Work Text:
Prologue
Clark thinks he must be the unluckiest man in the world.
His awkward abilities have him too sensitive to sound, and he can hear it all at once: the morning birdsong from a suburb away, the chatter of kids at a bus stop, and loudest of all, your soft, laboured snores two streets down. He doesn’t mean to listen—he swears—but it rouses him from his sleep, as if his body cannot stand being unconscious when the lilt of your breathing reminds him that you’re there.
He wonders if he’ll do it again today. It’s not like you’ll ever know how he grabs the base of his cock every morning so hard his hand cramps, fucking into his bed so furiously the room shakes. It’s not like it’s wrong that he comes and soils his sheets when he hears you yawn, his spend leaking from his weary tip and smearing between his quaking thighs. It’s not like you’ll ever know how frequently he does this, how his masturbatory habits have become a fixture in his morning routine.
He thinks he’ll try to forgo this morning in favour of some sleep, but a groan from you in your sleep has him finding his hand clasped around his hardening length. Surely, you are aware of his feelings for you. He thinks he has made it abundantly clear that he loves you, but your reaction—or lack thereof—has convinced him that you do not feel the same. He cannot fathom being rejected by you. It would be like dying; like how it felt when, a year and a half ago on your seventeenth birthday, he caught a blustering fool asking for your number.
He rises from his bed and reaches clumsily for the tube of hand cream, pulling down and kicking his shorts off with an urgency he can’t quite understand. The cold morning air immediately tightens his balls, and his wet, warm hand is a welcome grip. With a quick huff, he braces himself against the wall and starts to think about you; lubricated hand gliding from base to tip, working himself in cyclical jerks.
He thinks of the way you tuck your hair behind your ear as you go over the homework twice over with him. He’ll never tell you that he’s actually really good at calculus, or that he’ll deliberately make an error in his working so that your hand glides over his—skin soft, supple, and warm. He thinks of the way his burgeoning height has given his eyes an advantage over your chest, how he’ll sometimes catch your breasts pressing against the confines of your bra.
Sunlight streams through his window as his pace quickens, his fingers wrapped a little tighter. He thinks of the way your bum looks when you bend down to tie your shoelaces—how it tightens against your jeans, or the few times he catches your shirt riding up, revealing almost tantalisingly, the divot between your spine and your ass. The image of his come spread across your back, alabaster drops pearling against your skin, pooling in that dimple... It's almost too much, his cock throbbing painfully, the wet slit of his tip drenched in a new surge of pre-come. It dribbles aimlessly across his knuckles, staining his sheets where it falls.
He wonders whether he’d prefer to finish inside you or on you. If offered the chance, would you let him fuck you without a condom? Tears prick at the corners of his eyes as he forces them shut, his hand now moving at a brutal pace. He tries to draw his attention to the sounds of your bedroom: the gentle wind-chime against your window, the mechanical whirring of your foot heater, and the sound of fingers against something wet.
His whole body stills.
Clark recognises the sound immediately.
You’re awake.
Of course, he thinks, that’s why your heater is on. That's why—oh god, he doesn't get to finish that thought, because it's quickly overridden by the mental image of your wet fingers against your thighs.
He feels like throwing up.
Clark bites down on his lip so hard that he tears skin. He can barely think. His head is heavy, his body so taut with tension as he eagerly listens to the sounds of your quickening breaths, to the sound of lubricated fingers working themselves deep inside you.
Inside you.
A thunderous pulse races through his chest as his hand moves with near-violent urgency along his shaft. He hears you muffle a moan into your pillow, and his head spins with envy. For a brief moment, a sense of gratefulness washes over him, and he thinks how lucky he is to have this all to himself. It’s an ugly possessiveness that rises within him, one that doesn’t belong in his relationship with you; one his guilt swears he’ll soon work out.
But it doesn't help. Not now, at least, with his fists drenched in seminal fluids as he struggles to hold back his impending orgasm. He holds his breath, ears ringing, hand moving with such speed and vigour that the room almost shakes with each desperate tug of his length. The part of the wall where he braces himself seems to crack under the force, and the notion that the wall could very well cave crosses his mind fleetingly.
Unfortunately for him, the sound of your fingers grows wetter, and your muffled moans more frequent. The wall will have to wait, because he’s going to come, and he’s going to come harder than he has in a very long time. He wants to finish with you, wants to know what you sound like undone by your own climax, would rather live a life without comfort if just to hear his name spill out of your mouth.
His hips buck fruitlessly into his hands, and he staves off his orgasm desperately with a deliberate squeeze of his thigh.
But then it's you he hears, only a few miles away from his bedroom.
"Clark."
He doesn’t know if it’s because he’s been holding his breath, or if the racing of his blood through his ears has deceived him into hearing his name roll off your tongue. He cries your name, and his orgasm strikes him like lightning. He jerks violently, spilling against his hand, ropes of his release spraying onto the wall in front of him with a force that nearly dents.
It’s seconds later when his senses return to him that he realises he can no longer hear the wet sounds of your fingers—the only sound now filling the room is a rustle of fabric. Almost a relief, he sighs, and fixes his attention onto the sight ahead of him. A dent. Faint cracks where his arm had once been, and he wonders rather naively, if it is inconspicuous enough that his parents won't think much of it.
He’ll fix it anyway, before they notice, but it's still a stark reminder that he has not yet learned to control his movements. A small amount of blood dots the small tear in his lip from where his teeth had bitten down. The taste of it is a reminder to bathe a little bit more thoroughly in the daylight—his healing factor a newly-acquainted ability he finds particularly useful in moments like these.
Still, he can't quite fight the ghost of a word that rattles through his head. His name, accompanied by the hurried sounds of fingers (yours) buried in pussy (yours). It has him off kilter, has him stumbling around for a new pair of boxers, legs heavier than they've ever been.
There’s a good chance you hadn’t actually said his name—that he had deluded himself into hearing it to chase after his own orgasm, his senses all heightened that a false positive was all the more likely. Was it a different word you had said?
Mark, maybe?
The thought of you whining someone's name with your fingers plunged knuckle-deep inside yourself is a sharp, unpleasant one.
But Clark would support you regardless of your sexual exploits—would do nothing short of murder to keep you in his orbit. It is a selfish, quiet discomfort he will nurture if it means still being beside you in any capacity.
He isn't afforded an opportunity to linger on that trailing thought because his phone rings, the sound of it almost unsettling his balance.
"Hey, Mouse."
Static reaches him from across the other line, but your voice still rings clear. That, or maybe it's the fact he can hear you directly from your room.
"You think you could give me a lift, Clark?"
He feels his world implode.