#wya

[aslutsdiiiary]

I want my holes played with for entertainment - not even for pleasure. Just to show me they’re yours to do with as you please. And I just take it. 😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫

[b3stb0y]

I fucking love being called a good boy for doing anything

[lunarcrown]

privately, skizz wonders if he’ll be mourned by grian too

[hewhoisverygay]

I love when he makes me finish then covers my mouth and makes me be quiet while im just there twitching and shaking on his bed

[hesmydolly]

I live teasing him and watching his face become red as he gets flustered and starts tripping over his words

[vqmpressa]

the messenger has brought you domestic life ノ slice of life ノ fluff ノ falling asleep on his chest ノ sfw ノ safe to read ノ word count 1OOO ノ kind of rushed n lazy

the apartment is bathed in the soft glow of the television, some old movie playing that neither of you are really watching anymore. clark's arm is wrapped around you, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your shoulder as you're curled up against his side on the couch. the day had been long—work dragging on endlessly, deadlines getting closer and weekends seemingly getting shorter in a blink of an eye and the usual chaos of metropolis life wearing you both thin.

but this? this is perfect. clark's chest rises and falls in a steady rhythm beneath your cheek, the soft fabric of his t-shirt warm against your skin. he smells like home—clean laundry and that subtle cologne he wears, mixed with something that's just makes you fall more in love with the guy. you can hear his heartbeat, strong and reassuring, a sound that never fails to calm you.

"tired?" he asks softly, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through his chest. his hand moves to stroke your hair, fingers gentle as they card through the strands.

you hum in response, too comfortable to form actual words. your eyelids are growing heavy, the combination of clark's warmth and the steady rhythm of his breathing lulling you toward sleep. you try to fight it at first—you don't want this moment to end nor do you want to waste precious time together.

but clark seems to sense your internal struggle. "it's okay," he murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head. "sleep. i'm not going anywhere."

his words are calming and soothing, and you feel yourself melting further into his embrace. your arm tightens around his waist, and you nuzzle closer to his chest, seeking out that perfect spot where you fit against him like you were made for it.

clark adjusts slightly, making sure you're comfortable, his movements careful and deliberate. he reaches for the throw blanket draped over the back of the couch, pulling it over both of you with one hand while keeping you secure against him with the other. the soft fabric settles over your shoulders, adding another layer of warmth and comfort.

"love you," you mumble against his chest, the words slurred with drowsiness.

"love you too," he whispers back, his lips brushing against your hair. "so much."

the last thing you're aware of is clark's hand resuming its gentle stroking of your hair, his touch feather-light and soothing. and you can’t help but succumb to your sleep and slump against his chest.

your breathing evens out, becoming deep and regular, and your body goes completely limp against his. he can't help but smile, looking down at you with such tenderness it makes his chest ache in the best way. you look so peaceful like this, all the stress and worry of the day melted away from your features.

he's careful not to move too much, not wanting to disturb you. the movie continues playing, but he's not paying attention to it anymore. instead, he's focused on you—the way your hair falls across your face, the soft sound of your breathing, the weight of you against him that feels like the most natural thing in the world.

time passes quietly. clark doesn't mind being trapped beneath you; in fact, he wouldn't want to be anywhere else. this is what he treasures most—these quiet, domestic moments that feel so normal, so human. no cape, no responsibilities weighing on his shoulders, just him and you and the simple intimacy of sharing space.

he notices when you start to drool a little, a small wet spot forming on his shirt where your mouth is pressed against his chest. instead of being bothered by it, he finds it endearing. it's such a human thing, so real and unguarded. he's seen you at your most vulnerable, and you've never been anything less than beautiful to him.

he wants to capture this moment somehow, but he settles for just looking, memorizing the way you look curled up against him. the soft light from the tv plays across your face, and he thinks about how lucky he is to have this, to have you.

your hand, which had been resting on his stomach, twitches slightly in your sleep, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. clark covers your hand with his free one, thumb brushing over your knuckles in a gentle caress.

the drool spot on his shirt grows slightly larger, and clark can't suppress a quiet chuckle. he knows you'll be mortified when you wake up and realize, probably apologizing profusely while he tries to convince you it doesn't matter. because it doesn't—not even a little bit. if anything, it makes him love you more, this proof of how comfortable you are with him, how safe you feel in his arms.

he adjusts the blanket around you, making sure you're completely covered. the apartment has grown cooler as the night progresses, and he doesn't want you to get cold. his enhanced hearing picks up the subtle sounds of the city outside—distant traffic, the hum of air conditioners, the occasional siren—but it all feels far away from this bubble of peace you've created together.

clark lets his head fall back against the couch cushions, his own eyes growing heavy. he could easily stay awake all night, content to watch over you while you sleep, but the comfort of the moment is affecting him too. there's something about your presence that makes him feel more human, more normal, and right now that includes the very human need for rest.

he closes his eyes, not really sleeping but hovering in that peaceful space between waking and dreaming. his hand continues its gentle movement through your hair, an automatic gesture now, muscle memory born from countless nights like this one.

this is what happiness looks like, clark thinks drowsily. not the grand gestures or dramatic moments, but this—you drooling on his shirt while some forgotten movie plays in the background, your breathing soft and even against his chest, your complete trust in him evident in the way you've surrendered to sleep in his arms.

he wouldn't trade this for anything in the world.

[mushroomburial]

If I had a nickel for every time I shipped a rabbit and a clown, I'd have two nickels