no strings attached... unless?
pairing: clark kent x fem!reader
summary: what was supposed to be a simple no-strings hookup between best friends turns complicated when feelings inevitably get involved. huh. who would've thought?
wc: 11.4k (i'm just as shocked as you)
genre/tags: fluff/minor angst (miscommunication trope tbh)/smut (TWO smut scenes woohoo!), best friends to lovers, protected sex (condom/bc), p in v sex, oral (fem & male receiving), size kink (clark has a huge dick, but y’all know that 😝), slight praise kink
"just one night," you had said. "no strings. no feelings." you liar.
you were the one who proposed it – all cool and casual, as if it wouldn't ruin you. and now? you can't even get through a bowl of cereal without thinking about the way clark kent sounded when he moaned your name.
it's been a week. one whole week since he wrecked you and then kissed your forehead like it was nothing.
(it was something. it was everything and you hate him for it.)
because now? you know no one else will ever come close.
you scroll through tinder like a bitter old woman; this guy's too short. that one uses the wrong "your." one says their most irrational fear is "women." (kill me.)
all the while, a tiny voice in your brain that you wish would just shut up whispers: clark would never.
and thanks to that voice, you end up mentally replaying that night for the thousandth time – back when it all started. back when it was just popcorn, a movie and a stupid, stupid idea.
– thursday, 9:42 P.M.
it had started the way movies nights at your apartment always did: clark stretched out on one end of your couch, his arm over the back of it, a bowl of popcorn sitting between you, and you on the other end, your socked foot tucked under his thigh, claiming the space like it was normal (which it was). you're halfway through some cheesy drama neither of you were really watching, spending most of the time catching up on life other than the daily planet.
you lean over, tossing your half eaten dragon roll from the takeout sushi platter onto the coffee table, before returning back to slumping against the couch, eyes scrutinizing the t.v.
then came that scene – hot and heavy kitchen counter action, complete with frantic kissing and someone getting hoisted onto the marble and you can tell it's a scene the actors had to practice at least three times by how seamless and graceful it seems.
you scoff, reaching for popcorn from the bowl between the two of you. "god, i miss that."
clark glances over at you, a brow quirking upward. "being thrown onto a kitchen counter?"
you popped a kernel into your mouth. "being kissed like that. hell, being touched like that. my last date ended with a side hug and apple cash request for half the appetizer."
clark winces, face visually contorting. "ouch."
you sigh dramatically, leaning your head back against the couch. "i'm in a dry spell so bad, it's actually concerning."
clark laughs. your transparence was something he had to get used to at first but over time, he realized that's just how you were. unfiltered. bold. honest in a way most people weren't. it didn't scare him. if anything, it made talking to you easy.
he nudges your leg. "join the club. last girl i dated told me i was 'too polite to be hot.' whatever that means."
your brows furrow, internally scolding the woman for ever saying a thing. "it means she had no taste, clark. trust me, you're hot and polite. some of us are into that, y'know."
clark flushes a little at that, lowering his head to conceal his shy smile but you see it anyway.
maybe that's why you said the thing. because of his dumb, stupid, clark smile.
you reach for another handful of popcorn, keeping your eyes fixed on the movie screen even though you've completely lost the plot. you may be blunt at the best of times, but even you have a little shame, so you cover it up well. "you know," you begin, tone softening considerably enough for clark to look over at you again, "we could fix that."
clark tilts his head, confused. "fix what?"
"the dry spell." you glance at him now, meeting his eyes. "you and me. just one night. a mutual exchange."
his mouth parts, just slightly, and then it opens and closes like a blubbering fish. you can practically see the gears turning in his head, the way his jaw flexes before he clears his throat. "are you serious?"
you shrug like it's no big deal, like your heart isn't hammering against your ribcage. "sure. we're both adults. good friends. we trust each other. and we're both painfully single. why not?"
he says nothing for a moment. you can see him doing that thing that he always does: thinking it through, being careful, considering every angle, every potential consequence.
your nails dig into the rough fabric of your couch, dwelling on the proposition you just made. with every second that passes, regret sinks heavy in your stomach.
you open your mouth, ready to backpedal and make a joke of it. you'll laugh it off, blame the movie or your hellish dating era–
clark cuts you off before you get the chance, his voice low. firm. certain.
"okay."
your breath catches, brows lifting slightly.
his eyes are on you now, his expression steady, unreadable but darkened in a way that makes your skin prickles and goosebumps rise on your arms. "if you're sure," he adds, softer this time. "i'm in."
you blink. "yeah?"
he nods. "yeah. just two pals keening for mutual relief." despite the joke in his words, he delivers it a little more seriously.
you nod along. "exactly. just sex. no strings. no feelings. we're still friends after this."
"right," he agrees sharply, adjusting the black frames on his nose. there's something different in his expression now, something unreadable. it's times like these when you wish you could read his mind. you share a planet with a superalien and yet, there's no accessible device you can use to know exactly what clark kent is thinking. pity.
"okay," he says again, resting his palms against his thighs. one of his thighs presses to yours. did he scoot over? "so, when do we start?"
your eyes flutter, startled at the sudden shift.
"um... now?"
and then he looks at you, really looks at you in a way that sucks the breath from your lungs, his gaze drags across your face like he's memorizing every detail he's never let himself linger on too long.
a beat passes.
"now works," he murmurs, nodding to himself and you're unsure if you're seeing things but you think you catch his adam's apple bob in this throat.
he turns to face you and there's another moment of silence between you, darting eyes looking into each other's with neither of you sure how to make the first mood. the tense air falters slightly when you both laugh, visibly shaking as if trying to fray the nerves you feel.
"you're allowed to kiss me, clark." you crack a smile, further easing the tension and giving him the go-ahead.
clark nods, reaching his arm up. his hand comes up gently, fingers brushing along your jaw, like he's hesitant in case you pull away. but you don't. you can't. you're frozen in place, heart pounding in your ears as clark kent, your best friend, your coworker and lunch break buddy, closes the distance and kisses you.
it starts slow and you shouldn't be surprised.
he's soft, tentative, like he's testing the waters, but the second your lips part and your hands slides up the back of his neck, feeling the curls at the nape of his neck, it's like a dam breaks.
the kiss soon turns hungry, almost desperate in a way that makes you feel dizzy.
he groans into your mouth, deep and guttural, the sound vibrating through your chest when you gently tug at his hair, pulling him closer to you. his hands find your hips and he grips them tightly as he sits beside you.
your free hand trails down to tug at his shirt. he's quick to lift it off, breaking the kiss for a mere second, tossing the fabric somewhere behind the sofa.
you don't remember how you ended up in his lap, only that you're straddling him now, grinding down over the thickening length pressed against his jeans.
your hands aren't shy in the way they glide across the newly discovered fair skin of his torso. he's on the fairer side but you can imagine the farmer's tan he'd probably sport had he stayed home and not moved to metropolis.
you knew clark was a big guy. everyone did. he's a tower of a man, standing over you at six-foot four-inches, yet with the most gentlest of demeanors.
there's nothing gentle about clark's body though. you have half the mind to ask him when he finds time to go to the gym consistently but the other voice in your head tells you it'd ruin the moment.
clark's hands travel everywhere, too: up your thighs, your waist, your back. he touches you like he's been waiting for this. starving for this.
he hides pent up energy a lot better than i do, you think to yourself.
your teeth scrape against his bottom lip, holding the soft flesh between them and he exhales sharply, like you've knocked the wind out of him.
"bedroom?" he pants against your mouth when you release his lip.
you nod breathlessly. "please."
he stands with you still clinging to him, lifting you like it's nothing (seriously, what can this man bench?), and in a matter of seconds, you're in your room.
it's not the first time he's been in your room. it's not even the tenth. he's helped you assemble ikea furniture in here. he's helped you hang picture frames and fix a broken drawer. he's sat on your bed, fully clothed, eating pad thai while you struggled to find what to wear for a particular date.
but this...
this is different.
this time you're underneath him, flat on your back, watching as he looks at you like he's never really seen you before. granted, he hasn't. not like this.
his hands smooth under your shirt, eyes trained on the faded material. you're about to ask what he's staring at when he murmurs softly, "this is mine."
you glance down, eyeing the oversized fabric plastered with the logo of an indie band you know nothing about. a distant memory flashes in your eyes. "y'gave it me after that big storm," you remind him, your tone matches his. "never asked for it back."
"so you decided to steal it?" he asks, eyes flitting up to yours, a hint of amused challenge in his eyes.
"more like long-term borrowing," you correct him firmly. "i was going to return it eventually," you add.
"eventually," he echoes, like he doesn't believe you for a second.
his fingers toy with the hem of the shirt, brushing along the bare skin of your navel. it sends a shiver across your body, not only by his touch alone, but how he looks at you.
you swallow. "you want it back?"
clark hums, leaning in, nose brushing against yours. "eventually," he teases.
he kisses you again.
it's slower this time, like he has all the time in the world to taste you. his hands skim your sides, pushing the shirt up gradually, savoring each inch of skin he reveals. your arch to help him, letting the fabric slide up off your arms, over your head and get tossed somewhere beside your bed.
clark sits back just enough to look at you, really look at you, and the look on his face makes goosebumps raise your skin. his eyes drag down your chest, still clad in a bra.
"um, may i?" he asks, voice strained.
a smile cracks your features, warmth blooming in your chest at the his display of shyness during your moment of intimacy. you nod with a hum of approval, grateful that the bra you decided to wear today had the clasp at the front between the two cups.
clark breathes out a quiet sound of relief, like he's also grateful for the simplicity. his fingers find the clasp easily, but he doesn't rush. he hesitates for just a second, giving you one last chance to change your mind, even though your body is already arching toward him in invitation.
the clasp clicks open with a soft snap and you bra loosens against your skin.
with a bated breath, you feel clark slide the straps from your shoulders carefully, until the bra has been tossed aside to join your – his – shirt on the floor. you blink up at him as he finally takes you in fully, his breath catches.
"you're beautiful," he says simply, like it's a fact. not a line, not flattery. just the truth.
you swallow hard, unable to speak, so you reach for him instead, pulling him down into another kiss, your hands wrapped around the back of his neck. this one is deeper, messier. your tongue slide together, desperate and hot enough to make your thighs press together.
clark groans into your mouth, feeling the movement of your legs, as if he knows exactly what it means. his hands slide down your sides, settling on your hips, thumbs tracing slow circles, just under the waistband of your sweatshorts.
then he shifts, dragging his mouth along your jaw, down your neck, pressing slow kisses to every inch of skin he can reach. you gasp when his lips find the sensitive spot below the corner your jaw, your fingers tightening in his hair as he sucks softly.
"clark," you whisper, barely able to get the word out.
he lifts his head slightly, eyes searching yours. "tell me what you want," he murmurs.
you bite the inside of your lower lip, feeling the heat pool in your lower belly. "i want you to touch me. really touch me."
he lets out a breath, nodding.
clark moves lower, trailing kisses down your chest, pausing to mouth at your breast, his tongue flicking over your nipple until you arch beneath him with a croon. you moan softly when his lips close over your nipple, sucking at the stiffened flesh. your eyes flutter shut as his large hand gropes the breast that's not in his mouth, before it begins to trail down.
his hand coasts down your stomach, slipping beneath the waistband of your shorts, and then he goes lower, beneath the cotton of your underwear.
your breath hitches when his fingers brush over your slit, already soaked and his breath stutters against your skin. he releases from your nipple with a soft 'pop,' eyes meeting yours.
"oh my," he groans, "you're so wet."
you whimper, half-embarrassed, half-desperate. "yeah, well... you're kind of hot."
he huffs to himself – maybe a laugh, maybe it's out of disbelief – and presses a kiss to the slope of your breast before slipping a finger between your folds, circling your clit with a precision you don't want to know from where he learned. your body jerks at the contact, a soft moan leaving your lips.
clark watches your expression closely, trying to read your pleasure.
"like this?" he asks lowly, swallowing the lump in his throat.
you nod frantically, your fingers tangling into his hair as you pull him closer. "mhm... just like that."
his touch grows more confident, smiling to himself as he coaxes another croon from you when he pushes the finger inside your velvet walls.
you gasp, hands moving to clutch his shoulders, eyes fluttering shut at the slow and deliberate stretch of his digit inside you.
he hums in approval at the feel, like the warmth of you is enough to drive him crazy. his thumb moved to your clit, circling in tandem with the curl of his finger, drawing sounds from your lips he's never heard before. now that he has, he doesn't think he'll ever forget them.
your hips buck up to meet his hand, your breath hitching as his finger begins to move faster and with more purpose. he carefully adds a second finger, watching your reaction closely.
"oh, clark," you pant, voice breaking.
"does it feel good?" he checks in softly, continuing to crook his fingers inside your gummy walls.
"y-yeah, real good," you nod, lashes batting.
your body burns and your pulse pounds in your ears, thighs trembling as he works you closer and closer to the edge with just his fingers.
"clark, i'm– oh my god–"
you're at the precipice. he can feel it, too.
"mhm, go ahead, sweetheart," he hums against your temple, his thumb circling faster over your clit.
you're unsure if it's his fingers or the pet name that triggers your orgasm but you cum with a sharp cry, legs tensing and back arching as waves of pleasure roll through your body. he doesn't pull his fingers out until you're gasping, twitching and whimpering from the overstimulation.
when you finally open your eyes, you look at his expression: tender. a littler in awe.
you pull him into a kiss before you can overthink it, your lips a 'thank you' for the orgasm he gave you. one of your hands drift down and feel how hard he his through the denim of his jeans.
"your turn," you murmur against his lips.
clark shakes his head slightly, kissing your jaw. "we're not playing a board game."
you arch a brow, still catching your breath. "clark."
he grins softly. "okay, fine. 'm not going to argue with you."
you laugh breathlessly tugging at the loops of his jeans before your reach the button of them. he lets you unbutton his jeans, finding the zipper and pulling it down.
clark hisses when the zipper comes in contact with his bulge, separated by the cotton of his boxers. you glance up at him, eyes flitting to his face, just in time to see him bite down on his lower lip and knit his brows together.
you push the denim down his hips and he helps, standing off the bed momentarily to tug the rest of them down his legs and kicking them aside.
"those, too," you murmur, eyes zeroing on his boxers, more specifically the hard outline behind them.
clark exhales sharply, his cheeks tinting a faint pink as he hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers and leans over to slide them to his legs before stepping out of them and leaving them in the pile on the floor.
your breath catches as he straightens again, fully bare now and yeah... you're in awe.
your eyes roam over him and he shifts slightly under the weight of your gaze. he's not bashful per se, but he's something close to it.
"jesus, clark," you whisper.
"what?" his ears flush a darker pink and that makes you grin because of course he's shy about it. it's so him, it almost makes your chest ache.
"you, clark," you smile, chuckling through your nose. "that," you add, nodding toward his cock, hanging thick and heavy between his legs.
he sucks in a breath and you find his reaction dear. of course the guy with the biggest dick you've ever seen is modest about it. and of course it's clark kent of all men.
"c'mere," you beckon him over, sitting up in your bed. "wanna make you feel good."
he kneels at the edge of your bed, voice strained, raspy with want. "you don't have to," he murmurs but the twitch of his cock says otherwise.
"i want to," you answer softly, gently tugging him by the arm until he's settled against your headboard.
"sweetheart..." he trails off.
there it is again. that damn pet name.
"let me," you ask, practically beg, eyes boring into his with desperation. "please."
his lips purse as if he's holding something in and then he's nodding. "okay."
you wrap your fingers around him, heat returning to your belly when you realize your hand barely encircles his entire circumference. you stroke him once slowly, and clark's eyes flutter shut. his jaw tenses, tossing his head back against the headboard.
"god," he breathes, the sound low and guttural, like the air's been vacuumed from his lungs.
you smirk a little to yourself, tucking the moment away in your memory.
your hand moves again, slow and steady, watching his every reaction. you watch the way his chest rises and falls a little faster now, and the way his brows scrunch together while his lips part with a groan when you twist your wrist just the right way.
"feel good?" you ask.
clark's eyes flutter open, glassy and dark with heat. "yeah," he rasps. "feels... feels great."
you beam at his words, pride filling your chest.
you shift lower on the bed, settling between his legs and placing a hand on his thigh for support. his breath catches when he realizes where this is going and you don't give him a chance to overthink it.
you run your tongue along the underside of his cock, slow and deliberate. he lets out a sound that's part groan and part whimper, hips twitching up instinctively.
he moans your name softly, pressing the back of his head harder against the headboard. part of you wishes you could take a picture.
you hum around the thick head of him as you take him into your mouth, swirling your tongue and easing forward until you feel the weight of him on your tongue, nearly overwhelming in girth. his hands twitch at his sides before one reluctantly moves up to your hair.
clark doesn't push. doesn't guide. he just holds, like he needs something to ground him.
you set a rhythm, bobbing your head and stroking him with one hand what you can't take. you relish in the way his moans grow louder, more broken, a sound you want etched into your mind forever.
"sweetheart," he calls, voice tense with strain. "you have to wait– i'm–"
you glance up at him, eyes wide and pupils blown, trying to read his expression.
"you're going to make me cum," he warns, voice cracking.
why does he say that like it's such a bad thing?
you double-down, sucking harder in response, flattening your tongue along the underside of his cock again, and that's it.
clark groans, loud and low and helpless, as he comes, hips bucking once before he stills them. his hand fists your hair while the other attempts to cover his mouth as if he's afraid of waking the whole building (too late, you think).
you ease off him slowly when his thigh trembles beneath your hand, lifting your head up and wiping your mouth with the back of your hand as you look up at him.
he looks completely and utterly wrecked. his hair is mussed, his skin is flushed pink and damp with sweat. his eyes are still dazed, slowly blinking at you as he comes down from his high. he looks... so pretty.
"jesus," he pants softly. "you really didn't have to do that."
"i know," you murmur with a small smile, crawling up his body until you're in front of his face. "i wanted to."
and then he smiles at you, a dazed one that sucks the breath from your lungs that you cant help but lean in to kiss him. he reaches up to cradle your jaw, uncaring at the fact that he can taste himself on you. his other hand drifts to your waist, pulling you closer and against him.
your tongues meet each other's, gliding together in almost a lazy manner. his kiss is languid, almost reverent, like he's trying to memorize the inside of your mouth.
you sigh into it, boneless and content as your body arches into his, bare chests pressing against each other's.
his hand drifts to your hip, toying with the hem of your shorts. "can't believe these are still on," he murmurs against your lips.
"you're the one who fingered me without taking them off first," you remind him with a chuckle.
"mm, my fault," he muses, beginning to tug down the material. you let him, allowing him to slide down your shorts until they're low enough for you to kick off and off the bed. "and these?" he asks, fingers playing with the lacy hem of your cotton panties.
you pull your head back slightly, eyes darting between his. "you want to?" you ask softly.
he swallows as he looks at your face in the dim light, just as flushed as his. "if you want," he answers, fingers still idly pinching the lacy fabric between his fingers.
you nod once with certainty. "yeah," you answer in a breath. "i do."
clark leans in to kiss you again, hands gripping your waist to flip you and ease you onto your back. he pulls away, his hands skimming your sides as he hooks his thumbs into the waistband of your underwear. his eyes meet yours once more, another silent check.
you lift your hips up in answer.
he slides your panties, soiled from your first orgasm, down slowly, tossing them aside into the growing pile on the floor.
you let him pull your thighs apart, exposing your core to the air and his gaze.
"you're so..." he trails off, but he doesn't finish, like the words fail him.
you look up at him, curious despite feeling so vulnerable before him. "so what?"
he smiles softly as if he's amazed. "just... beautiful."
your breath hitches at his words. it's so clark for him to say; it's so earnest and devastating at the same time, it makes your heart stutter in your chest.
he takes another glance down at your pussy before he snaps out of it, scooting away to reach for something on the floor. "i think i've got a condom in my wallet," he murmurs, a little hurried.
you choose not to dwell on wondering how often clark gets propositioned with sex to regularly carry a condom in his wallet.
it's clark after all.
any woman would be lucky to be with him.
you stop him, your voice calling out, "i've got a box somewhere in my nightstand."
the look on his face as he turns to look at you is boyishly flustered and adorable. you watch him crawl back over to you, hovering over you as he reaches in your nightstand drawer and retrieves a foil packet.
clark kneels up on the bed, leaning back against the back of his calves and carefully opens the packet. he rolls it on his hardened cock and you swear your brain circuits watching him do something so mundane and yet so intimate.
is this how you usually reacted to a date rolling on a condom?
then, he's hovering over you and his hand moves between you both, wrapping around himself and dragging the head of his cock slowly throughout your folds, gathering slick.
you whimper softly, hips twitching instinctively.
"you're sure about this?" he asks through gritted teeth, like he's not pressing his tip against your entrance, his restrain a hairline away from snapping. his glasses are already fogged and you hate to admit to yourself that it's one of the hottest things you've ever seen.
"yeah," you nod, letting out a breath.
he nods back at you, maybe to himself, before pushing inside you.
you cry out softly at the invasion, the head of his cock stretching your walls as he sinks into you. your hands scramble to find something, anything, to hold on to. they end up gripping his shoulders, nails digging into his warm skin as your breath stutters.
clark is big. thick. huge as he fills you in a way that feels overwhelming yet perfect at the same time.
"'s tight," he rasps, staying still as your walls flutter around the two inches he has inside you. "'m sorry."
"don't apologize," you pant, your eyes fluttering. of course he's apologizing for being too big. "i can take it."
he groans at your words, unable to resist pushing deeper inside you, another inch entering your tight walls. "sweetheart, y'sure? i don't have to go in all the way–"
how sweet.
"please," you whine, legs wrapping around his waist and pulling his hips closer to you, not letting him pull out.
he grunts at your eagerness as you urge him in closer, deeper as he sinks another inch into you, the stretch burning just enough to make your toes curl.
"fuck," he breathes, like the sound is punched from his lungs. is this the first time you've ever heard him swear? you think stars form your pupils just because he sounds so pretty when he curses.
you feel so full, so deliciously and impossibly full and yet you still want more, knowing there's a little more of him to go. you babbles something along the lines of 'more' and 'please' and who is clark kent but the man who'd grant your every wish?
with one final roll of his hips, he bottoms out, cock fully seated inside you. he lets out a low groan, feeling his pelvis press against your slick fold. the breath in your throat hitches at the pressure, the fullness you feel.
for a moment, the two of you stay sill like that, bodies locked together and foreheads touching. clark removes a hand from your hips to gently brush your jaw with the pad of his thumb.
"you okay?" he murmurs, voice so soft it makes your chest ache.
you nod, nails pressing into his back, but your grip loosens slightly. "yeah," you manage to say, a little breathless. "just... give me a second."
clark kisses your cheek, then your temple. "take all the time you need."
and so you do. you catch your breath. you adjust, the dull ache between your legs slowly becoming one of pleasure. you give him a nod, tilting your hips, silently inviting him to move and he takes the cue.
he starts the thrust, slowly at first but it's deep. so deep. every movement is unhurried and almost reverent. his gaze remain on you, maintaining an intense eye contact through every thrust, his lips parted as soft groans leave his lips.
"i can feel you everywhere," you whisper, half-dazed. "you're everywhere."
his pace stutters for a beat at your words. he lifts his head to look at you, to really look at them. you think you see a flicker of something raw in his gaze but you can't be sure.
he leans down to kiss you and it's messy, deep, and needy, while his hips roll into yours with a growing urgency. his hips pick up their pace, moving harder and faster now, each thurst enough to make your vision blur with pleasure.
you clutch his back tighter as the coil in your belly gets tighter. your walls flutter wildly around him, desperate for release.
"sweetheart," clark pants, his voice ragged. "i'm so close."
you nod, voice barely a whisper, "me, too."
clark buries his face in the crook of your neck, breath stuttering as his body tenses. you feel him twitch inside you, his release crashing through you like a tidal wave, your own orgasm ripping through your core in response.
you cling to each other as your breathing slows, skin slick with sweat and hearts pounding in your chests. clark stays inside you for a moment, catching his breath, and you’re both too dazed to say anything.
then he presses a kiss to your forehead.
and that’s when you know.
you’re fucked.
totally, completely, emotionally fucked.
the next morning, you blink awake to an empty bed.
the sheets are cold and tangled where he was only hours ago. the faint scent of his cologne lingers, but the warmth is gone – vanished with him.
your hand instinctively reaches out, only to find the space beside you painfully vacant. no familiar weight. no slow morning breath against your skin.
you sit up slowly, heart hammering in your chest, eyes scanning the room. you notice the faint imprint on the mattress where he had lain, and your hands brushes over the cold sheets.
his clothes are missing too. no sign he'd ever been there.
you swallow the lump in your throat, running a hang through your messy hair and check the clock on your nightstand: 7:02 A.M.
how could he just... leave? no goodbye?
your mind races but you push down the swirl of panic, reminding yourself: no strings. no feelings.
you shake your head bitterly.
but the ache in your chest says another story.
your morning routine is quiet, your mind muddled with the memories of the night prior: the way clark's hands skimmed your skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake, the way his mouth moved so smoothly against yours, the way he practically engraved himself in your gummy walls.
you expected some form of conversation when you woke up that morning. then again, what would you even say? good job, clark! maybe too good of a job haha... ha.
maybe not.
but still!
a text. a note. something.
you keep glancing at your phone like it'll buzz with a text from him. but your screen stays blank. almost mockingly silent.
it was supposed to be uncomplicated. it was to just be physical. fun, even. and that's all it was – right? so why does it feel like he permanently carved himself into you and then disappeared, making you feel hollow?
you try not to spiral, really. but it's hard when your body still aches from how he held you, how he was inside you. you continue relaying the night like a film reel with a stuck stop button.
within an hour, you arrive at the daily planet still shaken, though you pat yourself on the back for looking otherwise; your hair is neatly done, lip gloss on and blazer crisp over your shoulders. your stomach is still in knots but you're hoping the distraction of news will take your mind off it.
you half expect clark to avoid you completely, given how he left your apartment. instead, he's there, at his desk (early for once) and as chipper as ever.
"morning," he greets, offering that charming grin that usually makes your chest warm. today, it makes you want to scream.
you manage a polite smile, your throat dry. "morning."
he holds up a to-go tray, offering you the contents in it. "got your usual. extra shot of espresso. thought you might need it – perry's been on edge all morning."
your fingers wrap around the warm cup, but your heart twists at the casual way he says it. thought you might need it. not because of perry, but maybe because he spent the night buried inside you.
he moves on, heading over to jimmy's desk to talk about the recent superman sighting.
apparently there'd been some alien creature on the clinton bridge – some grotesque, hulking thing with four arms and acidic spit, according to eyewitnesses. superman had swooped in early enough before any casualties were made, defeating the alien. you suspect clark is the key reporter on the case, given his connection to the superhero.
still, since when did clark go to jimmy first about stories?
you stare down at the coffee in your cup as if it'd give you an answer.
the morning drones on. perry barks headlines across the office, jimmy's frantically pacing the tiled floors while chewing a pen cap and clark... clark is perfectly normal. he's chatting with interns, bouncing article ideas off perry, tossing you a smile when he passes your desk.
around noon, you're about to get up for lunch when he beats you to it, strolling over with a brown paper bag and a casual, "hey, got you that turkey pesto you like. hope that's okay."
you blink at him, startles as you crane your neck up to look at him. "oh. yeah. thanks." you glance toward the break room. "are you...?"
"nah," he cuts in, shaking his head. "swamped with edits. gonna eat while i finish the luthor piece."
and just like that, without waiting for you to respond, he's gone.
you try to not let it bother you. you try to convince yourself that this is how it was always supposed to be. always supposed to be before your big mouth ruined it.
but all you can think about is how warm he was in your bed. how soft his eyes were in the dark. how different he felt.
and how different everything is now.
what you don't see is the way clark watches you from his desk. how he catches every flicker of confusion on your face, every little sigh when you assume no one's listening.
the weekend creeps by in slow and dragged hours.
with no deadlines hanging over your head (no perry yelling in your ear about headlines), nothing to dive into, nothing to keep your brain from looping over every moment of that night – the silence is so loud.
you try to distract yourself. you do laundry, you achieve some cleaning, all while some old rom-com plays in the background – which just makes matters worse because even that couple seemed to check in on each other the morning after.
clark hadn't.
by sunday evening, you're mostly numb to it. not okay, but dulled around the edges. detached.
if clark could carry on so easily, so seamlessly (as if sleeping with your best friend was no big deal), then so could you. you'd have to.
monday rolls in with a dreary drizzle and a headache you can't shake, despite the two aspirin you'd taken already. when you step into the planet, clark is already at his desk, tapping away at his keyboard with the same focused expression he always wears.
he looks up when you enter, lifts a hand in greeting and gives one of his clark boyish smiles. "hey," he says, like nothing is different. "usual on your desk."
you blink. "thanks," you murmur.
the coffee cup is still warm when you pick it up. the lid has your name scribbled on it in his handwriting – something he does when he picks up coffee for everyone else in order to remember whose is who. your lid was always different – special – though. a smiley face is scrawled beside your name, just like always.
now, the smile seems like it's mocking you.
you shuffle into the morning meeting and take the seat farthest from him. clark barely notices. he doesn't even look at you.
at least not that you can tell.
lunchtime comes and goes. he stops by your desk with a neatly packed container of leftovers. "made extra this weekend. figured you wouldn't say no to pasta."
you look up at him, then the container in his hand. you can smell it from here. you love his cooking and you can feel your stomach rumble at the sight of it.
"thanks, but i brought mine." you give him a pressed smile, pulling out your own container from home. it's got a sad excuse of a sandwich in there but still, you're too proud to accept his.
you see something flicker across his face, so subtle and brief you're not sure if it was ever there at all, but he recovers fast. "oh. okay. cool." clark pats your desk softly before walking away.
by wednesday, your strategy of coping has been reduced to silence and sidestepping. an absolute shutdown.
you haven't looked clark in the eye once.
not really.
you pretend he's not there, except when you have to acknowledge him. and when you do, you do it with the same kind of politeness you'd give a coworker you don't really know.
you've been packing your own lunch consistently now, every day. it's not because you're being petty, but because you can't keep accepting his gracious offers.
today, he hovers by your desk with a paper bag and a hopeful smile. "brought you that chicken teriyaki over rice you like," he says. "figured you might not have had time–"
"i packed something," you cut in, before he can finish. you plaster a polite smile on your face. "but thank you."
you don't wait for his reply, turning back to your computer and after a moment too long, he sets the bag down and walks off.
you don't touch it.
today 7:15 P.M.
and that leads you to where you are now, scrolling on tinder in hopes – desperate hopes – for something, anything to distract you from your mood.
but there's a knock at the door.
you thought, no, you hoped clark would skip movie night. you really did. after days of keeping your head down, of ducking out of rooms the moment he walked in, of dodging any and every attempt at closeness, you figured he'd get the hint.
you freeze on the couch, bowl of half-eaten cereal in your lap and an oversized hoodie swallowing you whole, phone in the other hand, screen still showing off a man’s dating profile. you consider ignoring the door. you could pretend you're asleep, or not home, or–
"hey," clark calls from the other side of the door, his tone gentle. "i brought thai. they were out of the dumplings you like so i got extra spring rolls."
your stomach flips.
you set the bowl down on the coffee table, standing from your seat and slowly pad over to the door, hesitating for a moment before you open the door.
there he is.
normal as anything. stupidly handsome in a soft blue henley and worn jeans, his hair a little messy from the breeze. he holds up the takeout bag with a hopeful little smile.
you can't believe it took you sleeping with him to realize just how handsome clark kent is.
"movie night," he says simply, raising the bag for emphasis.
you blink, mouth opening and then shutting.
"i'm... not really feeling up to it tonight," you say, pulling the sleeves of your hoodie over your hands. "sorry. kinda under the weather."
it's a decent lie. passable. you even sniff for good measure, eyes avoiding his.
clark doesn't say anything right away.
behind his glasses, his gaze dips over you, scanning the faintest tension in your shoulder, the steadiness of your pulse, the evenness of your breath, the warmth of your skin. they're all signs that your body is just fine. signs that you're lying.
he doesn't call you out on it. he just lets a slow nod carry his chin. "okay..." he murmurs quietly, frowning. he hands you the bag of takeout anyway. "you can text me if you need anything, alright?"
you nod and start the shut the door.
he turns to leave, letting the door shut behind him and you move to place the bag on the coffee table.
but then clark stops. you don't even hear his footsteps on the stairs before they pause and double back to your door. the knock is softer this time.
you open the door again, brows furrowed in confusion.
clark stands before you, his own brows knitted. "did i... do something wrong?" he asks, his voice careful.
you freeze.
"what?"
"you've been avoiding me," he reveals gently. "not just today. all week."
your mouth is dry and it takes a second for you to swallow. "i've just been busy. tired," you answer weakly.
clark exhales through his noise, eyes narrowing slightly. he doesn't buy it. you can feel him not buying it. the air between you tenses but he still doesn't push you.
you sigh and rub your hand over your forehead in attempt to buy time and think of some excuse for your detached behavior that doesn't make you seem pathetic.
"i just needed space," you say finally, eyes still averted.
clark shifts his weight. "so i did do something."
"no!" you manage, too fast. too loud. then softer, you force calm into your tone. "no. you didn't... not really."
clark waits. patient. unmoving.
the silence is long enough that your embarrassment starts to rise hot in your cheeks. you should shut the door. thank him for the food. tell him you'll see him at work tomorrow and crawl back into the shell you've spent the last week building around yourself.
but you don't.
you lean your shoulder against the doorframe, staring off to the side.
"i just thought it'd feel different," you admit, voice so quiet and just above a whisper, you're unsure if he hears it.
clark's brow creases. "different?"
"afterward," you clarify. "i thought..." you sigh. "i don't know what i thought." your words trail off and clark doesn't rush you to elaborate.
he waits.
"i guess i didn't expect you to act so normal," you finally settle on. "and then i didn't expect me to care so much that you acted so normal."
clark's eyes darken, and something in his jaw tightens. "i wasn't trying to brush you off."
"you didn't," you say quickly. "that's the worst part, clark. you didn't do anything wrong. you were just... being you. sweet and thoughtful and friendly and perfect."
with a calm tone, he murmurs, "well, apparently not if you're not okay."
you finally meet his gaze, though your head remains slightly tilted downward, looking up at him through your lashes.
"i was the one who said it'd just be physical. i made a whole thing of it. i joked about it. and then i–" you catch yourself. the words tremble on your tongue, about to slip.
clark doesn't look away, his gaze settled heavily on you. "you what?"
you hesitate, swallowing the lump in your throat.
"i caught feelings," you admit, the confession dragging out of you like you're wincing. "i said no strings but i lied. not on purpose, but... i did."
a beat passes.
you avert your gaze, too afraid to see his expression.
here's where your mouth moves before your brain can compute, attempting to fill in the excruciating silence.
"i didn't expect to feel this way," you say, quieter now. "but i do. and i just... i don't know how to be your friend and pretend like that night didn't change anything for me. i... i'm just sorry."
clark's eyes search your face, his face unreadable for long second.
then, he finally says your name. and the way he says it is so soft, so full of emotion, it feels like a kiss. he takes a step closer to you, crossing the threshold into your apartment.
"i didn't want to leave that morning," he says suddenly, voice low. "i had to."
that makes your head shoot up. you blink, head shaking slightly. "had to?" you echo.
his eyes flicker, almost like he regrets saying it, but he nods. "there was something... urgent. i should've left a note. i thought i could just... make it up to you. you know, the coffee, lunch, the usual clark stuff."
"i didn't know how to act," he continues, his head tilting down as he looks at you. "i didn't want to assume what that night meant to you since you brought it up in the first place... hell, i even asked steve about hookup culture and what was the appropriate thing to–"
"clark." you snap your head up to meet his eyes with incredulity. "you asked steve? for dating advice?"
clark huffs, shaking his head. "no, not dating advice. hookup advice," he corrects, matter-of-fact-ly.
"oh my god," you mumble to yourself. "you asked steve, the guy who has a horrible track record when it comes to woman for advice."
"well, i couldn't ask jimmy. he'd know it was about you and then i'd never hear the end of it."
you blink, stunned, your mouth opening slightly before you let out a short, surprised laugh. "you are so bad at this."
clark shrugs sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. "yeah, well. sue me for trying to respect your boundaries while quietly losing my mind."
you're taken aback. "you were losing your mind?"
his hand drops, and he takes another step closer to you. "you seriously can't believe i just walked away from that night and felt nothing," he murmurs, voice quiet and earnest. "i've been thinking about you nonstop. i couldn't be around you for more than a few minutes because every time i see you i..." he trails off, gulping.
"you what?" you ask softly, your breath halting.
"every time i see you, i want to touch you," he says, voice low, almost like he's confessing a sin. "i want to pull you into the nearest room and kiss you. touch you. hold you. have you."
your breath hitches in your throat.
clark takes another step forward, so close now you have to tilt your chin to meet his eyes. "and it's not just physical. i think about how you laugh when you're half-asleep. how you hum when you're focused. i think about things i shouldn't know after one night."
you swallow hard, your throat suddenly dry. "clark..."
"let me be clear," he says quickly. "i do feel the same. maybe – probably more."
you glance up at him, noting the sincerity in his expression, the barely restrained tension in his frame.
"i'm not going to pretend it was just sex," he says. "not when every second of it felt like something i didn't want to end. not when i still think about the way you sounded – how you looked under me."
your breath stutters, legs nearly giving out at the memory alone.
his voice dips even lower, if that's possible. "not when i've had to physically stop myself from calling you every night since, just to hear your voice while i–" he cuts himself off, swallowing the words.
your stomach drops and a familiar heat grows. "while you what?"
"i think you know."
"every night?" you ask, your voice a small murmur.
he exhales sharply, face flushing but his eyes are still as darkened as ever. "yeah."
your chest tightens at the confession. there's a beat of silence where the air between you feels heavier than ever, thick with things you never thought he'd say. never thought he felt.
"i tried to respect the line you drew," he says softly, almost apologetically. "but i crossed it the second i touched you and i haven't been able to stop wanting you since."
your heart pounds in your ears. you want to speak, say something, but your throat is dry and your mind is racing too fast to catch a single coherent thought.
so you choose to act instead.
you surge up, gripping the collar of his henley, and kiss him.
it's clumsy at first, all heat and urgency and too many feelings shoved into the kiss. his hands immediately find your waist, anchoring you as your fingers tangle in his shirt, wrinkling the blue material between your fingertips. you're already tugging at him. tugging him further into your apartment – he takes the hint and kicks the door behind him.
he groans into your mouth when your hands slide uo under his shirt, palms brushing over warm skin. his muscles twitch beneath your touch, like he's been waiting for this.
he lifts you effortlessly – god, you missed his strength – and your legs wrap around his waist like it's second nature. your back meets the wall with a soft thud, and his mouth never leaves your. it's greedy, relentless. it's like he's making up for lost time. granted, he is.
his hands roam with a desperate urgency, memorizing every curve and contour of you with free reign. the heat between you is palpable, a built up tension bursting at the seams. you cling to him, breath hitching as his lips trail down your jaw to your neck, nipping softly.
"you don't know how much i've missed this," he murmur against your skin, voice rough with need.
you shiver, fingers threading into his hair as he kisses lower, just beneath your ear, along the line of your throat. his breath fans hot against your skin. you're practically melting into him, undone by the weight and warmth of his body.
"i thought about you every night," he confesses, his pressing forward, still hoisting you up against the wall, making your breath hitch. all the while he presses open mouthed kisses to your skin. "your laugh." kiss. "your face." kiss. "your body." kiss.
you whimper, the memory of it rushing back all at once. you feel yourself clench around nothing, the heat in your belly pooling.
the words are stuck in your throat. you're too embarrassed to admit what he already seems to know: it was supposed to be just a hookup and you thought you could keep your heart out of it. but you failed. spectacularly.
so, instead, you lean in, teeth catching his bottom lip in a kiss that's filthy. needy. his groan rumbles against your chest, hand squeezing at the flesh beneath your thighs as he carries you, sliding up to your ass.
"i need you," you whisper finally.
his eyes darken at your words. "you have me," he rasps, and then his mouth is back on yours.
he carries you with effortless strength toward the bedroom, only breaking the kiss to make sure he's not bumping into anything in your hallway. your legs still stay locked around him, arms around his shoulders, fingers still tangled in his hair like you're afraid this moment isn't real. like he actually isn't here.
when his knees hit the edge of the side of your bed, he lowers you onto the mattress with a care that contradicts the heat in his gaze.
"tell me to stop," he murmurs against your lips, his forehead brushing nose, voice barely holding back restraint. "and i will."
you shake your head. "please don't."
and that's his green light.
his mouth is back on yours as his hands trail down your body. they slide along the curve of your waist, the dip of your hips until they find the hem of your hoodie. you easily slip out of it as he helps pull it over your head, tossing it aside. he pulls away for a moment glancing down at the shirt your wearing.
"what?" your question cuts through the tense air.
"you look better in my shirts," he murmurs, pinching the material between his fingertips.
you smile – grin, really – finding amusement in his words. "you should give me some more then," you answer, arms hooking around his neck. he lets you pull him in, smiling against your mouth as you attempt to press another kiss.
his hands grow more eager, tugging the shirt up and over your head in one swift motion.
he lets out a sigh, eyes raking over your chest with reverence and hunger all tangled together. his large hands cup you through your bralette, thumbs brushing over the lace.
you whimper beneath him, fingers tugging at his henley until he stands over you, yanks it over his head. that was hot.
you'd forgotten just how solid he was. all broad chest, sculpted arms. smooth skin over muscle. the kind of body that made you ache.
your hands glide over his chest, fingertips trailing down the dip of his sternum to the line of his abs. his muscles twitch under your touch, and then he's lowering again, mouth hot and wet against the swell of your breast as he works your bra off.
he mouths at you, tongue flicking and teeth scraping enough to make you gasp, "clark." your lashes flutter, fingers reaching to tangle in his curls. one of his hands stay at your chest while the other slips between your thighs, cupping you through your shorts, your heat unmistakable.
he groans, like it hurts. "oh my," he breathes, pressing his forehead between the valley of your breasts for a moment, like he's taking a moment to pull himself together. but then his fingers are moving again, sliding beneath the waistband of your shorts and underwear in one slow motion. he drags them down legs, eyes never leaving your center.
you're wet. he sees it. you feel it.
"sweetheart," he murmurs like a prayer.
that damn pet name.
he knows you like it, he can tell by the way it makes your heart stutter in your chest. clark makes a mental note to continuing calling you it.
then he sinks to his knees on your floor between your spread legs, your calves dangling off the edge of your bed. his hands grip your thighs, thumbs brushing reverently along the inside, like he's committing this to memory.
you're also committing the sight to memory. despite the obsceneness of clark kent kneeling between your les, there's still something so pure in his face: the adoration shining in his ocean eyes behind those glasses.
he presses a kiss to the inside of your knee, then higher and higher.
you suck in a breath when his lips ghost over the skin of your inner thigh and his glasses nudge you slightly. it unintentionally reminds you that it's him, still him, still the clark who holds open doors open and rambles about his dorky interests.
except now his hands are parting your thighs further, spreading you open.
"d'you wanna take off your glasses?" you murmur softly, swallowing thick.
he's quick – almost too quick – to shake his head. "mn-hm, wanna see you clearly," he answers, not revealing the real reason. he exhales shakily, seeing you up closes and the sound alone makes your core throb.
"so, so pretty," he says, almost to himself. he drags his thumbs along your folds, gentle at first. "
you drape your arm over your eyes, too flustered to answer and he smile – you can hear it in his voice, "don't hide from me now."
before you have a chance to answer, his mouth on you.
you gasp as his tongue licks a slow, careful stripe through your slick. when you whimper, hips shifting, his hands tighten on your thighs to hold you steady.
he eats you like he's starving, like you're the only thing he's allowed himself to have after months of being denied. his tongue flicks, circles, presses just right against you and he groans every time your body jerks against his face.
"been wanting to do this," he grumbles against your clit, pressing a chaste kiss to the sensitive bundle of nerves. "thought about it for days."
you gasp, back arching when his tongue plunges into your center, nose rubbing between your folds.
"clark," you whine, nails digging into his scalp as you push him closer to you, keening at the sheer pleasure from his nose and tongue. you don't know how long he's pressed to you like that but you're sure it's longer than a person can be before they need air.
he finally pulls away. "dunno why i didn't last week," he huffs to himself, as if he's scolding himself, breathing a puff against your twitching core, making your walls flutter.
he dives back in. he works you open with patience and purpose, like he wants to unravel you right here, right now, just with his mouth.
and you do start to unravel, your hips rolling and thighs tensing around his shoulders, his name slipping past your lips in broken gasps. you're close.
so, so close.
he pulls back.
your protest is immediate, a whimpering sound of frustration leaving your lips, but he's already climbing up over you, kissing your jaw, your cheek, your lips and murmuring softly, "i know, sweetheart."
you eagerly reach between your bodies, palming his through his jeans. he's already hard, straining, almost painfully so, and the sound he makes is low and guttural.
"clark," you pant, squeezing him through his jeans.
"yeah," he hisses, sucking his lower lip between his teeth. "yeah." he repeats with a nod, reaching down to unbutton his jeans with one hand, the other braced beside your head. you hear the rasp of the zipper being pulled down and then he's fumbling to shove them down just enough to kick off. his boxers follow and you can feel the weight of him slap against your thigh.
"normally, i'd want you to cum before i get inside you," he murmurs through a breath, swallowing hard. "but i just can't wait."
"it's okay," you say quickly, looking into his eyes, heat filling your gaze.
he glances around, reaching for your nightstand drawer and you stop him, grabbing his wrist.
with furrowed brows, he turns to look at you.
"i'm on the pill." you whisper, "and i promise i'm clean."
clark's jaw ticks and then he nods, only once, before you feel the deliberate roll of his hips as he lines himself up.
"you sure?" he asks, voice rough like gravel, like he's barely holding himself back.
you roll your hips back against him, nodding with a soft croon as the head of his cock glides between your slick folds. "y-yes," you breathe out.
"i'll have to go slow because..." he starts.
"–you're huge," you answer for him, a ghost of a smile on your face.
his face flushes. "i was going to say i had little time to properly prep you but i guess that also works."
you giggle, the sound a little breathless, a little wrecked as you lay plaint beneath him as he stands before you. "i mean... both are true."
clark huffs a quiet laugh through his nose but there's a brewing darkness in his eyes. "okay, sweetheart," he murmurs, lowering his voice. "deep breath."
you inhale and then he starts to push inside. the head of him prods against your velvet walls, barely squeezing through your entrance. the stretch is instant. it's hot, thick, overwhelming, just like you remember it but it's oh, so different now without the barriers of latex between you. you feel him more than ever, the bare skin of his cock sliding and rubbing against your walls.
"f-fuck," you whisper, fingers clutching the sheets.
"i know, i know," he pants, lifting the underside of your thighs up to anchor him as he struggles not to shove himself in in one push. "god, you're–" the glasses on his nose, fog up as he pants and slowly sinks another inch into you.
"so good," you whisper, your words a little slurred as you blink ip at him.
clark's jaw is clenched, tendons straining in his neck as he watches your face with utmost focus. it's like he's mapping your pleasure in real time.
"you're doing so good, sweetheart," he croons, squeezing the fat of your thighs. "so tight, warm... christ–"
you whimper, overwhelmed by the stretch and the praise. the way he's only barely in but you already feel full.
it takes a while for him to push himself in, whispering praises and sweet words your way all the while.
then, finally, he bottoms out.
a shaky sound spills from your lips as he buries himself to the hilt, pressing against a spot inside you that has you cumming in seconds without warning.
clark feels your walls spasm around him and he groans, throwing his head back. "shit, baby," he rasps, voice trembling. (mentally, you add another tick to how many times you've made clark swear). "did you just–?"
you nod, dazed, still catching your breath, your whole body twitching from the aftershocks as he stays buried inside you. "i... i didn't mean to," you mumble, blinking up at him, lashes wet.
his smile is crooked and fond as he looks down at you, pupils blown wide. "oh, that's alright sweetheart," he says, leaning down to press a kiss to your temple. "you okay?"
you hum, looping your arm around his shoulders, keeping him close. your legs wrap around his waist, making his arms move from holding your thighs up to brace beside either side of your body. "better than okay."
he grunts at your closeness, rolling his hips just a fraction. "sweetheart, you're squeezing me s'tight."
"sorry," you whimper, attempting to unclench around him. "y'can move," you add softly.
his eyes soften as he looks down at you. "you're not overstimulated?" he asks.
you must have the kindest man inside you right now.
"i need you more than that," you answer, looking into his eyes with determination.
he sucks in a breath at that, experimentally bringing his hips back slightly before pushing back in. your walls are slick with your orgasm so it becomes easier for him to slide between your walls. at your soft moan and fluttering lashes, he starts to move.
clark pulls out a few inches and thrusts back in with a slow, deliberate snap of his hips. you gasp, nails digging into his back and he hisses softly.
the rhythm he sets is measured and patient, but every stroke presses right against that devastating spot inside you that made you fall apart the first time. he doesn't look away from your face, like every flutter of your lashes, every gasp and tremble is something sacred.
"you feed so good, sweetheart," he mumbles, dipping his head to kiss along your jaw. "could stay here all night. buried inside you. just like this."
you shudder from beneath him, his words sending another wave of heart in your belly. "you can," you murmur.
"yeah, you'd let me?" he grunts against your neck, needing the confirmation between every slow roll of his hips. his glasses press against your cheek to the point you're worried they might snap.
"mhm, we could'a been doing this every night since last week," you whimper, squealing when he deliberately snaps his hips against yours out of rhythm.
"then, i guess i have to make up for lost time," he murmurs against your skin, picking up his pace.
you cry out, legs tightening around his waist as he begins to fuck you harder. it's still tender but it's deeper now. it's more insistent, like he's trying to imprint himself inside you (you think he already has from the week prior).
“fuck,” you breathe, wrapping your legs tighter around his waist, anchoring him to you. “clark—”
he groans at the sound of his name, mouth trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses along your throat. “say it again,” he pants. “say my name like that.”
“clark,” you whisper, and he gives a sharp thrust in return that has your back arching, the pleasure overwhelming. you whine when he pulls his torso away from you, leaving your hands to grip the sheets beside you instead.
his fingers curl under your knees, pressing them up toward your chest to angle you open for him. the new angle has him hitting that spot with merciless precision, and your moans dissolve into something breathless and high-pitched.
“look at me,” he murmurs, brushing your hair from your face with a tenderness that contrasts how deep he’s fucking you. “wanna see your eyes when I make you cum again.”
your eyes flutter open, teary and half-lidded, and the moment they lock with his, noticing his blue eyes blown behind his fogged-up glasses, you shatter.
your walls clench around him, your cry muffled by the way he kisses you through your orgasm. it's the kind of kiss that feels like everything. it feels like home.
“that’s it,” he whispers against your lips. “good girl. you’re perfect. perfect.”
your body trembles under him, but he doesn't stop. not yet. he keeps thrusting through your aftershocks, voice low and ragged. “can I cum inside, sweetheart? please... need to feel it. need to feel you.”
you nod, dazed and desperate. “please, clark. want it.”
with a strangled groan, he pushes deep one final time, hips stuttering as he spills white ropes of cum inside you. he holds you tight, face buried in the crook of your neck, catching his breath.
you don’t say anything for a while, your limbs heavy and boneless as his weight settles over you. clark’s still inside, still pulsing faintly, and your body feels like it’s humming, buzzing with the aftershocks. he carefully pulls your legs back down from your chest, letting them dangle off the bed again.
"you okay?" he asks softly.
you nod, a dazed smile on your face as you look up at him. "yeah."
he cups your jaw, thumb caressing your flushed skin softly. "sorry if i went too hard at the end," he murmurs.
"it's okay," you quickly reassure him, turning your cheek to kiss the palm of his hand.
clark smiles at the gesture, basking in the warmth of you and being inside you. "can i stay over?" he asks, breaking the silence that falls between you.
the way your eyes narrow makes his heart stutter in his chest, second guessing everything that just happened prior. but then you speak.
"are you going to leave in the morning like i was some dirty mistress?" you ask, tone mostly teasing.
his shoulders relax and he laughs through his nose, leaning down to kiss your cheek. "sweetheart, i'm sorry," he apologizes, smiling against your skin. "i swear it was urgent. i didn't mean to do a walk-of-shame on you."
"mm, yeah okay," you hum along as if you don't believe him.
he pulls back to look down at you. "i'll spend the rest of forever apologizing to you for it," he promises.
"you better."
sure, tonight he won't tell you the real reason he left in a scramble and without a word that morning was because of the alien monster wreaking havoc on the clinton bridge that he had to deal with as his alien superhero counterpart, but until then, clark will do whatever it takes to make it up to you.
for now, he'll be right here and by your side until morning light.
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