Old Hollywood & Space Love

Lapsus Linguae Hurt/Comfort. Implied/Blunt References to sex. | wc 7k Clark says Lois's name when making love to you. Kinda. Kent OC baby.

Give It To Me - pwp/semi-public sex [18+ MDNI] | wc 5.75k When a stranger crosses a line, Clark doesn’t raise his voice. He simply steps in and makes it clear. The word “husband” slips out as a defense, but by the end of the night, it feels more like a future.

Friday I'm In Love - aftercare [18+ MDNI] | wc 2k You knew you had dinner reservations at seven. You also knew better than to let Clark have his way with you before then.

Master (Rage)baiter - sexting, brief rough sex [18+ MDNI] | wc 2k You knew better than to tease your husband when he was at work.

Green - pwp, fluff [18+ MDNI] | wc 3k “I think I really, really like you, Clark. Maybe even love you.” “Oh, sweetheart.” “Do…do you like me back?” “I’m—literally—inside—you. How else do I prove I’m committed?” — Green Ask

Bonus: My Series

The Gravity Between Us — AO3 (My actual first fic)

You grew up beside Clark Kent, the quiet boy with kind, blue eyes and a secret heartbeat. From scraped knees to stolen glances, Smallville held your shared history— but time has a way of turning best friends into strangers.Now you’re a nurse in Metropolis, and he’s the city’s beacon of hope. Maybe you were meant to fall apart. Maybe you’ll find your way back.Or: a story of reconnection and beyond

Handle With Care — AO3

While attempting to hold a conversation with Rossi about the evolution of forensic science over the last decade, a beautiful woman who looks suspiciously like his girlfriend appears in his periphery. 

Dave has only had a respectable two glasses of Scotch, so he notices that the genius has tuned him out almost immediately. 

“Looks like your keeper is here.” Dave cheekily teases. 

With his head in his palm, Spencer says dreamily, “Yeah, the keeper of my heart.”

Spencer was banished to the aisle seat of the booth after clambering over Emily to go to the bathroom for the third time in thirty minutes. The second she’s within his arm's reach, he grabs her waist and tugs her toward him, resting his chin on her stomach. He looks up at her adoringly, his eyes rounded and sparkling, as she laughs. “You’re here!” he exclaims, beaming.

Tucking a piece of his hair behind his ear, she giggles, “I am!”

“I was trying to text you.” He pouts.

“It’s okay, Hotch told me you were ready to be picked up?”

He doesn’t remember telling Hotch that; how did he know? As he ponders what his girlfriend said, Penelope squeals her name from the corner of the booth.

As the women converse about… well, Spencer doesn’t know, because he’s too distracted by the feeling of her body under his palms.

At first, his thumbs rest in her belt loops, and his slender fingers span down the curve of her ass. 

As she continues talking with his coworkers, his hands sink down her hips and to the curve of her ass. His fingers just barely brush her back pocket when she reaches behind her to grab his wrists, halting his movement, and lifts it back up to her waist.

He whines as she stops his movement and juts his lower lip into a pout. His desperate expression only gets more pathetic when she glares down at him. 

After a few minutes, once she’s invested in her conversation again, he tries a new method. Placing a hand on the back of her leg, he slowly drags it up to the crease where ass meets thigh. 

He internally cheers when she doesn’t stop him this time. Getting bolder, he slides his palm over to the inside of her thigh, gently squeezing the plushness. If he just slightly stretches his fingers, he can brush them against her–

“Okay! Time to take this one home before he falls asleep on me.”

That pushed her too far. He groans in denial, grumbling, “I’m not sleepy.”

“Mhm,” she hums as she pulls his arms to lift him from his seat.

He collapses against her body with the majority of his weight, and she groans as she tries to hold him up, “Spence, baby, I need you to help me.”

His head perks up like she’s said a magic word. She needs him to help her? Okay! With what? Right now? How can I help? It’s like she’s sounded the bell, and he’s one of Pavlov’s dogs.

They wave their goodbyes to the rest of the BAU. On the way out the door, he’s scuffling his feet and tripping every few steps – getting him into the cab should’ve counted as a workout. 

He only gets more handsy in the back of the taxi. Straining on the seatbelt to pepper kisses down her jaw and neck. Fingers trailing higher and higher up her thigh. 

Spencer really doesn’t drink often, and is rarely this bold in public, so she looks over to ask him, “You okay, honey?”

A flush paints his cheeks and fades down to his collar, partially due to the alcohol he’s ingested tonight and mostly due to her. “Mm, I like it when you call me honey.”

She lightly giggles at him, “I know you do, honey…” Grabbing his hand that’s getting dangerously close to between her legs, she intertwines their fingers. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“Oh! Well, I do have a little problem…” He moves her hand to guide it over the bulge in his pants. 

Side-eyeing the driver, she leans close to his ear, “That is not a little problem, and you know it,” as she gently squeezes. 

He whines at her touch and tilts his hips forward. The driver looks back at them through the rear-view mirror with furrowed brows. She gives him a polite smile as if her palm isn’t pressing on her boyfriend’s semi in the man’s backseat. 

Spencer continues to try to touch her and have her touch him throughout the remainder of the car ride. Her promises to take care of him once they get home fall on deaf ears. The only thing on his mind is her, her, her, her, her. 

He eventually huffs and leans back in the seat with his arms crossed, pouting. She’s torturing him. It’s not fair. 

He’s vibrating with excitement as she pushes their front door open, finally. The second they’ve crossed the threshold, he’s grabbing her face and pulling her into a frantic and messy kiss. She gasps into his mouth, and he smirks against hers.

With one hand on the base of her neck, he skims down her back and waist with the other until he reaches her ass, unapologetically squeezing her. He pulls her flush with his body, lightly moaning when his aching cock presses against her hip.

He needs her.

She tries to retreat from the kiss, but he follows her fleeing lips until she rests her palms on his shoulders, gently pushing him back. “Spence, we shouldn’t.”

With hands sadly falling to his sides, he frowns, “What? Why not?”

“You’re drunk, it’s not right. I’ll feel like I’m taking advantage of you.”

He tries to lean in to kiss her again, to convince her that he wants this, needs this. Her grip on him only tightens, causing him to emit a protestful whine.

“Please, baby. I want you. Please?” He shamelessly begs.

“I don’t know, honey…” She bites her lip as she trails off. Is she trying to kill him?

“Please? I consent. You won’t be taking advantage of me.”

Her head tilts as she gazes into his pleading eyes, “What if you regret it in the morning?”

His brows furrow in confusion. “I could never regret you. You’re the love of my life.” He rebuts, like it’s obvious. It should be, he thinks. Has he not made his devotion to her evident enough? Should he show her the ring in his–

“Okay.” She concedes. “But I’m only gonna do this,” She slides her hands down his chest to tug at his belt. 

He groans theatrically. He really should take what he can get, but he wants way more than just her hand, albeit beautiful, wrapped around him.

Halting her fiddling with his pants, she asks, “Do you not want me to?”

“No– I mean, yes– I mean, no, I want more.” He stammers, shaking his head.

“Do you want my mouth instead?” She offers.

He wants to bang his head against the wall. Never could he have predicted that he’d be turning down a blowjob from her.

He shakes his head, “No.”

“Spence…”

“I want you to ride me in our bed.” Her eyebrows jump at his bluntness. “Please. Could you please ride me in our bed, please?” He tenderly runs his thumbs over the backs of her hands.

She sighs, “You’re drunk.”

"I don't want you because I'm drunk. I'm drunk and I want you." He looks at her in that impossibly earnest way that melts her heart.

“Plus!” He holds up his pointer finger. “I started thinking about it before I was drunk. Now, I’m just not embarrassed to bring it up…” He trails off, the blush on his cheeks getting darker.

He continues, “And you can say no. I’ll be a little sad and will probably sulk just a tad, but no means no… That’s all.”

She takes a step closer to him, “That’s all?”

His breath catches in his throat, and he quickly bobs his head, “Mhm.”

She nods, “Okay,” and takes another step towards him.

His heart is pounding in his chest, his eyes dart back and forth across hers. Breathlessly, he asks, “Okay?”

She moves close enough to brush her nose against his, and their breaths fan each other's faces. Spencer’s still has its usual strong minty aroma with only a tinge of whiskey peeking through. The scent of her cherry lip balm lingers and makes him feel light-headed. It’s taking all of his control and strength to not just kiss her.

She whispers, “I did promise to take care of you in the car,” before finally pressing her lips against his, gentle yet firm. 

Spencer follows her lead, letting her set the pace, but his veins are thrumming with excitement and anticipation.

Once she deepens the kiss, slowly sliding her tongue against his, a desperate whine escapes him, but he still maintains his composure. Not pushing her or, rather, pulling her any closer towards him.

Gratefully for him, she moves his hands down to her hips, encouraging him to touch her. He can’t resist circling them around to her backside, squeezing and pulling her pelvis flush with his. He sighs at the relief of pressure from his throbbing dick; he’s been half-hard for her since she got to the bar to pick him up. 

As the kiss continues, she wraps her arms around his neck, threading the fingers of one hand through the back of his hair. He unabashedly moans into her mouth, and her lips turn upward into a smile.

“Bedroom?” She whispers against his lips, and he immediately nods, eager and needy.

When she separates from him, leading him with their fingers tangled, he desperately keeps his other hand on her waist, not wanting her to get too far from him. He follows her into their bedroom, kissing her neck and whispering, “Thank you,” over and over.

Once they’re in their room, she rotates to kiss him, with immediate passion and fervor. He doesn’t notice that she’s steered them to the edge of the bed until she’s pushing him with a hand on his chest, and he drops backward onto their mattress. 

As she yanks off her shirt and unbuttons her jeans, he intently watches with blown pupils. Biting his lip, he palms himself through his slacks at the vision of his girlfriend stripping for him. This is far from the first time that he’s seen her do this, but each time he witnesses it, he’s filled with gratitude and reverence. How did life lead him here? To her?

Left in just her bra and panties, she steps between his dangling legs, placing her hands on his cheeks. For the second time that night, she asks, “You okay, honey?”

He doesn’t answer. As he grabs her hips and pulls her on top of him, he falls on his back against their mattress. She giggles as they tumble, and the sound makes his heart sing a matching harmony. God, he loves her so much.

Their lips met again in a hungry kiss. As they retrace each other’s mouths, Spencer slides his hands up her back to skillfully unclasp her bra. It gets tossed to the floor, and he kneads and squeezes her breasts, swiping his thumbs over her nipples. 

She lightly moans against him and grinds her hips down against his bulge. His head tilts back, and he grumbles a low, “Fuck.”

She bites her lower lip, concealing her entertained smile produced by his cursing. Drunk Spencer really has no filter. 

Placing her hands on his chest, she continues circling her hips against him, and his palms tighten on her waist. 

He inches his fingers across her thigh to the hem of her underwear, slipping under them until he’s met with her soaked folds. 

As his fingers slide and caress her, she leans back to grant him better access, stabilizing herself with her hands on his knees.

“Baby,” she whines, tilting her hips upward in an attempt to show him where she needs him.

“I know, baby, I know.” He gruffs, frustrated with the constraint of her panties.

In a split-second decision, he tells her, “I’ll buy you new ones,” and before she can ask what he’s talking about, he’s tearing the lace. She looks down with a gasp at her now shredded panties.

“Oh my–” She cuts herself off with a moan; he’s sliding a finger in her entrance before she can fully process or say anything about what just happened.

He continues fingering her, eyes locked on the rapid rising and falling of her chest. Her head is tilted back, exposing her neck, and he wishes he could reach up to lick and kiss her there. She looks so beautiful and glorious like this.

One finger becomes two, and they can hear the wet squelching noise of her pussy with each thrust. As he curls his fingers upward, her arms get shaky from the pleasure.

“Fuck me, Spence…” She groans.

His lips twitch, “That’s the plan, baby.” 

She rolls her eyes in mock annoyance, huffing out an amused laugh. A deep tension blooms in her belly as he continues his ministrations.

When he reaches his thumb up to her clit to rub smooth, slow circles, her thighs tremble against his hips.

She leans forward and grabs his wrist, “Fuck– Okay– I need you,” halting his movements.

Leaning down to kiss him, she unbuttons his pants and shimmies them down just enough to free his red, leaking, aching cock. 

He groans as she wraps her soft hands around him, thrusting upward into her grip, “Mm, baby, please.”

After smearing his pre-cum over the head, she holds her hair back with the other hand and lets a string of spit drip onto him. His mouth falls open as she does this, eyes tracking the descent until it meets his dick. He’s so sensitive and desperate and enthralled that the slide of her saliva down his shaft has him moaning and whimpering. 

Tossing the scrap of fabric that has become her panties onto the floor, she guides his tip to her entrance and slowly sinks down. They moan in tandem at the slick stretch. 

Stabilizing herself with hands on his chest, she drops down until he’s buried deep inside of her, brows furrowed, and neck tilted back. 

She then realizes something entirely stupid: he’s still wearing his tie and button-up. She groans and yanks on the fabric around his neck, throwing it, before making quick work on the buttons of his shirt, “Why are you even still wearing this?”

He can barely respond, his dick is finally where it’s meant to be, and she’s too frustrated with the barrier of his shirt to actually fuck him. He’s dizzy from the alcohol and the sensation of her tight, wet walls wrapped around him. He doesn’t know which variable is most responsible for making him feel this way anymore.

“You could’ve taken it off whenever you wanted,” he manages to gripe.

After unbuttoning just enough of his shirt to get her hands on his bare chest, she finally slowly rises and falls on his dick. His hands grip her hips, fingers pressing firmly into her ass. With a slack jaw, he groans, “Fuck– Yes– Thank you, baby.”

He continues babbling as she finds a steady rhythm, “Thank you so much, I love you so much, oh my God.”

His head rolls back and forth against the bed as she rides him into the mattress, broken moans and whimpers and whines escaping both of them with each plunge. Spencer soon guiltily realizes that he’s not helping her at all, so he assists in the movement of her hips with his hands and thrusts upward to match her pace.

Her nails scrape down his chest as the heat in her belly catches fire again. He hisses at the scratches, but he loves it when she does this, loves when the sharp pain blends with the intense pleasure. 

“Shit– Baby– Not gonna last long–” He moans.

“Mm, ‘m close,” She agrees, moving a hand between her legs to sloppily rub her clit. He can feel the pulsing of her tight heat as her orgasm crests, and he’s clenching his jaw and hands to stop himself from cumming before she does. Even in his drunken state, her pleasure prioritizes his own. 

“Fuck– Fuck– Fuck–” she chants and cries as everything starts to feel like too much. Her release coincides with a long, drawn-out, “Spencer…” and her eyes rolling to the back of her head.

Falling against his chest, panting, she continues a slow roll of her hips as he bursts inside of her with a raspy groan.

His body twitches and shivers as he cums, fingers slowly unlocking their tight grip on her waist. She won’t be surprised nor perturbed to find the shape of his fingerprints embedded in the skin there later.

His arms wrap around her back as his orgasm descends, caressing her warm skin. Burying his nose in her hair, he mumbles, “That was amazing. You’re amazing.”

She lightly laughs in agreement, pressing a sweet kiss to his collarbone.

They lay as a panting tangle of limbs until she hears his breathing even out, and she glances up to see his eyes closed, “Spence?” She croons.

He doesn’t respond.

“Honey?” She chuckles.

Still nothing. If she couldn’t feel his breathing against her skin, she’d be worried.

She gently shakes his shoulder, and he inhales sharply, “Mm?”

“Did you seriously fall asleep? You’re still inside of me!” She feels his dick twitch ever so slightly against her walls.

“No, ‘m not asleep.” His voice is rough and croaky.

“Mhm,” She indulges his blatant fib.

They both wince as she rises off of him. He feels cold without her warm heat wrapped around him, and she feels empty. She slides off the bed, grimacing slightly at the stiffness in her hips. 

He’s quite the vision lying like this: hair a frizzy mess, a pink tinge to his cheeks, shirt halfway unbuttoned, softening cock peeking out of his pants. The floor only adds to the scenery, clothes scattered about like the frame on a piece of art – Spencer, of course, being the art. She catches a glimpse of her torn underwear (she honestly forgot about it until she laid eyes on it) and shakes her head in amusement.

After slipping on a new pair of underwear and changing into one of his old tee-shirts, the hem falling to her mid-thigh, she gathers pajamas for him. He peeks his eyes open as she unbuttons the rest of his shirt, murmuring, “You’re so beautiful,” when he sees her in his clothes.

“Thank you, honey,” she grabs his hands, “Can you sit up for me?”

He groans, but lets her pull him upright. Slumping against her body like a rag doll, he wraps his arms around her waist.

She manages to maneuver him limb by limb until he’s changed into his sleep clothes. While they’re in the bathroom, lazily brushing their teeth, he whines about going to bed without a shower after being in the sticky bar. She placates his concerns by promising to shower together in the morning – his favorite.

After he’s between the sheets with a glass of water within reach, she finds his phone and plugs it in for him. The screen turns on as the charger connects, and their text thread is displayed. She sees his barely legible attempt at messaging her and smiles, shaking her head fondly at how much he loves her. Warmth grows in her chest as she glances between the i lov nd mis u text and her boyfriend snoring softly into his pillow.

Leaning down to kiss his forehead, she whispers, “Goodnight, honey,” against his soft skin.

Eventually, you relent, venting and ranting about every stupid, exhausting thing you wasted time on. Everything spills out without spoken interruptions from him. Instead, he's peeling your clothes away piece by piece, calloused fingertips tracing warm paths along your thighs, hips, and waist. By the time he tugs your panties down, you’re slick, aching, and still venting.

Clark listens, but he's alternating between slowly fingering you and sucking on your clit now because why not? He's already down there, and if he goes too fast, he won't be able to hear your words over the sounds of your sloppy, dripping pussy.

The kind to say, "And then what happened, sweetheart?" when your story trails off, too busy moaning and sighing instead. Your sentences come out high-pitched, barely coherent, until you’re breathlessly asking him where you left off. He answers without missing a beat, and not like he’s not knuckle-deep in your cunt while you fall apart.

Exceptional multitasker, your Clark.

The kind to gently guide your hands on him. He wants you tugging his hair, digging into his scalp and shoulders, clawing his back while he buries his face deeper between your trembling thighs, tongue fucking into your cunt faster and louder now that you've given up rehashing your day.

The kind to keep going long after you’ve cum twice? thrice? Your legs are shaking so badly you can barely move, and your brain's melting. He simply flips you onto your stomach, pulls your hips up, and lines your soaked, sensitive folds right on his thick, heavy cock. He bucks into you in one nasty, balls-deep thrust that steals the air out of your lungs.

From there, Clark does all the work, large hands gripping your hips, guiding you back onto him again and again.

“That’s it, baby. Just like that. Let me take care of you, till you forget every silly, noisy thought inside your pretty little head.”

He coos, chest pressed to your back, lips ghosting the shell of your ear, so softly, so lovingly, even when he’s pounding into your pussy. His hips snap harder every time your walls flutter and squeeze around his fat dick coated in your creamy slick like you’re trying to milk him dry, trying to keep him there forever.

You're fucked straight into that perfect, blissful silence. The only sounds are the wet, filthy slap of his heavy balls against your clit, your whimpers fading into weak little sobs, and the low groans he lets out each time your pussy gushes around him again. Clark keeps going until you’re completely gone: arms limp, mouth slack and drooling onto the sheets, eyes unfocused, legs twitching with aftershocks as he continues grinding deep, stirring up the messy cream he’s already pumped into you.

And when Clark cums, it's hard and relentless, flooding your wrecked pussy so much it leaks out around his cock and down your thighs. Regardless, he keeps fucking his release back inside you with slow, deep thrusts. He stays buried to the hilt afterward, strong arms wrapped tight around you, the soft tickle of hair against your neck as he presses kisses between your shoulder blades, murmuring how truly sorry he is to hear about your bad day, how he hopes this turned things around, how he’d happily spend the rest of his life like 'this' if you’d let him.

"Like how, Clark? Balls-deep?"

"Y-yeah! Exactly!" You have to laugh, the first genuine one to escape you all day.

By the time you're both absolutely spent, that awful day you walked in with is nothing but a distant, hazy memory. It's drowned out by the steady rhythm of Clark's heartbeat against your sweaty back, the warm weight of his body, and the warm, sticky mess of him still leaking between your thighs. All the frustration, the noise, the exhaustion… just gone.

Replaced by the quiet certainty that no matter how shitty the day gets, Clark will always be there. On his knees for you.

Whether tongue-fucking your pussy until you cry for reasons other than your shit-tastic day or ruining you with slow, nasty strokes of his cock with your ass in the air. Every filthy second is just another way of saying he’s got you.

.

That was the mystery, and historically, your imagination always gone rabid the second it slipped its leash.

What if his cock had bumps and deep grooves like a pine cone in late summer? Had tiered barbed hooks from base to tip? What if it curved as dramatically as a Harpy Eagle talon? Extended like a telescopic stick? Glowed the more he got aroused? Vibrated?...Pincers? You wouldn't have been mad about the vibrating, but what if this, and what if that, and-and-and-

It was one crude scenario after another, each worse than the last.

To be clear, different would not have been a bad thing. Far from a red flag. If anything, curiosity was the root of the problem. Not fear. You loved Clark. You wanted Clark. If there was something a little ...unfamiliar...in the mix, that hardly felt like a reason to run. Still, in theory, you could ask.

Hold Clark's hands, stare up into those striking baby blues, and bluntly put it out there: "Baby, what does your dick look like? Standard issue? Extraterrestrial surprise? You know I like to be prepared for surprises..."

Hm. Clark would probably blink at you with that open, guileless expression first. Then maybe laugh under his breath. Then maybe, because he was your Clark, answer with total sincerity. Reassure you. Drop trow?

That... somehow felt worse. More mortifying. You’d rather have lightning strike you on the spot than tempt that conversation.

So instead, you did what any normal, well-adjusted girlfriend would do when plagued by intrusive curiosity about her boyfriend’s possible alien anatomy: you spiraled quietly about it on your own.

Which was how you ended up mentally inventorying things. The cut of his suits. The weight of his body when he hugged you, leaned over you, sat next to you. The shape of him in motion. Over and over again.

And yes, fine, even saving a few blurry Superman bulge photos from social-media user @/supes-packing-meat, who had far too much free time and far too little shame! Tsk, tsk!

In all seriousness, things only got worse once your curiosity gained poor company. Half nonsense, half thirst, all conjecture. No answers. No clarity. Just enough to leave your skin hot, your vibrator undercharged, and your imagination even less manageable than before.

And that part really did make you feel bad. This was Clark, who trusted you with the biggest truths of his life. Clark, who kissed you breathless, like the world had dropped away beneath both your feet. Clark, who looked at you with that soft, tender devotion you had never seen before. It felt juvenile to lose your mind over this unknown when he had already given you so much of himself.

But curiosity, unfortunately, would never let you go once it sank its claws in.

So. Fine. Enough.

You had to put an end to it. Quietly. Organically. For the good of your dignity, your sanity, and maybe the general stability of your nervous system.

Which was, perhaps, how you got yourself into this particular position...

You were pinned beneath Clark on his leather couch, the cushions dipping deeper every time either of you shifted. The leather had gone warm beneath your back from the heat of your body and his.

Clark’s mouth moved from yours to your jaw, then lower, following the line of your throat with this unfamiliar hunger that made your pulse skip. His glasses were gone, his curls a little mussed already, and when he shifted between your legs to tug your shirt up and your bra down, the brush of his knuckles over your ribs made you twitch.

His attention went straight to your breasts. A hot, wet seal around your pert nipple, the gentle suck next, the teasing flick of his tongue last. You gasped and squirmed, arching into him, one hand catching in the soft hair at the nape of his neck.

"Yeah?" he hummed against the swell of your breast, the vibrations shooting straight to your cunt. "Liked that?"

You only managed a meek, shaky "Y-yeah,", your grip tightening in his hair. Clark gave your nipple one more slow, gentle swirl that sent another shiver straight through you. God, he was good at this.

Your legs were tangled, one thrown half over the couch cushion, the other caught between his, and his obvious arousal pressed heavily against the sensitive flesh of your inner thigh. You shifted under him, pressing your hips up into his. He groaned, and his own hips rocked back, grinding against you. The friction was delicious, but you needed more.

More of him. More to love. More to feel. To know—

The opportunity to put these silly thoughts to bed was Right. There. Touch him. Feel him. Do it! Your mind screamed.

As one hand stayed tangled in his hair, the other took the metaphorical and literal plunge, grasping the waistband of sweatpants. Startled, Clark lifted his head from the valley of your breasts, cheeks flushed, and lips parted and damp, his breath still warm on your skin. There was a faint crease between his brows.

"Hon, what are you—?" he began, breathless and puzzled, but his words stalled the second you tugged the fabric again, rougher this time.

Clark sucked in a sharp breath the same moment his cock finally sprang free. Just like that, it was real and solid and alive within your grasp. Your mind, which had been so loud for days, so full of impossible scenarios and increasingly absurd speculation, went suddenly, wonderfully blank. A blank canvas.

You kept your eyes on his face at first. On the stunned pleasure in those wide blue eyes as your hand wandered, on the way his kiss-swollen mouth fell open a little as if he had not expected this from you and did not quite know what to do with the fact that he liked it.

"Oh," he said softly. "Oh, you’re—you sure you want to—"

Before Mr. Sweet and Earnest could finish what was bound to be something sweet and earnest and derail your nerves, you tugged him into a mind-numbing, sloppy kiss.

He made a muffled 'hmm?' against your mouth—surprised, then quickly, helplessly into it. One of his hands came up to cradle the side of your head, thumb pressing just behind your earlobe as he deepened the kiss.

It was enough to keep him quiet. Enough to start your blind investigation.

First impression: your breath caught when your hand, so bold two seconds ago, felt so embarrassingly small and failed to completely wrap around the unmistakably thick, heavy, stiff column.

Clark felt your hesitation, or your wonder, because when you pulled back just enough for air, he glanced down at you with both compassion and concern.

"You okay?" he rasped, searching your eyes. "You can— gosh, you can do whatever you want—" He swallowed hard. "At your own pace. Just tell me what to do."

The sweetness of that assurance nearly undid you.

“I’m fine,” you supplied your answer with a nod, though it all came out a little winded. "Just... curious."

That pulled a brief warm laugh out of him.

"Curious, huh," he repeated, cheeks dimpling. His eyes fluttered for a second when your hand shifted again. His forehead dropped to yours, and you tipped your head once more to kiss him.

Regaining composure, you explored slowly, stroking towards the tip at a pace that let your touch do what your imagination failed to. Mapping, learning, replacing nonsense with certainty. Clark's breathing changed between kisses, turning deeper, rougher, warm bursts of it feathering over your lips every time your hand moved.

No obvious ridges, nothing pine-cone-like, nothing telescopic...just warm, velvety skin.

Sliding...still sliding...still..Fuuuck!

You whimpered when you realized your sweet Clark's both massive and long. There was a slight upward arch, a curve to the right your hand naturally followed. Thank goodness nothing dramatic like a bird's hooked nails, but God help your soul and your hole.

Reaching the head was a surprise. No pincers... unfortunately, nothing vibrating. It felt proportional, a smooth, broad, rounded dome. Your undeniably slick cunt clenched when Clark involuntarily jerked into your fist while your thumb smeared what you assumed was pre-cum experimentally along the slit and over the rest of the crown.

"G-gosh," he gritted out, breaking mid-kiss with a shuddering breath against your mouth. He pressed his face against your cheek, the side of your neck, then into your shoulder as if he needed somewhere to put all these unfamiliar, but not unwelcomed, feelings.

Confident and fearless, you kept going despite the ache in your wrist. Tip to base, base to tip. Again and again. Faster and braver with each stroke, you found a rhythm. Lost in your curiosity's mesmerizing hold, you failed to realise Clark was losing himself, too.

He perspired at his temple, dampening his raven curls. Brows drew together in concentration. Nostrils flared. Lips parted to give way to labored pants against your collarbone. Back muscles corded tight. Tighs trembled above yours. The palm cradling the side of your head flexed for just a second before settling again. The hand at your hip gripped firm enough to anchor, as if there was a possibility of floating away.

Clark was so completely lost in the sensation you were giving him that he seemed to lose language piece by piece until all that remained was breath and instinct and praise half-formed somewhere in it.

"Hon—"

A groan.

"Gosh, that feels good."

A moan, louder this time.

"Just like that—b-beautiful—you're amaz—"

His voice gave out just as your slick hand grasped his balls on this next stroke. Soft, heavy, proportional, nothing...alarming. Before he could recover, Clark made a sound that was almost a whine, and immediately retreated into the crook of your neck.

Grinning, you kept worshipping him with your touch, lingering on every inch, every vein, every pulse of that magnificent cock. The wet squelches of your hand pistoning over his shaft grew louder as your pace turned frantic.

When you squeeze him a tad harder, a rushed, "H-hon, hold on! I’m… I’m close…gonna..." tumbled out of Clark's lips.

Merciless, you only spurned him on, "Cum f'me baby, been curious 'bout that, too," and didn’t let up. You wanted to see this till the end. You wanted to know.

His hips bucked, a wild, uncontrolled thrust. His cock twitched in your hand, a sharp, violent pulse. He stifled his groans by quickly claiming you in an open-mouthed kiss once more, a helpless surrender, just as it happened.

Hot and sudden, you felt thick ropes of cum shoot out, painting stripes across your exposed stomach. Some landing on your breasts, shockingly abundant. Each jet of heat painted your exposed skin, each accompanied by a choked moan, whimper, and groan.

The last of Clark's release seeped from his slit, dripping over the fingers still wrapped around his shaft and just below your navel. Your hand loosened its grip and reluctantly slid away.

Eventually, Clark collapsed against your side, heavy and warm like a pillow you'd hugged all night. His breathing was ragged.

"Holy…" he mumbled at last, trailing off.

"Shit," you finished, laughed softly. "Was it bad?"

Clark made a weak, scandalized sound, then lifted his face just enough to look at you with flushed cheeks and dazed blue eyes.

"That's hilarious, sweetheart," he gave you a pointed look, as if the answer should have been obvious. "You know it was incredible," before settling back down with a dopey sigh.

"I'll...gimme a sec," Clark muttered, eyes fluttering shut. "I'll get you cleaned up, sweetheart. Just...one sec."

You smiled, pressing a freather-light kiss along his damp forehead, and left it at that. Well, that should have been the end of it. Question answered. Curiosity settled.

Finally, you looked down. Your stomach, breasts, and hand were completely coated in streaks of Clark's sticky clear-white cum, quickly cooling on your skin. Tentatively, you brought your hand up to your face. Wiggling your fingers, strands of cum glistened like liquid satin between your digits.

Oh. There it was again—that dangerous spark in your mind, that same restless itch that had started this whole mess in the first place. Like a Hydra, one slain question only gave way to the formation of the next.

Pulse picking up all over again as a new curiosity took root, quieter than the last but no less insistent:

What did Clark's cum taste like?

Your heart hammered as you brought your fingers closer to your lips, hesitating for just a moment before your lips parted. Your tongue darted out, brushing against the tip of your cum soaked finger.

Salty...a little sweet... underlying metallic, but not unpleasant. You wouldn't mind swallowing it whole next time.

You took another cautious lick, intrigued by the complexity of it, right when Clark shifted. Glancing down, his cock settled into view, still a massive, hard weight against your groin. It looked impressively full, despite his climax. You swallowed hard at the fleeting thought of—

Fuck.

Maybe Clark was not nearly as finished as he ought to have been. He hadn't said much, and at this rate, the evidence of his persistent arousal was impossible to ignore.

Good God. You had the sudden, dizzying epiphany that you’d been asking the wrong question all along. Bigger questions began to take shape, thrilling and faintly horrifying in its implications.

This was Clark after one orgasm. What about two? Three? ...Four? How did Kryptonian stamina differ? Would you be able to take it? His cock felt human, but did he fuck like one too? There was only one way to find out.

And just like that, the cycle of curiosity began again.

Refused to let you go.

"Hey, Clark? Babe? Instead of cleaning up, did you wanna try something? I'm curious."

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Thank you for reading! Likes, comments, and reblogs are forever appreciated. Keeps me motivated!

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Even floating in the hazy aftermath of repeated climaxes, you had enough sense to ignore it. It was the obvious decision — the only decision — given that the slow, deep rhythm of Clark’s cock slowly moving inside you again had your full attention.

The phone cut off, then started buzzing again. And again. And again.

"Geez, he’s—persistent," you managed through a sharp gasp, your fingernails leaving half-moons into the solid, sweat-slicked planes of your best friend’s shoulders.

You were straddling him during this round, your body bowed over his larger frame. Your damp forehead pressed against the junction between his collarbone and neck, dragging slightly with every lift of your hips and subsequent drop back onto him. Each movement sent a shockwave of pure, liquid heat through your already cum-slick core.

One of Clark’s calloused hands gently slid from your waist to the meat of your ass to hold you steady, the other coming up to cradle the back of your head, fingers spreading through your hair, guiding you into an open-mouthed kiss.

"Let—him—be," he murmured between each kiss, more mirth than malice. "You’ve got more important stuff to do."

Between laughter and smacking his shoulder playfully, he rolled his hips up on the last word. The motion met your downward slide, and you both let out a long synchronized moan.

Holy Fuck.

Your mind wanted to float clean out of your skull. It was ridiculous: this man was your best friend. Those years you’d lived together, countless nights brushing your teeth side by side. The man you’d slept across the hall from, shared dumb jokes, laughed, made dinner with, and fought over blanket space with. Years of your life spent making a home without crossing this line. Until tonight.

It hadn’t started like this.

It had started with you slamming the apartment door behind you, kicking your heels off, and venting about your date’s endless monologues—his crypto portfolio, his condescending “corrections,” the way he’d checked his reflection in his spoon more than he’d looked at you, and the final, humilating critique of your career over a wilted salad—your anger finally burned down into a smoldering, frustrated ember.

Clark listened to all of it. Opened his arms and carried you to bed. Lit your favorite candle. Made you tea. Sat beside you in bed, his larger frame a solid presence, and he’d reached over and brushed a tear you hadn’t even realized had fallen from your cheek.

That single, tender touch had blown everything wide open.

Like two galaxies finally giving in to gravity. Like a collision you’d both been drifting toward for years without admitting you were on the same trajectory.

His thumb traced your jaw. You turned your face into his palm. He leaned in as his other hand cradled your head, fingers threading into your hair. And then you were kissing.

It was nothing like the awkward, calculated peck on the cheek Mark had given you on the sidewalk.

It was a revelation.

A stunned, breathless "why haven’t you done this sooner?"

And when Clark filled you so completely. A thick, relentless, good-burning stretch that teetered on the edge of too much and not nearly enough— A Big Bang.

Your phone finally stopped ringing.

For five glorious, seconds, there was only the sound of skin on skin—a wet, rhythmic slap-squelch impossible to soften—the ragged pull of your shared breathing, and the soft press of open-mouthed kisses that kept breaking apart because you couldn’t keep your lips together long enough.

The air in your apartment bedroom was thick with the scent of your favorite candle, sex, sweat, and the warm, musky scent of your own arousal. The sheets were damp beneath you, the headboard faintly tapping with every rock of your body as Clark kept you perched above him.

Then your phone started all over again.

A different ringtone.

A video call.

A choked laugh, more disbelief than humor, escaped you, sounding near hysterical. You pushed up a few inches, your breasts still pressed against Clark’s solid chest, nipples dragged tight and sensitive by the movement.

"Oh, for fuck’s sake!" you growled, voice cracking. "I’m going to block that loser. Clark, Superman, save me! What do I do?! Block him, right?"

You met your best friend’s eyes, looking for some sort of agreement, reassurance, the typical version of him that would’ve laughed it off with you.

His summer sky blues, usually so kind and soft, were dark with a rare, possessive heat that made your heart flutter, rendering you silent.

Mine, that look said. Now and forever.

"Answer it."

"What!? What h-happened to leave him be?!" You shrieked, your internal muscles clamping down around his cock like a reflex.

He groaned, head tipping slightly into your plush pillow, throat flexing as he failed to swallow the sound—too far gone to hide what you’d just done to him.

"Answer it, hon," he repeated, gaze steadier than his breathing, a gentle command wrapped in velvet. 

The hand lingering on the back of your head brushed a damp strand of hair from the apple of your cheek. His thumb traced your kiss-swollen lower lip, and you opened for him without thinking, sucking the digit into your mouth and moaning around it.

"Since he's so persistent. Maybe he’s calling to say sorry. If not…well, he’ll hear what a good night really sounds like, right?"

The idea was insane. Unacceptable. A violation.

It should've made you recoil.

Instead, it sent a jolt of pure, electric arousal straight to your already soaked cunt, hot enough to make your thighs tense, your belly flutter, all things you had to unpack later.

"Are you—you're sure?" you whimpered, needy and a little nervous, brows pinched together, teeth gnawing on the pad of this thumb.

"Yeah," Clark assured with a bashful shrug, reading you with an ease that was utterly terrifying and comforting. "C’mon, I can feel how much you want to. Your whole body’s itching for it."

He was so right, and that was the worst and best part—because the dark, thrilling pulse between your legs synced with the heavy throb of him buried inside you, and you swallowed hard as you nodded, quick and jerky.

Clark reached over, his arm stretching past your head without parting from you, without letting you escape the weight of his gaze or the fullness of him. He brought the phone to your sweaty hand, while his other palm left your mouth and initiated a slow, circular massage at your lower back.

"Put it on speaker," he whispered. "Keep it low. I’ll be right here with you."

Your fingers fumbled, leaving tiny sweat-lined prints on your screen. You swiped to answer, hit the speaker icon, then quickly plopped the device down by your calf with the screen pressed against the mattress, the faint glow illuminating the rumpled sheets.

"H-hello?" you greeted. You were proud of how almost-normal you sound. Almost.

"Hey! Finally, you picked up. Thought you’d gone to bed already," Mark’s voice burst into the room, cheerful and oblivious.

Reclaiming your place over Clark’s body, you nosed at his neck before sucking lightly at the skin beneath his galloping pulse—a little bit of distraction, partial affection, more a warning to yourself to stay quiet.

"S-sorry," you mumbled, focusing on keeping your breathing even as Clark’s hand ventured lower to squeeze your ass. "I was… busy."

"Busy decompressing from my dazzling company, right? I do have that effect," Mark chuckled. God, he was so egotistical. "I was just thinking about our dinner. I had a really great time with you."

Clark exhaled loudly and chose that moment to move.

His hips lifted in a slow, deliberate upward thrust. You unlatched yourself from his well-loved flesh, biting down hard on your inner cheek to stifle your moan. It still slipped anyway: a sharp, raw gasp, and the tremor in your fingers where they dug into his shoulders.

"Uh, you good?" you heard hesitation already creeping in. Damn.

"Y-yeah, juuuust peachy!" you chirped, pitched high and strained.

You pressed your face harder into Clark’s neck, as if you could bury the heat there, and reached up to tug lightly on his thick hair in retaliation—petty, desperate, utterly useless. "Just… stubbed my pinky toe. On—on the side—of my bed. Bed—frame!"

"Damn, hate when that happens," he sympathized with a low whistle, chuckling at your imagined pain. Asshole.

"Listen, I know our conversation got a little heavy at the end, with the whole ‘career goals’ thing. I didn’t mean to imply your job was… you know, trivial. I just think a woman like you could apply herself better, ya know?"

You wondered if Clark rolled his eyes just as hard as you did.

“Anyways, I was thinking of giving us another shot," the man continued, drowning in his own confidence. "Maybe drinks next Friday? Somewhere quieter. That might be more your speed, right?"

While he rambled, Clark began to move you this time. 

His hands slid back up to your hips, gently lifting you just high enough that only the fat, leaking crown of his cock caught at your swollen entrance, keeping you stretched, wide, aware of him.

The emptiness and relief lasted half a second before he tugged you down again, an inch at a time. It was a slow, enticing, torturous re-sheathing that made your eyes roll back. The wet dragging of his cock between your folds was drowned out by the sheets against the phone receiver, but to you, it was deafening. 

It was so obvious!

"I—I—fuck— don’t know, Mmm–man," you ended, pathetic and breathless.

You couldn’t even manage to say another man’s name while Clark bottomed out, his pelvis grinding maddeningly slow against your clit. A full-body shudder wracked you, and it wasn’t from secondhand embarrassment.

“Hear me out! You’ll have fun," Mark pressed. "I promise I’ll be on my best behavior." 

Your failed date's voice was a grating buzz in your ear, a stark contrast to the visceral reality of Clark’s broad, strong body beneath you, inside you, fucking you, making love to you for the past two hours.

His mouth found your ear, lips brushing the sensitive shell. He blew a light, cool puff of air against your searing skin.

"Tell him you’re busy," he murmured, words barely breaking through your haze. His tongue flicked out, a quick, wet stripe, then he nipped lightly. "Tell him you have a… prior engagement. With me."

You were panting and squirimg, trying to keep your breathing quiet, trying to pretend you weren’t being fucked to oblivion while desperately carrying a polite phone conversation.

"I… I'll be busy Friday night. Prior… engagement. With my best friend—Clark—I, uh, told you about him."

"Oh. Clark. Yeah, you did." A scoff, a clear sign of irritation, but he recovered like nothing happened. "Well, what about Saturday? I’m free all day."

Wrapping one powerful arm around your waist to support you, Clark planted both his feet on the mattress, changing the angle with such casual strength it made your stomach flip.

The new position had him pounding you deeper, fuller, the thick ridge of his thick cock rubbing directly over that special spot inside that made white sparks flicker behind your eyelids. Your hands gripped his biceps, clinging for dear life, praying for mercy.

"Oh f-fuck, C-clark," you whimpered into his skin, the curse hardly silent.

Instantly alert, you heard a muffled: "What was that?"

"N-nothing!" you squeaked. You forced a laugh as Clark pressed a kiss along your temple soothingly. It was shrill, unhinged, cringe-worthy in any other context.

"You sure? You sound a little… out of breath."

"S-sorry! Yeah, no, it's uh my—cat—she jumped. A little tense."

"A cat?" There was suspicion now. "Didn't know you had one."

"She’s—new! Adjusting, kinda overstimulated. That's why I left," you rasped, voice trembling and shredded, your vocal enthusiasm from the initial rounds finally catching up. "She's—getting used to him —Me! Getting used to me. N-new owner, and all!"

You glared at Clark, pinning the blame on this ridiculous predicament on him. He grinned back, all dimples and without shame.

The irritation was fleeting as a deep rhythm soon settled down to a shallow rocking between you.

A pure, unadulterated, delicious torture. Clark wasn’t only chasing his own pleasure; he was orchestrating yours, drawing it out, winding the overspent coil in your belly tighter and tighter with every tiny friction. You felt your combined wetness coating his length, dripping down onto his balls, making a hot, sticky mess between you.

"O-kay," Mark droned, already sounding bored, distracted. "I like cats. I’m more of a dog person, obviously, but cats are fine. I guess. Independent."

Unprompted, Clark’s large hand slid between your swollen folds, gathering cum from previous climaxes as lubricant. Deft fingers found your clit easily, thick and clever, pressing the pad of his middle finger to your swollen, throbbing nub, and held it there, a constant, maddening pressure.

You jerked up slightly, peered at Clark through wet lashes, your lips pulling into a quivering pout. You planted both hands on his chest and dug your knees into the mattress, and grinded harder against his cock and his hand. The dual sensation tipped so close. A wave of heat crashed through you, your muscles fluttering wildly around his length.

You were so close again. So dangerously close to riding that high.

"So, Saturday?" Mark pressed, bulldozing straight through the moment. "Restaurant. My treat. A real do-over."

"N-no, Saturday’s… complicated…won’t work," you sighed deeply.

The excuse barely made it out as Clark ducked his head, trailing a wet, lazy path down your neck to the space between your collarbones.

"Why?"

The trail of kisses ventured lower to greet the swell of your breasts.

"Just… not interested anymore," you forced out behind clenched teeth, white knuckling through the overwhelming attention you were receiving.

"Anymore? This is ridiculous. What the hell happened since you saw me?"

A flare of anger momentarily cut through your pleasure. It should’ve steadied you. It should’ve put steel in your spine.

But your rage was quickly extinguished when Clark delivered a single, deep, deliberate stroke that stole the air from your already spent lungs. A loud, sharp, involuntary cry tore from your throat.

You couldn't speak. You were shaking, your entire body drenched in pure pleasure. You were focused on that one point of contact—the insistent press of fingers, the full, aching stretch inside you, the coil of pleasure winding so tight you felt you might snap in two. Tears of frustration and overwhelming sensation pricked at your eyes.

The line was dead silent for a long beat. 

Then, confused and impatient: "Hello? Still there? Are you even listening to me?"

Clark finally gave you mercy, answering for you. Secrecy and subtlety blew to smithereens. The shift in his tone was immediate—lower, steadier, authoritative. The phone caught every word. 

"Hey, buddy. She said she’s no longer intersted."

There was another long pause on the line. 

"Who… who the hell was that?"

"Clark." His tone was polite. Even. Earnest.

His eyes stayed locked on yours, blazing with a smug, satisfied fire. He watched your face, studying every twitch, every flutter of your eyelids, time your mouth fell open on a sound you couldn’t swallow. His middle finger started to move against your clit, a quick, zig-zag pattern that sent a fresh wave of slick to gather between your thighs.

“She's preoccupied at the moment,” he added.

Another pause, longer this time. The wet sounds of your bodies moving together grew louder in the silence. The schlick of your soaked folds, the soft thump of his hips meeting yours, the breathless ‘yeah, right there, baby,” and “just like that.”

"Preoccupied," Mark repeated flatly.

"Mmmhmm," Clark hummed as he mouthed along your jaw. "She has this—thing she needs to finish. It’s taking longer than usual. She needs to… focus. Priority One. You can respect that, right?"

You bit your fist to muffle the desperate, keening sounds threatening to escape. Your orgasm was right there, right fucking there, a towering wave about to crash. Unfortunate for you, Clark’s control was absolute. 

He eased off,  just enough to make you gasp, just enough to make you go hollow with need, the wave receding a fraction and leaving you shaking and whimpering in its aftermath.

"Is this… are you… Right now? The entire call?!" Mark's disbelief cracked into curses. "You’re fucking kidding me."

“No kidding around here,” Clark retorted quickly, “but there had been plenty of that other stuff.”

Before you could cut in with your own sharp retort, Clark leaned up, capturing your lips in a soft kiss that was so tender amidst the ridiculous drama unfolding. When he pulled back, he spoke again, his voice dropping to that low, bedroom rumble, and it did something to you that you weren’t ready for. 

"She’s been so good for me. Since she came home. Applying herself, reaching her full potential, or whatever crap you said to her."

That did it. The filthy, possessive praise, the sheer audacity, paired with the feel of him—it was too much. A broken sob escaped your clenched teeth.

"God–please…"

"It’s j-just Clark, sweetheart, you know that," he joked lightly, his middle finger resuming its relentless circles in time with his frantic thrusts, making sure you didn’t spiral alone. "U-use your words. O-on me. Tell me what you need."

“I need—” You couldn’t even keep your voice steady. “I need to come. Please—let me come. I can’t— I can’t hold it, I’m so close, so close, pleasepleasebaby—” You babbled, ragged and desperate, half-formed pleas choked with tears and overwhelming pleasure.

On the phone, Mark made a strangled, irritated growl. "I’m…Forget everything I said! Fuck this, fuck your cat, and fuck you,—" he spat your name, useless as his outburst barely phased you. 

"Yeah," Clark grunted, not even glancing toward the phone. "Already on that last one, man. Have a good—"

The call disconnected.

"—night."

The sudden silence was profound, broken only by your ragged panting and the slick, rhythmic sounds of sex.

"He finally hung up," Clark breathed, finally shedding its polite veneer, his gaze dropping to where your bodies were joined. "Now you can come, sweetheart. Come for me. Just me. Lemme feel it one more time."

You thread your sore fingers into his dark hair gently, nuzzling into the crook of his neck again.

"You’re…Fuck, we’re terrible, baby," you whispered through laughter, your walls gripping his shaft like a vice, on the brink of that delicious high again.

"Ah-ah, like I said: I’m done being polite," he corrected. “Hearing you cry over jerks like that for months. Watching you try to force a spark that wasn’t there… it was killing me, sweetheart.”

He punctuated each confession with a deep, rolling thrust.

"I love the way you smell, right here." He buried his face against your temple, inhaling deeply, his cock swelling even thicker inside you.

Thrust.

"I love you when you fell asleep on the couch and pretended you weren’t waiting for me to come home after patrol."

Thrust.

"Gosh, I love the way you always reach for me.” His forehead brushed yours, adoration breaking through the heat. “I’ve been in love with you for a long time. All I ever wanted—was to be the only one who made you lose yourself like this. "

Thrust.

You’d shared sweet nothings. Tender confessions. But this—this was devotion spoken in the air between searing kisses, in the control of his hands, in the way he refused to let you fall without catching you.

The last pretense shattered.

"Oh, fuck, I'm gonna—come!" you sobbed, your eyes screwing shut and head lolling to the side. "I’m so close, so close, I'm gonna come, don't stop, Clark–Clark—!"

Your final climax hit you like a tsunami. 

It was a full-body break, pleasure ripping through you in convulsive waves. Your cunt clenched around Clark’s cock in rapid, fluttering pulses, milking him, and you heard yourself crying ‘Clark, I love you,’ over and over, a raw, continuous sound of pure release. You felt a gush of arousal around his thrusting length, the hot spill adding to the already sticky mess from previous rounds between your shaking thighs.

The sensations went on and on, one peak crashing into the next until you were a sobbing, boneless mess in your man’s arms, lazy kisses pressed onto the side of your lips, your cheeks, each eyelid.

Through the haze, you felt Clark's control splinter. 

His rhythm faltered apart, then turned erratic. His arms locked tighter around you, crushing you to his chest as he buried his face back into your neck.  You felt the hot puff of his breath, then the sharp, sweet sting of his teeth at the tender junction of your shoulder, the sensation blooming and melting into pleasure, another bright thread woven into everything that had happened tonight.

"You’re so beautiful," he grunted, muttering a curse soft and heartfelt against your skin. “So incredible—God—”

"N-not God," you panted, smiling against his hair, still shaking. "Just me, baby."

Clark managed a strangled chuckle, hips pistoning up once, twice more, then he stilled, burying his cock to the hilt. You felt the hot, sudden flood of his release inside you again, pulse after thick pulse filling you up. A guttural, satisfied groan rumbled from his chest into yours.

For a long moment, you both stay like that—fused together, trembling in the aftermath of your lovemaking.

The only sounds were your slowing breaths and the wet, sticky sounds of your joined bodies. He was still inside you, still hard, still gently pulsing.

“Hey, still okay?” Clark murmured, hands smoothed over you—your sides, your hips, your back—checking in, every touch saying I’ve got you, I’ve got you, I’ve got you.

Gingerly, he maneuvered you back to the mattress, careful not to jostle you, careful not to pull out. He shifted onto his side and guided you with him until your back was to his front, the two of you fitting together like this was how you’d always slept, how you’d always belonged. His arm draped heavy over your waist, palm settling low on your stomach.

The faint, residual movement of his cock inside you was a warm reminder of his continued presence, but he went still again the moment you tensed—patient, listening.

“Clark,” you whispered, voice hoarse.

“Hm?” His mouth brushed the back of your neck, a barely there kiss.

“Thank you for waiting for me."

You felt his grin against your skin, the one you knew by heart—the deep dimples, the crinkle at the corners of his eyes you’d seen a thousand times across a kitchen counter, over a shared couch cushion, in the doorway when he came home late.

“Always,” he admitted, and the honesty in it made your heart skip. He propped himself up on his elbow, leaning in to kiss you again—soft, lingering, the kind of kiss that didn’t ask for anything more.

“But no more bad dates. No more… anyone else… if that was okay with you.” His forehead rested against yours, blue eyes searching. “Just this. Just us, sweetheart. If you still wanted that in the morning.”

You swallowed, blinking hard, because it was so Clark to worry about the morning even now—to make room for your choice even when his body had been sure.

“Just us, Clark,” you said, and your voice didn’t shake this time. “In the morning. Tomorrow night. Every day after.”

His grin was helpless—boyish, bashful—and the sound he made was half-laugh, half-exhale, like relief finally found him. He kissed you once more, soft and lingering, then curled behind you again and held you like he’d been practicing for years.

When morning came, it still felt like a revelation.

A Big Bang.

It felt like Clark’s arm still around your waist, his thumb tracing slow, sleepy circles against your bare skin as though he’d woken up and immediately remembered: mine to love, mine to keep safe.

The phone on the nightstand sat dark and forgotten, and you didn’t reach for it.

Clark's first words in the morning were: “Still okay?”

You turned your head just enough to look at him—blue eyes, rumpled hair, that soft worry he couldn’t hide.

“Still,” you murmured. “Especially now, Clark.”

The way he smiled then was almost too much for your heart. You held his face in your hands, fingers catching on stubble, and kissed him first today.

And when you both finally got up to brush your teeth side by side, bumping hips at the sink like you’d done a million times before, your body and heart knew better.

Because everything with this Clark was new.

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Thank you for reading! Likes, comments, and reblogs especially are forever appreciated. Keeps me motivated!

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