time as he groans word salad into your ear. 

“Feels so—so good, baby. Always so good for me, aren’t you? Does it— oh, god— you feeling okay?”

His voice is hoarse, as if he’s been yelling for days. You can’t help but feel a little satisfaction at how thoroughly you seem to wreck the Man of Steel. 

“Yeah, Clark… Keep going.”

He nods, pushing even further. The tip of him reaches somewhere deep in you, somewhere only he’s ever been. The heady haze in your mind can’t dissipate, not when he’s making you feel like this. 

It feels like an eternity, but finally, his hips meet yours. You’re feeling obscenely full, like you could never live without him in you like this. It has you whining sharply when he pulls himself out slightly. 

However, the feeling of him pushing back in sends any thought of complaining flying out of your head. He’s swift in finding that perfect pace — somewhere between stuffing you as full as you can be and providing the friction he craves. 

Throwing your head back, you see his right hand hover in the air, as if he’s unsure what to do with it. It seems as though he’s decided when it grips the headboard behind your head, but a splintering sound has you pushing past the daze to warn him.

“Can’t— Don’t break the headboard—” You’re cut off by a moan, unable to stop yourself. He seems suitably chastised though, his hand balling into a fist and pressing into the mattress instead. You feel a distant hope that he won’t punch through that, somehow. It’d be a hell of a story to tell his parents why you had to replace it.

His left arm has slid under your shoulders in the meantime, holding you as close to his chest as possible. You’re sure he gets some pleasure out of it, but you know he does this for you. 

He knows you like to be overwhelmed by him, surrounded by his touch and smell and words until every thought’s been chased from your mind but him. He won’t let you run away from the excruciating pleasure, and you’re grateful. It’s even more wonderful here, in this single bed that forces you even closer to him than normal.

The brutal pace he’s set has you floating up to the sky in no time, head in the clouds as you let him hold you close. 

It could be a lot of things, but you’re getting close after only a few short minutes. It could be the deep groans that he’s letting loose in the air between your mouths. It could be the tight grip he’s got you in. It’s probably the incessant grinding of his pelvis against your clit when he drives home. 

Whatever it is, your arms around his neck tighten as you attempt to tell him. 

“Clark— Clark, m’gonna…”

He nods, smiling breathlessly down at you, knowing you want reassurance. 

“Me too, baby. Go ahead, you can come.”

Something about his gasped-out words has you spiralling, your climax hitting you at once. Walls spasming around him, his hips falter in their speed, slowing to a more languid, leisurely pace as he works you through it. 

“Good— good girl, honey. Feel so good.”

He lets you pull him in for a filthy, openmouthed kiss, pressing his pelvis against yours. 

One final grinding motion, and he’s gasping into your mouth. The blooming heat inside you has you shuddering with an aftershock of pleasure, moaning one final time. 

He remains pressed against you for some time, his arm holding you slightly off the bed as your chests heave. Only once he catches his breath (annoyingly quickly) does he settle you back against the sheets.

The next few moments are a blur, Clark kissing you one moment, softly wiping at your pussy with a cloth the next, and finally bringing a glass of water to your lips. 

“Feeling okay? Tired?”

“Yeah, a little, but a quick nap, and I’ll be ready.”

He looks at you quizzically, tilting his head in a way that reminds you of Krypto.

“What, you don’t have more in you? C’mon, Superman, we’ve got to wear you out at some point.”

he wakes up to open mouthed kisses on his scarred abdomen, stab wounds and even a bandage still present from the last hit he took.

“mm? woah, woah. sweet’eart-“ his voice is still laced with sleep, gruffer than usual which you usually deemed practically impossible.

“t’s your birthday.” she informs, licking a stripe from his naval down to his sharp v-line that framed his half hard cock stirring in his boxers.

he doesn’t have time to reply, his bear claw of a hand instantly moving to the top of his girl’s head. pushing her down until her nose is flush with his skin. the messy noises of drool and suction filling the walls of their bedroom.

“attagirl. tha’s it. goddamn.” his praises are strewn out, his jaw slack and his head tilted back. hand fisted in her hair and resisting the urge to thrust up and make her gag around it.