⊹ ₊ ࣪˖ ִִֶֶָָ🦢ִִִֶֶֶָָָ ˖ ࣪₊⊹

Then Theo appeared.

You noticed him first by the way the chair beside you shifted, though he didn't sit in it. Instead, he hovered there, quiet and tired-looking, his school tie loosened, dark hair falling messily over his forehead. His eyes, usually sharp with dry amusement, looked heavy today.

You softened immediately.

"Theo?" you asked gently.

He said nothing at first. He only stepped closer, leaned down, and wrapped his arms around your shoulders from behind. His face disappeared into the crook of your neck.

You froze for half a second in quiet surprise before your hand instinctively came up to rest over his arm.

"Bad day?" you murmured.

Theo hummed against your skin. It was a low, unhappy sound.

"That bad?"

He just nodded slightly, his nose brushing your neck, and tightened his hold around you. His body curved over yours like he had been holding himself together all day and had finally found somewhere safe enough to fall apart a little.

You let your quill drop onto the parchment, focusing on him fully. "What happened?"

"Don't want to talk about it," he mumbled quietly, voice muffled against your skin.

"Okay."

He seemed grateful for that. His shoulders loosened slightly, though he didn't let go.

For a while, you let him stay there. You could feel the warmth of him against your back, the soft rise and fall of his breathing against your skin. His thumbs moved absentmindedly over the sleeve of your jumper, slow and soothing, as if he were comforting himself with the texture of it.

You turned your head just enough to brush your cheek against his hair. "I do have to study, you know," you said softly.

Theo went still.

Then, with all the dignity of a wounded prince, he whined.

It was quiet, barely more than a breath, but it was so unlike his usual composed self that you had to bite back a chuckle.

"Theo."

"No."

You laughed under your breath. "No?"

"No," he repeated, voice low and petulant as if he were a 5-year-old. "You studied yesterday."

"That's not how exams work."

"They should."

You tried to turn back toward your notes, but Theo only buried his face deeper into your neck, his arms tightening around you as if he could physically prevent you from returning to your work.

"Theodore Nott," you warned, though there was no real bite in it.

He just made another miserable sound and nuzzled further. "Five more minutes," he muttered.

"You said that fifteen minutes ago."

"That was a different five minutes."

You smiled despite yourself.

Theo must have felt it, because he pressed a little closer, his lips brushing the side of your throat in something too soft to be a kiss and too tender to be accidental.

"Please," he whispered softly.

That made you pause.

Theo didn't beg often. He rarely asked for anything directly in general. Usually, he hovered at the edges of affection, pretending not to need it until you offered it first. But now his voice had gone quiet and rough, stripped of all sarcasm.

You reached back and touched his hair softly. His breath caught slightly in his throat.

"Really terrible day?" you asked quietly, voice laced with a gentle worry.

He nodded once, and it made your heart ached.

With a sigh, you pushed your books away and carefully turned in your chair. Theo loosened his grip just enough to let you move, but not enough to let you go. The moment you faced him, he stepped between your knees and leaned into you again.

You cupped his face. He looked so exhausted as if he'd been running around the Hogwarts since the last you saw him.

"Oh, Theo," you breathed out softly.

His eyes flickered over your face, guarded and vulnerable all at once. "I just wanted to see you."

"You did see me."

"No," he said, frowning slightly as if it was obvious. "I wanted this."

Before you could ask what he meant, he folded himself into you, arms sliding around your waist as he tucked his face back into your neck. You wrapped yourself around him instinctively, one hand at the nape of his neck, the other resting between his shoulder blades.

He exhaled like he had been waiting all day to breathe. "You're warm."

"And you're freezing."

"Mhm."

"You need to take better care of yourself."

"I have you."

"That is not a care plan."

"It's my favorite one."

You rolled your eyes, but your fingers kept moving gently through his hair. Theo melted under the touch. His entire posture changed, the tension draining from him bit by bit. He leaned more heavily into you, trusting you to hold him together, and you did.

The library around you faded into the background. There was only Theo, tired and clingy and soft in a way he showed almost no one else. Theo, who looked like winter to everyone else but felt like a quiet fire when he was this close. Theo, who hid his bruises behind clever remarks and cold eyes, but came to you when the day had been too much.

"You know," you said quietly, "Madam Pince is going to throw us out if you keep standing here like this."

"Good."

"Good?"

"Then you'll have to stop studying."

"You're impossible."

He gave a small, satisfied hum. You felt him smile against your skin.

"There he is," you murmured warmly.

Theo lifted his head slightly, just enough for his eyes to meet yours. "Who?"

"My Theo."

Something in his expression shifted. The teasing disappeared. For a second, he only looked at you, blinking slowly.

Then his face softened so completely that it nearly broke your heart.

"Yours?" he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

You brushed a strand of hair away from his forehead. "If you want to be."

His hands tightened at your waist. "I do." No hesitation. No sarcasm. No clever deflection.

Just the truth.

Your thumb stroked his cheek. "Then yes. My Theo."

He closed his eyes, leaning into your touch like the words had settled somewhere deep inside him.

"You make everything quiet," he whispered.

You swallowed slightly and softly kissed his head. "Is that a good thing?"

His eyes opened again, darker now, gentler. "It's the best thing."

You didn't know what to say to that, so you simply pulled him closer. Theo followed easily, sinking into your arms until his forehead rested against your shoulder.

For a while, neither of you spoke. You held him while the torches burned low and your abandoned notes lay forgotten on the table. His breathing evened out slowly, his fingers no longer clutching at you quite so desperately. Every now and then, he shifted closer as if reminding himself you were still there.

Eventually, you murmured, "I really do have to study."

Theo groaned.

You just laughed softly. "Theo."

"Five more minutes."

"You are going to say that forever."

"Yes."

"Theo."

He lifted his head, just enough to look at you through his lashes. "Your scent and warmth make me feel at home."

He seemed embarrassed the second the words left him. His gaze dropped, a faint flush touched the tips of his ears. But you didn't tease him — you just can't when your heart was aching so terrifyingly beautiful in your chest at his words. You only pulled him back in and kissed the side of his head gently.

The books could wait.

The essay could wait.

The exam could even wait, at least for a little while.

Theo had spent the whole day being sharp-edged and silent for the rest of the world. But here, with you, he was soft. Here, he was safe. Here, he could bury his face into the crook of your neck and ask for five more minutes like it was the only thing keeping him together.

So you held him tighter.

"Okay," you whispered. "Five more minutes."

Theo sighed, warm and relieved against your skin.

This isn't an affectionate friendship, one you'd have since childhood. The mere goal of it are the connections it offers Tom. Of course he approached the topic a little differently—however, money is power, and if someone has money, it is your father. The thought to infiltrate his closer circle came naturally, and without too much effort on Tom's side, given his well-practiced charm.

At first, you were merely an unexpected bonus to the long evenings he spent discussing politics and business on a table with 20 men, sometimes more. Though not too long after—perhaps four to five meetings into this business deal, as he likes referring to it—when you snuck him to your room for the first time, Tom came to the conclusion he'd perhaps stick around for a while longer than he originally intended.

Now, given you are at a well-visited and crowded ball tonight, he doesn't expect to exchange much more than a mere greeting today. However, as so often, your careful hints over the course of the evening tell him otherwise.

You are wearing the necklace he left under your covers a few months ago. Steal glances at him all the whilst you are talking to men your age. Smirk at him over their shoulder when they ask for a dance and you accept—it's what your father wants for you, after all. To find your match.

A respectable, young gentleman from a wealthy family.

You think these requirements are quite easy to fulfil with the man you've been eyeing all night, whose eyes are locked onto yours as you dance with anyone who dares to ask you.

Except for the fact that, perhaps, he isn't young.

・・・

You are sitting on the bed, one leg slung over the other, sipping away at the half-empty glass of champagne you brought with yourself in the rush of the moment. You've been waiting for it all night—for Tom to move away from your father, who hasn't left him an inch of personal space since he joined the ball a few hours ago. And when he did, finally, you immediately rushed upstairs, waiting for him to follow after you. He did so without attracting attention, gracefully ascending the staircase while greeting other guests who occasionally started a conversation with him.

After another fifteen minutes of waiting, the door finally opens to reveal the man you've been itching to touch all evening. His eyes are on yours the instant the lock puts a barrier between you two and the real world outside, and you can't help the smirk tugging at the corner of your lips.

You can't deny he looks like he was sculpted by the Gods themselves. The suit he's wearing is from a familiar tailor shop, arguably one of the finest and most luxurious stores in London—and oh, have they done their work well. It's a dark grey fabric, fitting him closest to perfection you've had the honour of seeing in your long history of attending balls.

"You wish for me to punish you for your behaviour, don't you?" Tom grumbles, tugging off his suit jacket and tossing it somewhere to the corner of the room, stalking towards you as a predator does with their prey.

"Hmm," you pretend to think, watching him undress, your eyes slowly descending his body, drinking him in. "I do not quite recall a moment that would warrant a punishment, Mr. Riddle."

"Don't," he mutters, lifting your chin with his index finger, making you look at him. His eyes are dark as they stare down at yours, radiating caution, and yet sparkle with desire. "Don't act innocent now, sweetheart. Not when both you and I know what we are here for."

You smile, deciding to test his patience, as always. Licking over your bottom lip, you lower your voice when you speak up again. "Enlighten me then, sir, what are we here for exactly?"

Tom swallows tightly at the sound of your innocent voice and your big doe eyes looking up at him, batting your eyelashes. The things you do to him. Fuck.

He leans down then, his hot, steady breaths brushing past your ear, and you can feel the smile on his lips as he answers your question.

"You, darling, are here to have your sweet little pussy ruined. And I, I am here to grant you your wish."

You can't help but giggle at the filth spilling over his lips, settling the glass of champagne on the nightstand before you pull back slightly and crash your lips onto his.

"You'd be— oh—" you start, though interrupted by one of his warm hands slipping under your dress and wandering up your inner thighs. "Correct."

His hand doesn't stop there, pushing the lace of your panties to the side, dragging his index and middle finger along your slit, humming softly when he feels the slick wetness soaking his skin.

"Mmm," he mumbles, crouching down in front of you on the bed, nudging your thighs apart before he slips two long, thick fingers into your dripping cunt. "I assumed so, angel. Is this all for me? Been thinking about me all evening, haven't you? Poor thing."

You have been, yes. And in fact, you should stop teasing him if you want to get what you've been craving for weeks, now that your father has been travelling Europe and not hosted a meeting in more than a month.

But, as so often, your mouth works quicker than your brain, and instead of just agreeing with him, making him move those two digits he's shoved knuckle deep inside you but kept completely still until now, you shake your head.

"Silly old man," you joke half-heartedly, leaning backwards until your shoulders meet the cold wall behind you. "Rosier's cousin and I have had quite the… enjoyable interaction, to put it simply."

Tom merely stares at you for a long moment before he sighs, slips his fingers from your aching pussy, and straightens himself, wiping his hand on the bare skin of your legs. You whine at the loss of contact, ready to apologise and plead with him to continue with whatever he was attempting to do—without success.

"I see how it is. In that case, brat, I'll leave and find him for you, shall I?"

"No no no," you repeat hurriedly, sitting back up and wrapping your hand around his wrist. "I didn't mean to! It's for you and for you only, it's been you I've been wanting all night. For weeks. Don't leave now—please."

As if considering your words, he stops in his tracks—a sly smile playing on his lips. He turns to watch you for a moment, then, when he's seen enough of your anxious, pleading eyes, he gently tugs you towards him. "Get up for me, pretty girl."

Not daring to drag this out any longer, you do as he says—standing before him as he gestures for you to turn around so that he can open the zipper of your dress. The expensive fabric smoothly slips down your body, pooling around your ankles when you assist him with his own clothes, kissing him deeply as you undo the buttons of his suit vest.

Tom guides you backwards in the direction of the bed—but when you reach it, he switches your positions and lowers himself onto the soft mattress instead, sitting with his back to the headboard.

He says nothing for a moment, just enjoys the sight of you in front of him, his eyes mapping your naked body as though it were the first time seeing you like this. Then, he beckons you onto his lap with a gesture of his hand. "This is it. Your punishment. You do the work while I watch."

"You can't possibly be serious," you complain, pouting at him—without use, as you come to realise when he grabs your wrist and pulls you onto his lap.

He brushes kisses down your neck, his rock-hard erection resting heavy against your inner thigh—so close and yet way too far to give you what you want. "Old man can't move fast enough to keep up with your needs, sweetheart. You'll have to make do."

You whine, rocking your hips forwards slightly and pressing your thighs together in an attempt to make him rethink his decision. "But— it was only a joke! You aren't even that old."

Tom's hand holds you steady, then leisurely glides up the length of your ribcage to cup one of your breasts in his palm—testing its weight, thumb and index finger pinching gently at your stiffening nipple. His other hand adjusts your position slightly—just so his cock is nestled between his body and your pussy, brushing against your slick folds.

"Go ahead. Move, pretty girl."

You murmur a string of curses directed at him in defiance, lifting your hips just slightly as you wrap your hand around his swollen length and guide his flushed, leaking tip towards your entrance.

Then, you sink down.

Both of you gasp in unison.

This angle is… different. Feels different than the positions you have done up until now. Somehow, because your pelvises are so close to each other, he feels even deeper than what you are used to, and the friction has your mind go numb with the sparks of pleasure threatening to consume you.

"God, I—" you pant, slowly setting a rhythm—grinding your hips forwards and back rather than moving up and down, and you think you may actually reach heaven without having to succumb to death first.

"I know, darling. Don't you stop. Keep going, just like that." If you're obsessed, Tom is absolutely consumed by you on top of him. His brown eyes—now darker, unguarded—are fixed on you. On the way you move, the way your tits bounce with your every move, on your parted lips, which have the sweetest sounds spill over them.

He hasn't realised just how much he's missed you.

Tom takes a sip of the champagne you left abandoned on the nightstand, his second hand moving to your thighs, kneading softly. He lets it slip further upwards, grazing his knuckles over your lower tummy before his thumb finds your neglected, throbbing clit and he begins rubbing those majestic circles over it—the way he has learned you love it.

"So tight, sweetie. Stop clenching, fuck—" he groans, hips rutting up into yours, his brown curls falling messily over his forehead.

You lean down to kiss him, your lips crashing against each other for a hungry kiss that has you both panting once you part.

If there were people walking by outside, they would hear you. You are sure of it—but you have never cared less about being caught with a man double your age. With one of your father's best friends.

Gods, he himself could be knocking at the door, and you wouldn't spare it any mind.

You couldn't.

Every last nerve ending is entirely consumed by the pleasure coursing through you, by his cock nestled so deep inside you, you feel him in your stomach, and his hands roaming over your naked, smooth skin.

"I— Tom, please," you whimper, dipping your head forwards to rest it in the crook of his neck, your muscles screaming in protest with every renewed thrust—yet you keep moving, even if more slowly so.

"I got you, darling. Come for me. I can feel how close you are, squeezing me so tightly. Let go, pretty girl."

And so you do. When your pace falters and he takes over, hips pounding up against yours fervently, he somehow manages to aim his every thrust just right while telling you how you're doing for him. The knot deep in your stomach snaps at once, leaving you moaning his name and gasping for air as he helps you through your high, keeping your trembling body pressed snugly to his.

Tom follows right after, groaning deeply as he spills himself inside your pulsing hole, his thrusts slowing soon after. You two stay like this for a minute or two, chests heaving with the need for oxygen.

Like the gentleman he is, Tom allows you to rest for a little longer, collecting his clothes from where they are scattered on the floor, dressing himself. You watch each other, but none of you says a word. Too sacred is this moment of peace where it's just the two of you in a room, with no one to steal you away from the other's presence.

You wish you could stay like this for longer, even if you are aware your father has perhaps already started looking for you.

Nobody lets their diamond stay missing for too long, after all—even if the thief is reluctant to hand it back.

Tom hands you your dress and helps you stand, steadying you on your shaky legs. With a hand splayed between your shoulder blades he tucks you into his chest, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

"Now go and enjoy your evening. I'll be there until you leave, keeping a watch over you. From afar."

Before you get to say anything in return, he's checking whether there is anyone walking the corridor and slips out of the door.

Not without glancing back one more time, though—giving you a wink, which you know translates to "until next time, darling."

thank you so much for reading! <3 feel free to reblog and leave feedback! :3 — masterlist. | oneshots.

©2026 viperify. please do not copy, translate or claim my work as your own.

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You were minding your own business. Relaxing. Existing. Apparently, that alone was enough to ruin whatever focus he had left.

Clark stood at the sink, adjusting his tie in the mirror, fingers working at the knot with practiced precision. He fixed it once, then again, and again, like something about it still wasn’t sitting right, even though it had been perfect the first time.

Behind him, the tub sat visible in the reflection, and you were there, sunk low in the water, completely at ease. Steam filled the room in slow curls, softening the edges of everything, including you.

Clark’s eyes kept flicking toward you in the mirror, quick at first, then slower. Then longer. And longer. Long enough that he’d forget what he was doing entirely before dragging his gaze back up to his own reflection like that might somehow fix it.

He swallowed hard and forced his attention back to his tie.

Focus.

Clark straightened, running a hand through his hair before adjusting his glasses, eyes fixed on his reflection to anchor him there, to keep him moving, to keep him from—

His gaze slipped again.

Slower this time. Heavier in a way where he couldn’t even pretend it was accidental.

The water moved when you shifted your legs, the surface breaking just enough to catch and follow, offering brief, shifting glimpses before settling again. Droplets clung to your shoulders and throat, slipping slowly over your skin each time you moved, tracing small paths he couldn’t stop noticing. The whole room felt warm with it, thick with quiet and water and the faint scent of whatever you’d poured into the tub.

You weren’t even doing anything, not really, which only made it worse. Clark couldn’t seem to look anywhere else, or think of anything else for that matter.

That didn’t stop him from trying, though.

And God, did he try. 

Clark let out a slow, steady breath, deeper than it needed to be, like it might push whatever this was back down where it belonged.

“Alright, baby,” he said, voice quieter than usual. “I have to go.”

He turned and stepped closer as he said it, already leaning down before the sentence had fully settled between you. It was supposed to be quick. Normal. Just one last soft kiss before work.

Clark’s hand braced on the edge of the tub as his lips met yours, gentle and familiar, something that should’ve ended there but didn’t. You were warm, your mouth slightly parted, soft where you gave under him without resistance.

He lingered a second too long, catching the faint drag of your lower lip before pulling back just barely, his breath brushing yours.

His gaze dropped to your mouth again—and stayed there.

Something tightened in his chest, heavier now, pushing up from where he’d tried to bury it. 

He kissed you again. 

Longer this time. 

And then again, deeper, his mouth pressing into yours with intent, the kiss opening, getting away from him, losing whatever restraint had been left in it. His hand on the tub clenched tighter, grounding himself in the strain while the other came up to your face, thumb pressing along your jaw as he pulled you into him.

He should have stopped. He knew that. Knew that this was the last thing he should be doing right now.

The thought flickered, thin and useless, drowned out by the way you felt, by the way your lips moved with his, by the immediate reaction in his body. Heat hit him low and sharp, his cock caught tight beneath his slacks, the pressure there before he could even pretend otherwise.

Still, he didn’t pull away.

His mouth stayed on yours, each kiss deepening with every second he didn’t stop. His breathing shifted, uneven, heavier now, pulling through his nose in quiet bursts that brushed hot against your skin. Every inhale came tighter than the last, tension winding through his chest instead of easing down.

You laughed softly against his mouth, a quiet, breathy sound that brushed his lips when you spoke. “You’re gonna get all wet,” you murmured, the words light, amused, as if this was still something easy. Still playful.

His response came in the way his mouth pressed harder to yours, more insistent, the kiss turning urgent without pause. His hand flexed against the edge of the tub again, grip tightening, fingers pressing into the porcelain for resistance, for something solid to hold while everything else slipped further out of his control.

A faint sound gave under his palm.

Small. Thin. Barely there.

A hairline crack split through the porcelain, too quiet for anyone but him to hear, but he caught it all the same. That faint give beneath his hand, the smallest surrender under pressure, something yielding when it shouldn’t have.

It echoed too closely. Too much like the way his restraint had been going, not all at once, but splitting, fracturing, giving in pieces he wasn’t getting back.

He didn’t notice himself leaning closer at first. It just happened gradually, his weight shifting forward, his body following where his mouth already was, where his focus had narrowed completely. 

The edge of the tub pressed into his body, then more and more. He kept going. Closer. Further. Until there wasn’t really a line left to cross.

His weight tipped past the edge before either of you could slow it, one knee dropping into the water, then the other, his mouth still fixed to yours. The bath surged around him, spilling hard over the sides as his clothes soaked through all at once. His shirt and pants stuck to him in seconds, ruined and heavy, water streaming from the fabric and pooling across the floor.

It didn’t matter. None of it did. The mess, the sound, the fact that he had been halfway out the door minutes ago. All of it dropped away under one singular focus.

You.

His hands were already on you, firm, urgent, pulling you up and into him with a kind of need that made it clear he was past the point of caring how it looked. Water sloshed violently with the movement, spilling over again, your body shifting against his as he maneuvered you onto his lap.

It wasn’t neat or careful. It was messy, rushed, a little clumsy in the way urgency always was with him when he got like this. Clark moved fast, driven by how badly he needed you there, by how little patience he had left to get you there any other way.

You startled, breath catching sharply, the surprise obvious in the way your hands braced against him, the way your body reacted to the suddenness of it. He didn’t ease up, didn’t even think about slowing down. His mouth found yours again, rougher, open, all urgency now. He sank lower into the tub beneath you, water shifting hard around his body, soaking him through completely, but it didn’t register. Not with you on him.

His hands moved like he couldn’t pick a place, like he needed all of you at once. One slid up your back, broad and hot, pressing you down into him, fingers spreading between your shoulder blades before sweeping lower. The other traced down your side, slow for half a second before taking hold of your hip, then shifting again.

Higher.

His hand closed over your breast, fingers curling around the weight of it as he squeezed. His thumb moved slowly over your nipple, pressing, rolling, pulling a breathy reaction from you. The sound you made hit his mouth, and he swallowed it instantly, tongue pushing in to taste it, to take more of you anywhere he could.

His hips worked beneath you with no real attempt to hide it anymore, rolling up against you with purpose. His cock pressed against you through the soaked fabric of his slacks, the friction pulling a low, strained sound from him as it jumped against you, needy and insistent. His hands settled harder at your hips, keeping you right where he needed you.

Steam hung thick around you both, heat wrapping tight, softening everything around the edges until even his glasses began to fog.

It registered for half a second—

That was all it got.

Clark’s hand shot up, ripping the glasses from his face before they could fog over completely. He tossed them aside without looking, the frames skidding across the bathroom tile with a sharp crack that failed to pull his attention.

His mouth crashed into yours again, deeper, sloppier, breath hot and wrecked as his hands went right back to you, gripping, sliding, squeezing like any space between his hands and your body was too much.

Clark wasted no time. One hand dropped from you just long enough to fumble at his belt, fingers clumsy with urgency as he yanked it loose. The buckle knocked dully against itself before he shoved his pants down, fabric resisting under the water, soaked and clinging as he forced it out of the way beneath you. The movement jostled you both, water splashing up and over the edge again, but he didn’t pause, didn’t dare break the rhythm of his mouth against yours.

He didn’t give you the usual slow slide, didn’t ease you into it like he normally would. The second he freed himself, he was already pulling you closer, lining himself up more by need than patience, his breath catching the moment he found you before pushing in all at once. 

The stretch hit immediately, sudden and full, pulling a cry from you as your body clenched around him. Clark groaned at the feel of it, low and broken, his head dipping forward like the sensation had knocked the rest of him loose.

“Shi—”

The word broke apart in his throat, cut off into something rougher.

There was no time to adjust, no chance for your body to catch up before his hands found your hips and started moving you again. His hands locked onto you, fingers sinking in as he guided you into motion, pulling you down onto him, lifting you back up, setting a pace that hit hard and fast right from the start.

Water sloshed violently with every movement, spilling over the edge in steady waves, the sound of it mixing with breath and skin and the wet slide of your bodies coming together again and again.

It didn’t take long before you caught it, matched it—

Then took it.

Your hands twisted into his soaked button-up, fingers curling tight in the fabric as you shifted your weight and rode him properly, not just following anymore. You bounced on him, harder now, faster, the angle changing as you ground down between each lift, dragging him deeper every time you came back down. The friction got to him immediately.

A ragged sound slipped out of him, as you took over, his hands braced at your hips while your pace started pulling him apart. Each movement worked more out of him, left him less steady, less able to hide how badly you had him.

You felt too good.

Too tight, too warm, too perfect around him, every bounce pulling another rough sound from him, every grind making his grip tighten.

He was already gone. 

Fucked out in a way that stripped him down to instinct, to reaction, to nothing but the feel of you working him over. He could feel it bleeding into everything else too, that lack of control, the way heat built behind his eyes each time you sank down, the way his strength kept threatening to slip into his hands where they held you. Even the air leaving him came out wrong now, too hot, too wrecked.

He tried to keep it all in check, tried to rein it in before it got away from him.

Clark’s jaw tightened, breath snagging as his hands clung to you with a care the rest of him had no room for. Everything in him wanted to push harder, take more, fuck up into you with all the strength he kept buried under skin and restraint. He held it back by inches, barely, muscles locked beneath you while his touch stayed careful through sheer force alone. 

It worked.

Mostly.

Until you leaned forward.

Your arms slid around him, pulling him close, pressing your body flush against his as his breath broke hard in his chest. The sound of his name left you in a low, wrecked moan, dragged straight out of you with the roll of your hips, each one locking tighter around him.

“Baby—” he tried, the word breaking halfway through, strained, like the start of a warning he already knew wouldn’t survive the next second.

You didn’t slow down, didn’t give him the space to finish it, and he didn’t fight for it either. The warning lost shape in the way you kept moving, in the fact that he didn’t want you to stop at all. 

Your hips drove down again and again, relentless, the pressure building with every movement, taking him deeper each time, too much and not enough all at once. It stacked on him fast, sensation piling as his hands dug into your waist.

And then your hips sank lower. 

One deep, filthy grind.

It pressed him all the way in and held him there, your weight settling fully, the drag of it hitting something sharp and exact that tore straight through whatever control he had left.

Clark’s entire body seized before a loud, guttural groan ripped out of him as he came hard, hips jerking up into you on instinct. 

His hand slammed down with it, the force splintering through the side of the tub hard enough to break a chunk loose. Porcelain gave way beneath his palm, the side splitting open as water flooded through the gap and rushed across the floor.

At the same time, his eyes flashed.

Just for a split second.

A flare of heat vision shot wide, too sudden for him to catch, striking the metal faucet behind you with enough force to shatter it clean. The pipe split with a harsh snap, water bursting out hot and pressurized, hissing into the room and adding to the chaos.

“Shit—”

His eyes squeezed shut instantly, jaw clenching hard as he tried to rein it back in, like he could force himself under control if he just held tight enough. His arms wrapped around you, pulling you in, locking you against him as another rough groan tore out of his chest, muffled against your skin.

Water poured around you now, from the split-open side of the tub, from the broken pipe, soaking everything, flooding the tile, but he didn’t stop.

He couldn’t.

Your reaction caught somewhere between your lungs and your throat, a choked inhale, a sound that never fully formed as the pace hit too fast, too hard. Your body tried to respond, hands tightening on him, fingers gripping into soaked fabric, but every attempt got swallowed by the next thrust, the next snap of his hips that stole whatever you were about to say.

The break in the tub shifted everything, the side giving way enough to let his legs spread wider beneath you, changing the angle completely. He felt it and used it without hesitation, hips bucking up into you even as he was still coming.

He kept you pressed to him, hands locked at your hips as he fucked up into you through the broken rush of water, through the soaked mess around you, through the wreckage of everything he’d already let go too far.

“I’m sorry—” he gritted out, the words catching as his hips snapped again. “I’ll fix it—I promise—just—” His hands pressed harder into your hips, breath shuddering hot between you. 

That was the only thing left in his head.

Need.

His pace changed, not easing, only deepening, his body rising to meet yours as he dragged you down against him in heavy rolls that kept him buried inside you while he chased the feeling again and again. His hands moved with it, guiding the motion, making you feel every inch of him as he ground up hard, breath breaking with each grind.

Clark forced his eyes open, pulling himself back into it, into the moment, into you. His brows pulled tight immediately, mouth parting on a ragged breath as his gaze dropped between you, locking onto where your bodies met. He watched the way you took him, the way he disappeared inside you with every movement, and the sight tore another wrecked sound from his chest.

The reaction chased up his spine just as fast, too much, too immediate, and his head tipped back on instinct, eyes squeezing shut again before it could go any further. His jaw clenched, teeth grinding as he tried to contain it, tried to fight that heat building fast and dangerous behind his eyes again. It came back stronger, hotter, threatening to spill if he lost even a fraction more control.

But that didn’t stop him. 

“Keep—” his voice faltered, breath catching, “keep going—don’t—”

You could see how badly he was fighting it. It was there in the hard set of his jaw, in the faint tremor running through his hands, in the way his breathing refused to settle even after everything. The pressure hadn’t eased. If anything, it had gotten worse.

Your mouth parted, instinct kicking in, ready to ask if he was sure—but he caught it.

Maybe it was the way your hips stilled for half a second. Maybe it was the breath you pulled in, that slight pause before you spoke. Whatever it was, he felt it instantly, his hands locking at your hips hard enough to keep you there.

“Don’t—fuck—don’t stop,” he groaned.

His hips ground up as he pulled you down harder, the motion breaking his words into something rougher, something he barely seemed to realize had left him.

The edge of it cracked just as fast as it came.

His voice dropped in sync with your hips, the tone softer but no less strained—

“Please.”

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Your smile is a light and unhurried thing, shamelessly content, when those same lips drag up your neck. When the hot fan of his breath falls over your ear before he cheekily grazes the lobe between his teeth and makes you jerk. Laughing even whilst you squirm in his arms, ticklish to a degree that he finds utterly adorable.

And hee's so beautiful when you finally manage to face him that you can't even pretend to be mad, not when the sight steals the breath from your lungs just as it always has.

Just as it undoubtedly always will, because Clark Kent is a startlingly kind of gorgeous.

It's like those few hours where you are torturously parted from him in sleep slip a haze over the vibrance of him in your memory, a flimzy covering that when ripped away as your conciousness floods in leaves you stunned and your pulse stuttering every time without fail.

Every time it happens it feels like you're truly seeing him for the first time—the man he is without the crushing weight of responsibility and its merciless nature slowly burning its way through the shine of him.

The man who is good and honest, ineffably kind, and is every inch as wonderful inside as he is out. Who simply wants a home in this world and to love and care for the people in it and is so fiercely loved by his family and his friends, by you, in return.

It feels like a privilege to see him this way, like it is something sacred.

The ruffled softness of his hair, the easy curve of his smile and the unguarded affection in his eyes makes your heart swell, your fingers reaching to trace the beginnings of stubble that shadows his jaw as you open your mouth only to find you're incapable of offering up more than a single word. 

"Hi." You murmur a little dazedly, butterflies erupting wild in your belly when Clark grins, wide and delighted. His large hand slipping over your waist to smooth down your back and press you infinitely closer like you aren't almost permanently welded to him already.

"Hey, sweetheart."  His voice is soft and fond, laced with a sleepy type of heat, and the rasp of it causes a mirroring warmth to bloom within you as he nudges your nose before dropping his mouth to yours in an achingly warm kiss. 

You tangle together like vines after that, your fingers finding home in the mess of his curls and the thought of further conversation dissolving from your thoughts the moment his tongue teases past your lips to curl against yours.

There's no hurry in either of you. No rush to leave and start the day, to fan the heat between you to flame with clumsy desperation when you can take your time and feel the tension gather to an electrifying crescendo with every gentle touch. 

And there is a livewire already buzzing under your skin as Clark lures you to drape over him, your body waking and coming alive beneath the proud brush of his fingers over sensitive marks he left the night before.  The way he flushes a little at the feel of them and grins against your lips when you shiver.

He's already hard for you—a thick, heavy press between your thighs as he moans low and rocks his hips in time with the unhurried tilt of yours. It makes that soft flush of warmth in your belly become a molten thing. An impulsive need that you let guide your hand until you take him,pulsing hot, in your grip.

The noise he makes in response is exquisite.

A cracked, ruinious sound pulled from deep within his throat, the dark fan of his lashes fluttering when his eyes widen before growing hooded.

"Can I taste you?" You all but beg in a rush of breath, your thighs clenching whilst he shudders against the slide of your hand and snatches at your jaw to kiss you like he is trying to slake an unforgiving hunger.

"You never need to ask. You can have whatever you want from me, I'm yours." He murmurs, enamoured, offering himself wholeheartedly to your mercy just like he has from the very moment he first lay eyes on you.

You melt against him at his words, the glow of them unspooling all of that brewing desperation into something sweeter as his thumbs sweep tenderly over your cheeks. He kisses you soft as dream, once, twice, and catches at your hand to press another there at the heart of your palm before you extract yourself with a lovesick laugh from his hold to slip down, down , down.

Clark lets you go this time without further attempt at distraction but the way he watches you makes you dizzy.

His eyes dark, gaze undeniably focused on every little move from the flex of your muscles to the soft heave of your chest, the quiver of your stomach when he smiles slow and just that little bit devilish, because he can hear the way your heart picks up at the sight of him.

God, it makes you want to worship him—all these parts that you have collected with patient and careful hands over time. The precious pieces of him that he has allowed you to gather close when he lets the perfect version that the world knows slip. His passion and his silliness, his fury and his softness all unravelling beneath your tongue. 

You reverently map every plane and ridge of his chest to his torso by taste, sucking marks that begin in the sensitive hollows of his hips before leading to his thighs that go taut beneath them and the relentlessness of your wandering hands.

He groans, low and quiet, when you lick slowly up the length of his cock—lips parting on a stuttering inhale when his blown out stare catches your own already watching. Relishing his reaction.

And then you do it again.

A slow faint trace of wet muscle along the throbbing vein before you take the tip of him into the heat of your mouth and swirl your tongue with just enough pressure to make his head spin.  

"Oh, god—"

That whimper almost makes you lose your concentration and grin around him. Pride flaring in your chest when his head falls back against the pillows, cheeks flushed a pretty pink, the sharp cut of his jaw made starker by the way his muscles strain whilst his hands flex and wind tight into the already dishevelled sheets.

It's enough to make you finally dip your head and take him completely, your mouth suctioning tight as it slides wet along his cock, if only to hear the wrecked tremor in his voice again as you swallow him deeper. Then deeper still. To feel the way all that strenth coils tight beneath his skin as he fights to be good and shudders with the restrain—a trembling statue of a man made of nothing but iron-will and a delirious, sweltering want.

And then his hips cant up on their own accord, a helpless fracture in his typically flawless control that has him almost choking on air as the soft walls of your throat constrict tight around him.

He didn't mean to do it—there is already an apology gathering on his tongue, waiting only on his ability to remember how to breathe so he can speak it.

He raises his head to blink down at you, concern warring against the fog of need in his eyes because you haven't broken your rhythm but there's tears glittering at your lashline and his hand is lifting from the sheets too of its own volition, maybe to wipe them away, to touch your cheek in a silent 'are you okay?', to stop you entirely because if he's hurt you he'll die, he'll never forgive himself—

But then you're encouraging him to do it again.

Your hand catches at his own, fingers gentle but firm as you lead him to the back of your head so he can rid himself of the discipline he feels he must exhibit at all times and fuck himself into the welcoming give of your mouth if it pleases him. 

And Clark is speechless, dazed. All blown-black pupils and scarlet ears peaking from the dark mess of his hair.

"Are you sure?" He whispers. Hesitant. Awed.

You smooth your hands over his thighs, his hips, the shallow rise of his stomach and allow your mouth to part slowly from his spit-slick skin. Pulling back just enough to tell him, "I want this Clark, I want you to let go, please don't make me stop."

He huffs a soft laugh at that, bewildered and yet a little cheeky in that way you adore. "Wouldn't dream of it, pretty girl."

He lets his hand fall to touch your face, to sweep his touch lovingly over your cheek and press it to the plush of your lower lip, grinning wide and utterly gone for you when you lay a gentle kiss to his fingers.

And then he's stroking your hair back before gathering it in hand. Baring your gorgeous face to him so he can drop his chin against his chest and witness every breathless second of you retaking him in your mouth, lips wrapping around the thick of him, praise pouring from his tongue like ragged silk as he thrusts slow and devastatingly deep, over and over.

Never once forcing the kind of pace that you were expecting but merely guiding a better one that makes you both burn.

"Look at you–so beautiful, taking me so well." He breathes. "God, you're perfect." 

His praise hits you like it always does, bright and smoldering—a sudden lightening strike crackling through every aspect of your being as his thighs tense and quake beneath your hands. The sharp clench of his stomach when your nails burrow deep into his flesh and leave him bearing pretty little marks to match his ones on you.

There is the faint bloom of salt as he throbs that lets you know he's close, the weight of him thickening against your tongue, filling your mouth further whilst his thrusts grow jagged and sloppy. So you drag your palm across the solid expanse of thigh and between his legs to cup him there, squeezing, rolling, until his eyes go sightless and he's moaning beautifully, desperate and unrestrained.

“Baby–just like that–please, please don't stop–” 

Clarks voice is shot now, his hips stuttering as you suck hard enough that his breath threatens to stop altogether. Cheeks hollowing before you drop your mouth right down to the very base of him—your nose pressed against his skin and everything is warm and wet and he is spiralling rapidly beyond the point of no return.

You make a sound, somewhere between a hum of encouragement and a soft moan, and that is what breaks him. The needy way you latch at his thighs to pull him closer as the wrecked groan of your name tears through his throat whilst he pulses and writhes, pleasure in his veins like a burning star. Flaring hot and so devastatingly bright until it slowly fizzles out and leaves him panting.

Obliterated.

Barely lucid.

It is a deeply satisfying thing to witness.

A divine event, watching the most beautiful man you've ever known fall apart in pleasure and turn boneless beneath you, his large frame dissolving to liquid against the rumpled sheets as he blinks at you with sweet eyes and a dazed, lopsided smile. Strong arms opening sluggishly in a bid for you to return to him and fuse yourself upon his chest.

"Good morning." You murmur, the words a doting and gentle tease against his lips as you beam into the lazy surge of his kiss. 

The room is slowly becoming humid now as the morning sun climbs high and strong. The bed collects the heat of it upon what it has already trapped from you both, sweat beginning to grow slick between you from where you lie pressed together but there is no move to pull away, to escape to somewhere cooler, when instead Clark is intent on pulling you closer.

A tender, determined hand sweeping up your back to cradle the nape of your neck whilst his other ghosts over the slope of your shoulder and the curve of your waist. Down further past your hip and over to the space between your legs where he finds you wet and aching and presses his fingers just enough to make you gasp into his greedy mouth.