Pairing: David!Clark Kent x Wife!Reader
Summary: Clark comes home late. You sleep-talk your fears, and he holds you through it, promising to always come back to his Buttercup. Because True Love.
Tags: FLUFF, Domestic Bliss, Slight Hurt/Comfrot, Slight Angst If You Squint, Idiots in Love, Married!Clark Is a League of His Own, Female!Nurse!Reader, Romantic!Clark, Soft!Clark, The Princess Bride References, You Sleep Talk and It's Confusing, Childhood Best Friends to Lovers
wc 5.5k | Mrs. Kent Diaries
(I found David's love for The Princess Bride so endearing. One of my favorite of movies. Sorry this was kinda a mess, currently traveling rn and wrote this in my notes.)
.
By the time Clark made it back to the apartment building, Metropolis had gone quiet.
The helicopters were gone. The sirens had faded. The city's glow returned to its usual hue instead of the emergency strobe against blazing fire like it had been a few hours earlier.
Traffic rolled by in slow, spaced-out clusters, the occasional honk or shout rising up from the streets and then dissolving into the night. Somewhere below, a dog barked twice and went quiet.
Clark hovered high above the skyline, red cape billowing gently by the cool breeze. From this vantage, the building looked ordinary—stacked windows, modest balconies, a couple of plants clinging to life on railings. Inside, refrigerators hummed, an elevator cable sighed, a baby hiccuped post-feed. It was all ordinary, except for the one space he always found first without trying.
Twentieth floor, east corner. The most precious heartbeat resided there, slow and deep and steady.
You. His wife. His North Star.
He drifted until his red boots landed on the balcony. He brushed off soot and cement dust that still clung to the blue of his suit at his ribs and forearms.
The curtains along the balcony door glowed TV-blue, the light flickering like a candle. The sliding door was cracked just an inch, like it always was when you waited up for him. A ‘welcome home’.
Clark swallowed down the twinge of guilt that rooted in his chest as he slid the sliding door open.
.
The night was supposed to be easy. No plans, no dinner reservations, no “we’ll see”.
Just the two of you, home.
You’d come from work hours after he did, dropping your bag by the door with very little care. You pointed at him mid-edits for Monday’s article, then at the kitchen: “I’m craving lasagna! Let’s get cookin’, Mr. Kent.”
That was it. Like a coach calling a play.
So you cooked together—one of Clark’s favorite past-times, because it never felt like just cooking with you.
He’d chopped vegetables while you stood stirring beside him at the stove, your hip pressed to the side of his thigh, nudging him just to touch him. The oven timer blinked on the stove, your ‘Nostalgia 2010’s’ playlist hummed low from your phone on the counter.
“I’m feeling rom-com,” you’d declared, flicking sauce at him with the spoon. “No sad, no stress, no tragic backstories. Anything based on a true story is banned tonight.”
He’d laughed, catching your wrist and kissing the back of your hand in agreement.
By the time the lasagna went into the oven, you’d showered and changed into his old Metropolis U t-shirt that swallowed you past mid-thigh. He’d been setting plates on the dinner table when you called from the couch, scrolling through a streaming app, then flipping to cable TV out of habit.
“Oh! Yes!” you cheered. “Alright, baby. We can argue about it, or we can just put on this classic that’s starting in…five minutes. The Princess Bride.”
He’d leaned over the back of the couch, bracing his hands on either side of your shoulders, hovering over you. “You’re stacking the deck,” he'd teased.
“You love this movie! I swear you asked Ma to put every day one summer growing up,” you’d shot back, tilting your head to look up at him, already grinning. “You quote it more than I do.”
He couldn’t even deny it.
“Inconceivable!” he’d placed a hand to his chest, scandalized, just to hear your laugh. You’d blessed him with your fits of giggles.
He’d bent over you to kiss your forehead, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth. “But really, movie sounds perfect, sweetheart." He told you because he meant it all the way through.
Once you were both on the couch, you’d tucked yourself under his arm with your legs over his lap, a bowl of popcorn cradled between you. The lasagna still had fifteen minutes left.
Clark remembered thinking, as he watched the grandfather rattle off about “fencing, fighting, torture, revenge, giants, monsters, chases, escapes, true love…’ that his life had somehow landed on the right side of miracles.
Then the local news banner at the bottom of the screen flashed red.
A “Breaking News” alert under the farm boy and buttercup kissing against the setting sun.
Metropolis asked for Superman again.
Clark felt his eyes go out of focus for a moment, his hearing honing in on the crisis cross the city.
“Go,” you’d said after swallowing your last popcorn kernel, no hesitation. You’d unfolded yourself from his lap and moved toward the kitchen, turning down the oven, adjusting the timer. “I’ll keep your plate warm. We’ll pick it back up when you get home. The lasagna will definitely be ready by then.”
“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” He came up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist. He felt the city pulling him like a tide.
You’d turned in his arms and given him that look. The one that said you knew exactly what you were signing up for from the very first kiss, the one that said you were all-in, from moments before ‘Superman arrived just in time’ and after ‘but not before—’
“Never say sorry, baby. Just come back. I’ll be here.”
He’d hesitated anyway. You’d been tired, shadows under your eyes after days at the hospital. You’d joked about “running purely on spite and caffeine” all week, but he’d heard the drag under the words, watched you roll your shoulder when you thought he wasn’t paying attention.
Clark wanted so badly to fix that in the most ordinary way possible. To tug you back down onto the couch, press your feet into his lap, and knead the ache out of your calves while The Princess Bride played in the background. To see you fall asleep because you were comfortable and full and safe, not because your body finally shut down on you. To spend a whole night where the only thing asked of him was to be your husband.
“I was really looking forward to staying in with you tonight,” he’d confessed quietly, thumbs brushing just under your eyes like he could swipe the fatigue away.
You’d smiled up at him, reassuring. “And we’ll still have it. Just… on the other side. Be safe, please.”
“As you wish,” he’d promised, cupping your face one more second than he could really afford, trying to pour every bit of that wanting — of rest, of time, of you— into your shared space.
You’d gone up on your toes, kissed him deep enough to steal his breath, stamping that promise into place.
“Go get 'em, Superman. Westley and Buttercup’s waiting to get your butt back here in one piece,” you teased before he slipped into the suit and flew off with a sonic boom.
.
Now, three and a half hours later, Clark was sliding the door shut behind him, wincing at the time glowing on the stove across the darkened kitchen.
The table was still set—two plates, the bottle of wine more for you than him unopened, candles cold and unlit, a single match set aside waiting to be used. The oven door was cracked; the room smelled faintly of reheated lasagna and garlic bread gone a little too crisp at the edges.
He slipped his boots off by the mat, listening.
There it was, on the couch. A soft snuffle. A tiny, rough-edged snore he knew as well as his own name.
Clark leaned back into the door's frame for a second and just looked at you.
You’d made yourself a nest: plush blanket piled high, one pillow stacked under your head, another half over your head, and his favorite throw pillow clutched in your arms like it had replaced his chest. You were drooling and had somehow managed to tangle the blanket around both legs like you’d been in a wrestling match with it, executing a figure-four hold.
You were curled on your side, facing the TV.
He felt the tightness in his chest loosen, something in him unclench when he finally got to see you at the end of a day like this.
Clark exhaled a quiet huff of a laugh and crossed the room.
The local news logo sat on the corner, anchors droning through late-night news, and in the ticker below, he could just make out words he recognized from the incident earlier tonight.
SEVEN INJURED WITH MINOR SMOKE INHALATION INJURIES, NO FATALITIES, THANKS TO THE QUICK ACTION OF SUPE—
He didn’t read the rest. He knew the footage they’d be replaying. He’d lived it.
He reached for the remote on the coffee table, careful not to jostle it enough to knock over the half-bowl of popcorn beside it. He turned the volume down a touch more. You shifted at the slight change in sound, brows drawing together, and mumbled something he didn’t catch.
Clark sank to one knee beside the couch, bringing himself level with you.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he whispered, lifting the pillow that had slid over half your face. He brushed a clean knuckle gently along your warm cheek. “I’m home.”
Nothing at first. Just a soft, happy exhale, like your body already slotted the information away and relaxed a notch. He glanced toward the kitchen, felt another stab of guilt at the set table, and made a quick decision.
You deserved a bed tonight at least, not a couch and a crick in your neck after waiting up for him.
Clark slid one arm under your knees, the other under your shoulders, careful of the blanket nest as he lifted you into a cocoon. The couch springs creaked in protest; you didn’t. Your body simply went with him, recognizing the warmth of your husband even if your mind was miles under.
He straightened slowly, your face tucking into the warm place between his shoulder and neck. He could feel your breath through the fabric, a small exhale fanning his skin, brushing along his jaw each time he shifted.
Your head lolled a little as he turned toward the hallway, your nose nudging his throat. Then a soft, broken sound erupted as your hand shot up from under the blanket on instinct. Your fingers fumbled over his chest until your knuckles hooked under the edge of the S insignia.
“Farm…boy,” you mumbled, the words thick and smudged with sleep. “You’re…late.”
Clark blinked and then bit back a snort. Of course. He’d learned over the years that when you were too wired to switch off, your brain still ran long after your body gave out. Your mouth kept going without you, your stress spilling out in soft, tangled fragments.
“Guilty,” he whispered, adjusting his grip, “what are you dreaming of tonight, my love?”
You made a faint, offended noise, fingers tightening in his suit.
“Nooo,” you protested, like he’d gotten an exam question wrong. “My husband… gets to call me that.” Your lips brushed his throat as you tried to burrow closer. “You— you say, ‘good night...'" You poked his chest weakly, “‘Good work…sleep….sleep…’” you trailed off, scowling at your own memory, “‘I’ll most likely—’”
"Kiss you in the morning," he finished for you. A chuckle slipped out, rumbling under your ear.
You seemed to accept this improv, your body relaxing again in his arms.
“I’m taking you to bed now,” he murmured, tightening his hold on the blanket, on you. He dipped his head, brushing his nose against your hair.
“Fan…tastic,” you melted more into him, trusting and heavy and loose. He shifted your weight as he nudged the bedroom door open with his hip.
.
The room was dim, and the curtains were mostly drawn, leaving only the narrow gap you always insisted on so the morning sun would find Clark at dawn.
The only other light came from the hall in a thin stripe across the floor, catching the edge of your side table, your lamp, and a framed photo of the two of you at Ma and Pa’s.
Clark stepped inside, the familiar creak of the floorboard by the door muffled under his feet. He lingered near the edge of the bed, careful to keep the soot and dust on his suit away from the sheets. You were strict about “outdoor clothes” on the bed; he wasn’t about to test that boundary, even now.
He turned his shoulder to the mattress, starting to lower you feet-first. Your hands tightened in his suit suddenly, fingers hooking into the seam at his collar, as your knees bent tighter in his hands.
“Don’t go,” you pleaded, brow furrowing. “Miracle Max said you stay put, Mister… Pirate….” Your mouth worked around the word, chasing it. “…Roberts,” you finished, with stubborn sleepy certainty, then tacked on, as if you were correcting a footnote, “—Kent.”
Clark nodded halfway through setting you down. “I’m under Miracle Max orders?”
You nodded, eyes still closed. “Fifteen minutes,” you muttered. “No fencing… no fighting… no clif climbing to chase ...princesses tonight.”
“I remember," with slow, careful hands, Clark eased your legs under the duvet and supported the back of your head as he guided it down your pillow. “You rush a miracle man, you get rotten miracles.”
He then tossed your soot-and-grime-smeared blanket behind him.
Somehow, in the shuffle, you’d managed to catch hold of his cape. You clung to the edge of it even as he tried to peel it away. Only when he replaced the fabric with his warm hand did your grip loosen. You curled your fingers around his instead like it had always been the plan.
Clark pulled the duvet over the rest of you with his free hand, tucking it around just under your chin and over your shoulders the way you liked. You exhaled in a long, satisfied sigh.
“Tell Dread Pirate....Farm boy,” you garbled, the words slow and sticky with dreams, “tell him his princess’ll be mad ...if he goes climbing cliffs on that limp.”
His first instinct was to smooth over your worry even here, even in your dreams. “We’ll make sure he doesn’t,” he said quietly. “I’ll have Fezzik sit on him if I have to.”
You seemed to accept that. Your grip on his hand loosened, and you dipped your head further under the duvet like you were burrowing into safety.
“Farm Boy…?” you whispered suddenly, voice small.
Clark blinked, all the humor fading into something sharper at your distress. He slid his thumb along your cheek. “Yes, my Buttercup?”
“Don’… don’t go in the Fire Swamp,” you breathed, words tangling. “They have… flame spurts… sand… Rodents of… unusual size...” your mouth grimaced, whimpering, “—Oh, the Pit.”
His chest pulled tight. He brushed your hair back, then cupped your face, thumb gentle at your temple. “No Fire Swamp,” he soothed. “No Pit. Farm Boy’s home.”
You worried the sheet with your fingers, small and restless. “They’ll… take years off you,” you muttered, fear naked in the way dreams strip armor clean. “An’ the news will… show clips… and I won’t know if—Clark,” you whimpered again, “—if you’re only mostly dead.”
Clark exhaled deeply. He knew you worried, ever since you were children. He’d seen the way you watched the news sometimes when they ran footage of Superman flying through the worst of Metropolis’s chaos. He’d heard the questions you didn’t always say out loud when you were finally together.
Are you hurt?
Was it close?
How bad was it?
You asked them with your eyes, the way a nurse read vitals without needing the monitor, but hearing it slip out like this, unguarded, made something inside him go quiet and sharp.
Clark leaned in until his forehead rested lightly against yours, matching his breath. “Not mostly dead, not even close,” he assured, steady. “All alive.”
Your hand squeezed his. “Promise?”
“Promise,” he answered, serious. “I’m here.”
He watched the crease between your brows ease and tried to follow suit, to let go of the worry you’d been carrying all day and he’d been carrying all night.
The emergency had gone well, all things considered. No lives lost. He’d done what he could, fast enough and gentle enough.
And still, the thought kept sneaking through the back of his mind: You were home, alone, patiently waiting for him until you couldn’t anymore.
He glanced back toward the living room. The faint blue glow of the TV was still visible down the hall. He didn’t want to leave you again tonight, even for a second, but he also didn’t want you to wake up to a messy kitchen in the morning.
He looked back at you. You were already half-buried in the duvet, breathing slow and even, his hand still caught in yours.
“Let me tidy up the kitchen, sweetheart,” he whispered. He lifted your hand carefully, and pressed a kiss to your wedding ring. He eased your fingers back onto the duvet, tucking them under the edge so they’d stay warm. “I’ll be right back.”
“Bring chocolate,” you murmured, extremely serious. “Coats the miracle pill.”
“I’ll bring two,” he said, and then added, playing along, “and I’ll wait an hour to swim.”
You gave a faint, approving hum, but the dream shifted again, turning your face pinched and worried for a beat. “An’… if the six-fingered man shows up—fly,” you warned, wagging a finger slightly against the sheets. “Hate him.”
“I won’t go anywhere near him,” Clark vowed. His tone stayed even, but his palm went to your cheek again. He let you feel him there—steady, solid. “No six fingers. No swords. No cliffs. Just bed.”
You nodded once, small and sleepy, like you’d checked the box and could move on.
“Good,” you breathed. “To the… plan.” The word wobbled, tried to stand, then toppled over into a sigh. “To the bed.”
Clark leaned in and kissed you chaste on the lips. “To the bed,” he repeated.
You were already drifting deeper again. Your breathing evened out, slow and sure, your hand still curled where he’d tucked it.
Clark waited a second longer just to watch your brow smooth, to make sure the fear had fully passed. Then he stepped back, moving like the hardwood might tattle, grabbed the blanket he tossed behind, and slipped out, leaving it cracked so you wouldn’t wake to a room that felt too empty.
.
On the way to the kitchen, Clark tossed your blanket in the hamper, noting to load the washer tomorrow.
In the kitchen, he moved at a speed just shy of a blur. Stove cleaned off, lasagna portioned and slipped into containers. Garlic bread triaged—the least burnt pieces salvaged and wrapped in foil, the worst given a brief, regretful glance before he consigned them to the trash. He rinsed plates, stacked them in the dishwasher, and wiped down the counter.
On the coffee table, your phone lay face-down. He flipped it over, tsk'd when he saw it was almost dead.
As he plugged it into a charger, the screen unlocked. Your text threat with him stared right back:
Lasagna smells good, baby. If you hurry, I might not eat your half.
Then another:
Okay, now it smells great. Hurry up, Farm Boy. Your Buttercup misses you.
He inhaled through his nose slowly, feeling his heart pull in his chest in two directions at once: the part that was still at the warehouse fire, and the part that was right here in this apartment, watching your texts blinking up at him.
He pressed the side button, letting the screen go dark, and set your phone down to charge for the night.
.
Clark padded back into the bedroom, cape whispering against his calves. You were exactly as he left you, and for a reckless second, he considered just peeling the cape off and collapsing right there beside you. Let the suit be tomorrow's problem. Let the world stay outside the door.
Then he caught the smell on himself again—smoke and scorched metal, that harsh campfire-gone-rogue scent that clung to the suit and to him. Dust ground into the seams at his shoulders and hips. He looked down at his hands and imagined those stains on your sheets, on your pillow, on you.
Yeah, no. As badly as he wanted to be in bed with you, he wasn’t bringing all of that into it.
He collected a set of clothes from his drawers: sleep pants and the worn t-shirt you liked him in because it was “ridiculously cozy and properly husband-scented.”
He then moved back into the hall, rolling his shoulders to ease the settling stiffness there. The adrenaline had worn off; what was left was that heavy, bone-deep tired like he’d been wrung out. He stepped into the bathroom and clicked on the light. He squinted at himself in the mirror.
Hair mussed, cheekbones streaked with soot, a smear of something darker at his jaw. He stared at it for a second, remembering the heat of the warehouse, the way the air had tasted, the hands he’d lifted and pulled free, the last scared faces turning to relief.
Some people were going to have some scary stories for a while, but they all made it home. That, Clark could live with.
Clark brushed his teeth on autopilot, attention still half on the mirror and half down the hall where the door was cracked open. He could hear you from here—soft, even breathing, the faint rustle of you shifting against the sheets. Every sound pulled him toward the bed like gravity.
“Almost there,” he murmured under his breath, to himself and maybe to you, even though you couldn’t hear it. “Just a minute.”
He rinsed, wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist, and started peeling the suit away piece by piece. The cape was first, folded over the towel bar so it wouldn’t drag on the floor. Then he eased the top half down, careful even in exhaustion, because the damage on it told a story: a melted patch near the seam, a tear that would need fixing, a scuff from where he’d taken a hit he didn’t want anyone else to.
When the suit finally pooled at his feet, he stood there in the bright light in quiet, human tiredness. He rolled his neck, listened a beat to make sure you were still asleep, and turned on the shower.
Steam started to bloom in the small room. The water hit hot, and he stepped under it with a low exhale that felt like letting go. Soot ran in clean rivulets down his skin. The smoke smell lifted slowly, replaced with soap and the plain comfort of being home. He scrubbed through his hair, his body, until the last of the night felt rinsed off.
Even then, he didn’t linger. Not because he didn’t want to—because every second in here was a second not beside you.
When he shut off the tap, the apartment seemed even quieter. He grabbed a towel, rubbing it over his hair, around his shoulders, then his waist, chasing the last of the water down his back.
Next to the sink, in the little dish you’d bought at a farmers’ market, his wedding ring waited.
He picked up the band, rolling it once between thumb and forefinger. He slid it back onto his finger where it belonged, the familiar weight settling into place like a lock and key.
“Better,” he nodded to himself, smiling.
A minute later, he was tugging on fresh clothes on the counter. Soft cotton, familiar weight. He flicked the bathroom light off and left toward the bedroom on quiet feet. In the dark, the cape and suit stayed on the bar and hook.
Superman off-duty; he was just Clark again.
.
You were exactly where Clark left you, only somehow completely different. You’d migrated diagonally across the mattress, one leg trying to escape the covers entirely, one arm flung wide with your hand slowly opening and closing like you were reaching for him in your sleep.
He closed the door, letting the room fall into darkness. He immediately rounded the bed and lifted the covers on his side, sliding in carefully, turning toward you before the mattress even finished settling.
Your hand immediately found him, fingers bunching in the front of his t-shirt like they had a homing beacon. You gave the fabric a possessive little tug and scooted closer.
“Dread pirate…Kent,” you sniffed, still miles from consciousness. “You’re not… supposed to be up.”
He muffled a laugh into his pillow and eased closer, letting you pull him in. His palm slid slowly up your back. “We are men of action,” he explained with mock-solemn regret. “Lies do not become us.”
You hummed like you bought that, your forehead nudging his collarbone.
“You’re not left-handed,” you mumbled, accusatory in that dreamy way.
Clark’s eyebrows shot up. “You caught me.” He brushed his knuckles along your cheek, then kissed your temple. “I’m not left-handed.”
Pleased, you melted into his chest. He let himself relax onto his back and gently closed the distance, an arm slipping around your waist.
You went willingly, body fitting atop his like you’d done it a thousand times, because you had. You tucked your face under his jaw. Your knee hitched over his waist, and if being pinned ever felt like victory, it was this.
There was still a chill in your toes; he hooked his calf around your ankle under the covers and let his body heat do its thing, rubbing a slow circle between your shoulder blades until you sighed. His whole body sighed with you.
He stared up at the faint shadow of the ceiling, your weight warm against him, and finally let the day fall away.
“Sweetheart,” he tried quietly, mostly to see if you’d respond. He smoothed his thumb between your shoulder blades, slow, even strokes. “You know it’s me, right?”
You made a noise, borderline suspicious. “You keep using that word,” you grumbled, as if he’d said something wildly incorrect. “I do not think it means what you think it means.”
He tipped his chin to your hair and breathed you in. “Okay.” He kissed the crown of your head. “What does it mean then, my love?”
Your brow pinched like you were rummaging around for the answer. Your fingers slid up to hook into his damp hair. “It means…” You started, then drifted, then found it again, “…don’t try to trick me….and only my husband…can say…”
Clark felt the ache beneath his chest at the way you treated his endearments so sacred, something kept only for him. He pressed another kiss to your forehead, then a third, like punctuation. “No tricks. Only you.”
“Where’s… where’s the chalice?”
“Chalice?” he echoed, turning to kiss the inside of your wrist.
“For the Scilian.” You sounded exasperated that he even had to ask. “Likes grape. The princess is...” Your voice softened suddenly. “She's waiting.”
Clark shifted carefully so you were more fully on him, safe and contained, his arm firm around your waist. He tucked the duvet higher over your shoulder and kept his cheek against your hair.
“I know.
“Mhm.” Your words slurred more now. “She keeps… keeps watching the news. The cliffs… the swamp. She’s scared and… she’s just… small.”
He closed his eyes. You’d mentioned a few times when you came home after a shift—how small people seemed when they were in those uncomfortable plastic room chairs in the ER lobby, stuck watching the TV ticker crawl by with bad news of the day and heroes they couldn’t help, hoping everything ended kindly.
You burrowed closer to him, almost like you were subconsciously correcting yourself, making sure at least one wife wasn’t alone right now. At least one hero wasn’t wallowing in guilt.
“Tell her he comes back,” you huffed, an annoyed breath at your own imaginary scenario. “From the Pit… Tell her I said that. She'll…understand.”
He swallowed, feeling heat prick at the backs of his eyes. Because every time he left, some part of you had to do the quiet waiting. And every time he came home late, you remained loyal, devoted to him, as much as he was devoted to you.
“I’ll pass it along,” he said softly. “I’ll make sure of it.”
“Then tell him…” Your hand flexed weakly on his chest. “…tell him she’s not mad he’s late. She’s just scared he… didn't come back.”
He tightened his arm around your waist, careful not to wake you, but firm enough that your body knew, even asleep, that he was here.
“And then…” you continued, voice rough around the edges of the dream, “…tell her he always will… because…”
Clark lifted his head a fraction, brow soft, waiting like a kid listening to a bedtime story you’d told a hundred times. “Because?” he murmured.
“True love.”
The phrase came out like a final door clicking shut. Simple. Certain. Like you’d been holding it in your pocket all night just to put it in the right place.
Clark exhaled deeply. The laugh that slipped out was shaky at the edges, half-choked with relief and something that hurt in the good way.
“True love,” he echoed, voice tender and thick.
He meant it the way you meant it—without performance. Not a headline. Not a cape. Just the stubborn, daily kind: the one that makes you set two plates instead of one. The one that says go save them and still leaves the door ajar, the TV on. The one that drags him home through smoke and sirens because there’s a person waiting who knows his heart better than anyone alive.
“I’ll make sure they both hear it,” he whispered. His hand moved slowly up and down your back, soothing you even as you drifted. He mumbled to himself, reciting that one quote that made you swoon: “'This is true love. You think this happens every day?'”
You hummed, like the answer was so obvious, and sighed into his warmth again.
Clark stayed there, breathing with you, letting your faith settle him from the inside out. He didn’t need to say anything else. The truth was already wrapped around both of you—quiet, unbreakable, and mutual as a pulse.
The hum of the city outside was distant, muffled by the walls. In here, it was just the two of you, and the rustle of sheets when you shifted.
Eventually, Clark's own eyes started to drift. He was almost asleep when you spoke again, startling him slightly.
“Code brown,” you said clearly, very grave.
His eyes snapped open. “…What?”
“Code… brown,” you repeated, dire. “Clark, don’t step in it.”
He stared at the shadow of the ceiling for a beat, then burst out laughing, the sound quickly muffled in your hair. Tears pricked the corners of his eyes from his efforts to keep quiet.
“Duly noted,” he rasped when he could breathe again. “Not stepping in any code brown.”
“Get…the wheelbarrow,” you yawned, clearly losing the thread of the dream. “Watch your boots.”
“As you wish,” the words were easy and absolute on his tongue. He grinned into your hairline, still quiet-laughing.
Suddenly, your head lifted an inch, and Clark thought you’d truly woken up. Your eyes were still closed, but you leaned up anyway and captured him in a kiss.
It wasn’t long. It wasn’t hungry. It was simple and sleepy and so full of you that it almost knocked the air out of him again. A good-night kiss, the kind you’d given him a million times—except this one landed differently, like a seal pressed into warm wax.
You sank back down, tucking your face into his neck again. “Good night, Clark,” you sighed dreamily. “Good work....Sleep well. I’ll most likely.... kiss you in the morning.”
Clark’s throat went tight around a laugh. He pressed a kiss to your hairline, then another to your temple, like he was answering in a language you didn’t have to be awake to understand.
“Most likely,” he murmured.
Your body softened against him completely. Your fingers loosened on his shirt. You trusted the ending to fall asleep inside it.
Clark let the day replay itself in his mind—the warehouse fire from a punctured gas line, the terrified workers, the heat at his back, the microphones shoved at his face afterward.
Slowly, the images were replaced by this: your weight on him, your hand curled in his shirt, the way you’d kissed him like coming home was the only ending you'd accept.
By morning you wouldn’t remember a word of the classic story you’d spun into his skin. You’d blink up at him over coffee, ask why he looked so smug, and he’d have the private, awful delight of teasing you about Miracle Max’s orders and your very serious anti–six-fingered-man policy. He’d probably steal a kiss just to watch you squint and go, “What?” And then, when you finally realized he was home and safe and very much yours, he’d ask if you still wanted to watch The Princess Bride properly this time—no emergencies, no sleep-talking, just the good parts and your head on his shoulder.
Through the haze, Clark thought—absurdly, tenderly—of that old line about the invention of the kiss. About how there had been only a handful that ever got called the most passionate, the most pure.
He looked down at you one last time, at the soft trust of your sleeping face, at your mouth still turned toward him.
The start of my weekend marathon sex at the Fortress of Solitude fic. There was plenty more, but it kinda went off the rails. If I'm ever brave enough to look at the draft again, I'll post a nicer version!
Forgive me Father Jud for sharing on a Sunday!
18+, MDNI, oral (f + m receiving), overstimulation, p in v (unprotected), creampie-ish? Not edited bc I'm not ovulating so none of this makes sense to meeee
Mrs. Kent Diaries Masterlist
Comments and reblogs highly appreciated!
You were already naked. Already gone. Already shaking with the kind of high that made your calves cramp, your throat seize, your lashes wet from tears.
The sheets beneath your back were ruined. Soaked, fever-hot and sticking to your spine, damp with sweat, drool, and slick and everything else Clark already coaxed out of you.
Above and around you was nothing but sunlight, coating your glistening skin in alternating blues and golds. It might’ve been noon. Might’ve been later. Midnight sun already scrambled your sense of time, just not as bad as Clark had scrambled your brain.
You couldn’t think past your last orgasm. Or the one before it. Or the one before that.
It was so stupid, he'd been doing it with just his mouth. Just his fingers. Just his voice in your ear, pleading you to give him another.
Clark had your thighs shoved wide open around the breadth of his shoulders for how long now? His arms were locked under your sweaty, trembling knees like he was welded there, and his mouth was on you. Deep, rhythmic, maddening.
And Clark's fingers. God, his fingers were in you, thick and pumping slow, so deep and deliberate you swore you could feel it right behind your navel. Every time he dragged them out, then pushed back in, deeper than deep, you clenched and fluttered and lost another piece of your sanity. His tongue flattened against your sensitive clit again and again and again, then curled and licked and sucked, wet and loud.
Your mouth was dry from moaning. From gasping. Every inhale hitched sharply through your teeth. Your jaw had slackened sometime long ago, spit dripping down your chin, your moans slurred and high-pitched and barely human.
You had come again, your cries echoing off cold crystal walls that gave nothing back but reflection and airless silence. Your toes curled and your heels dug into the curve of his back, hips twitching, cunt pulsing helplessly as you sobbed through your high. Clark groaned, low and guttural rumbles like thunder that vibrated straight into your clit as he continued.
He licking through your ecstasy like he could wring another one out with just the tip of his tongue and the curl of his thick fingers.
"Clark! Baby— oh fuck, oh fuck Clark—wait—"
You weren’t even sure what you were waiting for. You weren’t sure when you’d stopped breathing. You were so far gone, your arms trembled and your fingertips felt numb reaching down to tangle into his riot of damp curls to anchor yourself to him and survive.
He didn’t let up. Didn’t even flinch.
"Shit, shit, ohmyfucking God!"
"That’s it, sweetheart," he rasped into you, breath hitching, lips dragging over your soaked skin in sloppy, open-mouth kisses between strokes, between pulses, between everything. "Don't hold back here, I wanna hear it all. Wanna feel it. Make a mess on my face, sweetheart."
You could hear the obscene slick noises of his fingers fucking in and out of you, curling against your front wall, dragging out another filthy flutter from your overstimulated pussy even as his tongue licked through it, chasing and hungry for more. His jaw was soaked, his mouth red and swollen and shining, and he buried himself deeper, like your pussy was oxygen, as if he needed it to breathe.
"You’ve got no idea how much I missed this," he slurred, dazed and drunk on your mewls. "Loud and messy. You're so darn beautiful when you're needy like this."
You could barely hear him over the pounding in your ears. Every pulse of your heart lived between your legs now.
He pulled his fingers out just long enough to spit on them, and sank them back in, two again, maybe three now, you couldn’t tell, couldn’t think. But you could feel that delicious stretch, and that was enough. You choked on a cry, whole body convulsing when his other hand slid up to your belly, palm hot and firm, thumb catching your clit with hard and insistent pressure at just the right angle, and it sent a brutal full-body tremor through you.
"Clark," you sobbed in frustration and love, and it didn't even sound like you, "I need— please, I need you— fuck me, why won't you fucking fuck me?"
"I'm sorry, I know, I know," he lamented, voice cracking as he tried to soothe you, like he could barely stand this torture either. "Soon. Just a lil more. You can take it, I know. Always sayin' you're strong, brave. Just one more, be good for me."
You were already too good for him. And that only made it worse.
Your body had gone nuclear. Every nerve was buzzed, tingling, burning. You could barely breathe, barely speak, and still you felt the rock-solid flex of his biceps under your knees, the grip of his free hand around your thigh, the rhythm of his other wrist as he twisted his fingers slowly back in so fucking deep, his tongue lapping up the mess he made of you obediently.
You saw stars when you clenched again, the aftershocks looping you straight back into another one.
And Clark still hadn’t touched himself.
Not once. Not since you got here. Not even after he’d heard you moaning his name in your sleep during the week, hips involuntarily grinding into the sheets next to him.
But he was hard. God, he had to be, right?!
Yes, he had to be. You were certain of it. You could hear it in the broken cadence of his breath, the way his moans cracked apart when your pussy clenched down on his fingers again, in the way he grunted when your heels scraped along his back, desperate and greedy for more friction, more pressure, more Clark.
He'd been panting into you like he'd been coming. Like he couldn’t take another second longer without breaking. Like he was desperate to be inside you but was still holding back, choosing this frustrating, pleasurable limbo, because the only thing that mattered to him was his wife coming again. And again. And again. And a-fucking-gain.
"You're everything," he whispered against your thigh, pressing his lips to a bite mark he’d left behind minutes ago, tongue flicking soft against the bruise. "Still so tight for me. So wet. I’m gonna—gonna have you in a soon, hon, fill you up until next week."
"Yes! Yes! Oh, fucking finally!"
Your hips bucked at the anticipation of Clark's cock pushing into you, your body caught in the current of another rising peak, climbing higher and higher. Your hands pawed and scrambled against the sheets, needing something, anything to bring you back down.
"That's it," he murmured, licking between your folds and over your clit again, gentle, slow, obscenely precise, dragging out the aftershocks as your pussy fluttered tight around nothing, aching for everything. "I’ve got you, sweetheart. Just breathe. Last one...."
And then Clark looked up at you, found your eyes in the haze, and held them.
His Summer-sky blues were blown black, pupils devouring color, and you saw the hunger, the pride, the fucking possession of being his wife. His lips were shiny with you, tongue still flicking out to greedily have just "one more taste", and a memory flashed: hard, bright, blinding.
It ripped through your scrambled mind like a white-hot solar flare, pulling you straight up and out of your body.
Because six nights ago, you came across that damn research article:
"Moderate solar exposure increases romantic passion in long-term couples…"
You texted the file during the middle of the workday with a winky-face emoji and a quirky "sunbathe with me?" follow-up.
It was meant to be taken as just a laugh, a joke, a tease, but you knew it was never just anything with Clark. Never when it came to you.
Now, pinned beneath the Midnight sun, your body flushed and twitching and limp to the bone, you realized you’d made a mistake thinking anything you’d imagined could come close to this.
This moment wasn’t just better than a fantasy. It obliterated the fantasy. Exceeded your hopes. Outpaced your mind. Plunged beyond your limits.
And Clark still hadn’t fucked you yet.
"Moderate solar exposure increases romantic passion in long-term couples…"
The line sat in the center of your phone screen, crisp and clinical beneath a bolded headline, while the ER's usual noise surrounded you.
You scrolled with your thumb, eyes skimming phrases about vitamin D, mood regulation, relationship satisfaction. All neutral language trying very hard not to acknowledge the obvious.
That it made you think of Clark’s strong hands. His soft mouth. The way he’d been looking at you lately when you both came home too tired, too late, settling on kisses on the cheek and apologies.
You downloaded the article before you could second‑guess yourself, opening Clark’s messages and typed quickly.
Sunbathe with me?
You hovered over the winking emoji, then attached it to your message, hitting send.
Heat climbed your neck immediately. Not because it felt scandalous, but because the truth underneath it felt heavier than you wanted to unpack at this time.
You didn’t write I miss you, Clark.
Didn’t write I’m lonely even when you’re home, Clark.
Didn’t write It’s been too long since we made time for each other, Clark.
You just sent the link.
Someone called for you. You slid your phone into your pocket and went back to work with your pulse running a little fast, like you’d taken a risk even though it was only a headline and a wink.
.
At the Daily Planet, Clark’s phone buzzed against the edge of his keyboard while he was halfway through reading a paragraph that he’d already rewritten twice.
He glanced down out of habit, expecting a news alert, but the second he saw your name his shoulders loosened instantly.
He read the document attached in your message. Then read it again. One more time. His ears warmed and his mouth parted like he was about to answer out loud.
Clark didn’t text you back, because he kept re-reading, still absorbing the words like they were a set of instructions he could follow to fix a problem he hadn’t wanted to name out loud, and when he finally looked up his eyes were a little unfocused.
Your message was small, playful on the surfacel, but urge to give you what you wanted was immediate and all consuming. It was the same instinctive pull that guided him through rescues.
A plan already started to form.
.
During dinner that night, you clocked it instantly, because you knew him too well to miss the signs.
He smiled at your jokes, he asked about your shift, he listened, but his attention kept drifting, his gaze going distant for half a second as if he was rehearsing a speech.
"Okay, baby," you sighed, setting your fork down, head tilting. "Something’s going on. What’s happening in that handsome, thick skull of yours?"
Clark’s eyes widened at the sudden turn in conversation, then smiled sheepishly, hesitantly reaching for your hand across the table, thumb rubbing the inside of your wrist.
"I’ve just been thinking," he admitted quietly as if salvaging privacy, even though you were alone. "About what you sent me earlier."
Your cheeks warmed, partly from embarrassment and partly from relief that he’d read it, that it mattered a discussion.
"It was a joke," you swatted your hand in the air as if trying to break the awkward fog forming between you.
"Maybe," he shrugged, his thumb following the delicate line of your vein inside of your wrist, steady and tender, "But it didn’t feel like only a joke."
You didn’t answer right away. Your throat tightened with all the things you didn’t want to turn into guilt—for the city, for your schedules, for the way you’d both been surviving instead of living.
Clark leaned forward slightly, blue eyes soft and compassionate.
"I want time with you," he confessed, without fluroush or motive. "Real time. Not falling asleep on the couch. Not a rushed morning. Just… us."
"That's be nice," you agreed, because the answer was easy even when life wasn’t.
Later in bed, he kissed you goodnight, slow and lingering, surrounded by plush pillows and bedsheets. He pressed his forehead to yours afterward, pressing light pecks across your cheeks, the bridge of your nose, your fingertips.
"I have an idea, hon," he murmured, thumb circling your wedding band.
You blinked, trying to find his shape in the dark, playing with the fine hairs on the nape of his neck. "Uh-oh. That tone usually means you’ve already decided."
His mouth curved against your knuckle, and he huffed a light laugh. "Will you come with me this weekend?" he asked, words warm against your skin."To the Fortress."
You stilled, because you knew what that meant, because it was private and safe and uninterrupted in a way your lives rarely were.
"During this time of year, the sun doesn’t set fully," he explained. "It’ll be… quiet. Just sunlight and ice and space for us to breathe. No obligations. No calls, no alarms, no deadlines. I promise."
You eyes started adjusting in the dark and you stared at him, giddy and stunned, and your body reacted before your brain did.
"Twenty-four hours under the sun? The same one that gives you strength, power, stamina?" you rambled, trying to keep your voice light, and failing because your excitement slipped through anyway.
"Only if you want it," he smiled, ducking slightly like he always did when you teased him.
"Yes, absolutely, Clark," you answered immediately. "I want it!"
.
Clark abstained the entire week, his own silent decision, driven by something tender and obsessive in equal measure.
Each morning, he kissed you longer than he needed to, hugged you like it might be the last time, then let you go with visible effort, fingers flexing at his sides as if he didn’t quite trust himself to pull away.
At night, he lay beside you rigid with restraint, joints locked, breath held shallow, and it only got worse when you whimpered his name in your sleep—soft and unknowing—hips shifting instinctively under the blankets, your body chasing something it hadn’t had in too long.
On Thursday, you came home earlier than usual, your shift ending just before the sky fully darkened, and you found him in the bathroom after a shower, towel around his hips, one hand braced on the sink as if he’d been breathing through a tempting decision.
He looked up, startled, and you saw it in the set of his mouth, in the flicker of guilt behind his eyes that he’d almost caved.
"Hey, everything okay?" you asked, stepping closer.
Clark exhaled loudly, nodded, and fixed a wide smile on his face. "Yep. Just… thinking!"
You hummed, brow quirked with amusement, and let your eyes drop, slow and obvious. Your gaze dragged from the slope of his shoulders down the wet shine of his chest, lingering at the sharp cut of his hip. You liked watching him try to stay polite with you. You were his wife. You didn’t make it easy on purpose.
He cleared his throat, and the blush spread fast across his cheeks, pinkening the tips of his ears. "How was work, hon? You, uh… you look tired."
"A shit-show, as usual. So, I am tried," you admitted, crinkling your nose.
Then you stepped close without warning, pulling him down by the back of his neck into a kiss. You lingered long enough for your mouth to part and his breath to hitch, long enough to feel the heat roll off him in waves, trapped and aching beneath his towel.
You pulled back just enough to look up at him with half-lidded eyes.
"Speaking of excited," you whispered, ghosting a finger along his sternum, "I’m training."
He tilted his head, confused. "Training for what?"
You grinned, stepped back, and raised your fists in a faux boxer’s stance, then opened and closed your jaw in slow, deliberate stretches. A warm-up you’d only ever do for him.
Clark froze. Eyes wide and dilating. Ears instantly bright red. He made a strangled sound and glanced away. You kept going, jaw working, watching him with mirth in your eyes.
"You’re not—" his voice cracked and he stopped, clearing his throat, because he couldn’t decide whether to be scandalized or turned on. His gaze flicked down, then back up, then down again, and his hand tightened on the edge of the sink hard enough that the porcelain creaked.
"Seriously?" he finally managed, but it came out weak, breathy, defeated.
"As a heart attack," you answered with a wicked grin. "I want to give a proper welcome, baby."
The towel slipped, just slightly. The countertop groaned as his fingers flexed tight against the edge. You bit your lip when you glanced down briefly, the outline of his cock already thickening beneath the cotton.
His jaw clenched, eyes shut tight. You were sure he was counting. Probably to ten. Maybe to a hundred.
But again, you were his wife. You did not make it easy on purpse.
You leaned in close again, lips brushing his collarbone as you whispered it. "C’mon, babe. Don’t be shy. We’ve known this since forever. You’re—"
.
"—so big, Clark."
The words lingered, half memory, half invocation, as your lashes fluttered and the world reassembled itself in fractured gold and blue.
You drifted back slowly, chest heaving, limbs slack, your spine molded to the sun-soaked blankets. Your throat was dry. Your lips were parted, spit-slick and swollen, jaw aching deep from how wide you’d stretched.
Clark was above you now, kneeling astride your heaving chest, his body flushed and trembling, his cock heavy, hard, and glistening in his fist.
"Easy, beautiful," he breathed, hand cradling the back of your head as he leaned forward, the other guiding his length to your waiting mouth. "That’s it, sweetheart—just relax. Just like you trained for."
You opened without hesitation, tongue flattening beneath the thick, pulsing weight of him. Clark groaned—choked, really—eyes fluttering shut as he eased the head between your lips, hips jerking as he fed inch after inch into the wet heat of your mouth.
Your throat, already sore from the cries he’d wrung out of you, protested at the stretch, but you didn’t stop. You couldn’t. You swallowed around the burn, welcomed the fullness, breathed through your nose as he set a slow, long, controlled rhythm that dragged his cock across your tongue.
The pressure of his intrusion climbed each time he bottomed out near the back of your throat, making your eyes water, your ears ring, your body arch just slightly despite how boneless you still were.
"Gosh, look at you…" he whispered, his other hand cupping your jaw instinctively. "Mouth’s so warm—so soft, so pretty."
You whimpered around him, drool spilling from the corners of your mouth, sliding down your cheeks and pooling in the hollow of your throat. His cock twitched against your tongue and you swallowed around him, breathing hard, stretching your jaw, dragging your tongue along the underside of the shaft like you’d practiced.
Clark tipped his head back and cursed under his breath. Well, not a really a swear, but something desperate, adoring, lost. His hips snapped forward too hard to control. You gagged sharply around the sudden depth, and his whole body shuddered like he felt it in his soul.
"Not yet!" he gasped sharply as if reminding himself. "I want—wanna finish inside you. First time."
He eased you off his cock tenderly, dragging the swollen head across your bottom lip before pulling back entirely. Spit and precum strung between you in a glistening arc that snapped when he sat back. His cock twitched, flushed dark with need, visibly pulsing with every beat of his heart.
"Was that…" you rasped, swallowed, breath hitching, "a good welcome, babe?"
Your lips were swollen, tongue flicking faintly against the edge of your teeth like you were still searching for the taste of him. Your chin was wet, your throat felt hollowed out and humming, stretched wide in the best kind of ache. Tears clung to your lashes. Your skin burned everywhere he’d touched, licked, fucked with nothing but his mouth and the slow push of his cock between your lips.
Clark looked like he’d been struck.
"Y-yes, of course, sweeheart," he managed, tracing a trembling thumb along your cheek to swipe away spit and slick. "A damn incredible one."
You gave a tiny nod, relief blooming in your chest, satisfaction curling deep and warm in your chest. His hand cradled your jaw, fingers brushing lightly along the hinge, his touch feather-soft as he leaned down to kiss you.
It started as a polite press, but you pushed into it with a desperate little whine, lips parting for him, tongue sliding against his with the last of your strength. He groaned into your mouth, helpless, cupping the back of your skull like he couldn’t believe you still wanted him like this, filthy and breathless.
"Are you okay?" he asked, softer now, forehead pressed to yours, the hand in your hair smoothing gently against your temple.
You nodded, dazed, whining. "Can we—can you—please fuck me now?!"
Clark gave a soft, incredulous laugh, as if he couldn’t believe how much he adored you. "C'mere, my wife," he whispered, kissing your cheek. "You’ve waited long enough."
The sun had shifted. Pale gold now, casting long beams across the crystal, the light warm on your skin like the last hour of a perfect summer. It touched everything. His shoulders. Your parted thighs. The bedsheets where your sweat cooled.
Clark moved over your boneless body slowly. Kiss after kiss: your jaw, your throat, the corner of your mouth, the flushed center of your chest. He mouthed at the dip between your breast, and you sighed, giddy beneath him, thighs falling open again without hesitation. Your cunt fluttered in the open air, begging to be filled.
And then his hips dropped. The head of his cock slid through your slick folds, hot and heavy, teasing you in long strokes that made your back arch, your hips twitch. You whimpered. He inhaled sharply, guiding himself to your entrance with slow, practiced control.
Then he pushed in inch by inch, never looking away.
The stretch was unbearable, a sweet, raw kind of pressure that stole your breath. You were still soaked, still trembling from the ecstasy he already worked out of you, but it didn’t matter. He was thick, unrelenting, your body clenching reflexively around him, slow to adjust, to accept it.
"F-fuck!" you stammered, tipping your head back and gripping his forearms to relish the feeling of being split apart so slowly.
"Easy, sweetheart," he soothed, voice warm against the column of your neck. "Breathe. Let me take my time with you."
You couldn’t answer. You could barely think. Your hands scrambled for something solid and found his shoulders, nails dragging through muscle as he pushed deeper with every slow rock of his hips. His mouth covered yours, swallowing your soft cries, his tongue lazy as it slid against yours.
By the time he bottomed out, cock seated so deep it felt like he'd fill your whole torso, you were trembling beneath him, thighs shaking, your chest heaving under the weight of his body.
One strong hand stayed cupped at the back of your head. The other curled around your thigh and lifted it, settling it around his waist. You adjusted, trying to breathe, but it wasn’t enough. Your other leg moved up and Clark caught it, guiding it over his shoulder with a sharp breath.
The change in angle hit something deep. Your mouth dropped open on a cry. "Holy shit! Oh, yes!"
"Right there?" Clark grounded out, jaw went tight as he pushed forward again, his rhythm deliberate, grinding into you. The friction, the depth, the slow press of him inside your body sent immediate tremors down your spine.
You nodded quickly, eyes glassy, mouth falling open. "Right there—oh god, yes—just like that, babe—"
"You feel incredible," he murmured, leaning in to kiss the corner of your mouth.
You tilted your hips up to meet him, catching his next stroke just right. He groaned as your cunt fluttered, as your breath came faster with each pass. His thrusts stayed deep, slow, unhurried, dragging over every sensitive spot inside you. He kissed you between breaths. Kissed your temple, your jaw, the soft skin under your ear.
Your moan broke the silence, high and sweet. Your fingers fisted in his damp hair.
"Sound so pretty when you moan for me," he whispered, mouth brushing your ear. "Let me hear you, hon. There's no one else, just you an' me."
You wanted to tell him no, to keep his voice down. That someone might hear. But he was right. This wasn’t your apartment. There were no neighbors to be bashful and courteous of. No walls too thin. You remembered that as he thrusted into you again, deeper and faster than before.
Your hands clawed at his back, nails hooking into his sweaty skin. Your hips tipped upward, chasing each stroke, welcoming every inch he gave each time.
The sounds you made came from somewhere innate, wild, carnal. The wet slide of his cock was obscene, each thrust drawing out a high cry from your overused throat. Your body burned. You pulsed around him, tighter, soaked, open.
"Clark—" you gasped, shrill and cracking. "I’m gonna—oh God—I love you I love you—I’m—"
He groaned into your skin, mouth hot on your shoulder. "I love you, too, sweetheat. I love everything about this. About you."
The sunlight lit every ripple of his body as he moved above you, painting his skin in gold. The muscles in his back flexed with each thrust, sweat sliding down the curve of his spine, and when he kissed you again, his mouth was hungry, his breath catching as he gave you more, deeper, harder, without speeding up. Just control. Just weight. Just fullness.
You moaned into his mouth. He swallowed it greedily. His hands cupped your thighs, holding you open, holding you steady, as your body jolted and fluttered and climbed.
Then your orgasm hit.
It slammed through you, sudden and scorching. Your legs locked, your arms trembled, and your body clutched around him in spasms, milking every inch as he kept moving through it, groaning your name, trying to keep himself from falling hard with you.
"You’re so tight," he panted. "So wet. I can’t—I’m gonna—"
"Yeah?" you gasped, voice ragged and slurred. "C'mon. I wan' it. Inside. Give it to me. I want all of it. Please, please please!"
He snapped forward. Hard. Against and again—deep, hard, final—and came with a guttural cry, spilling inside you in thick, pulsing waves. You felt all of it. The heat. The stretch. The slippery fullness. The way your cunt gripped around him like it never wanted to let go.
Clark stayed inside you, his mouth pressed to your neck, hands still tight on your thighs. His breath shuddered as his body trembled over yours.
Your hips rolled against his, milking him, your hands stroking his jaw, his chest, holding him close as he fell apart in your arms.
"That’s it, baby. Just like that," you cooed, hands in his hair now, brushing sweat from his temples.
"I love you," he whispered, each word pushed out between exhausted breaths. "Adore you, in awe, utterly devoted to you, my love."
"I love you," you answered back, feeling his release settle deep inside you. You were utterly full. Safe. Taken care of. Clark's to the core. "So, so much. I don't know where to put it all."
He kissed you, slow and tender, tongue curling against yours, and you tasted your own arousal on his lips.
When he pulled back just enough to see your face, you grinned up at him, flushed and dazed.
"We’re not done yet, right?" you asked, eyes bright and hopeful.
Clark grinned back, cheeks dimpling and flushed, still breathless.
"No, not even close," he swallowed, one hand closing around yours, thumb circling your wedding ring. "I’m not stopping until we're both more than satisfied."
You laughed, kissed him again, and felt the warmth of the golden sun glowing on your skin. His cock was still inside you, thick and twitching. Your body ached for more.
cw. canon rafe, unhealthy obsession, stalking, rafe and a one-sided crush (at first), angst, kissing, needy rafe, masturbation (m), meltdowns, confessions, lots of dialogue, inebriated sex, drugs, unprotected sex, semi public sex, breeding, size kink (rafe has a huge dick), dom/sub, possessiveness, light cumplay, reader is often pressured into acts with rafe. it is not entirely consensual.
synopsis. rafe has never had such intense feelings for someone until he met you. his problem is that he doesn't know how to get you to want him back.
Rafe watches you intently as you flit around the snack bar at the country club, serving a rich family overpriced ice creams. You'd been working at the concessions stand since summer started. No doubt a seasonal job to pay for college. He could pay your whole tuition and not bat an eye, and it's not like he hasn't offered on multiple occasions.
He'd been strangely offended when you'd gotten defensive and angry. You accused him of throwing money at you like you're a whore. You think the worst of him. He knows you do. He can see the way you behave around him.
He noticed your smile always faded when he entered your line of sight. You usually bolted with a weak excuse of being busy, or gave him clipped, terse responses if he managed to get you to speak to him. Even then, it felt like he was talking at you, and you were responding like you had a gun to your head.
Perhaps you thought you were too good for him. That fancy college you were going to was getting to your head. Maybe you were dating some douchebag econ major... He didn't even realize the family left and he was just staring at you. You're probably even more creeped out by him now. You have this odd look on your face and there's a stiffness in the way you stand now, like you're trying to shrink yourself without being obvious.
He takes a sharp breath in and walks over to you, hands sliding into his pocket to hold out the pretty necklace he bought you today. He was planning to ask you out. For the second time this week already.
He fidgets with the necklace in his pocket, running his thumb along the delicate little charm he'd picked out earlier that day. It reminded him of you, all soft and bright and way too expensive for someone scooping sherbet in the heat. He'd thought about just leaving it in your locker. But no, that'd be weird. Creepy, even. He wasn't creepy.
Your shift is almost over. He can tell by the way you've started glancing at your phone, counting down minutes. You don't look up when he stops at the counter. But you freeze for just a second. Your hand lingers too long on a napkin dispenser.
"I g-got you something," he mumbles, voice low and a little nervous, like a child speaking to their first love. He pulls the necklace from his pocket slowly, afraid you'll turn him away. You finally look up. Not at the necklace but at him. Your face is guarded.
"Rafe…" Your voice is soft, but there's weight behind it. You sound tired. "I told you not to-"
"You didn't let me finish last time," he says, setting the little box a little too hard onto the countertop. "You never… you never let me finish. I'm not trying to buy your attention. I just… think about you a lot." He swallows, tongue darting across the inside of his cheek. "You don't even have to wear it. I just thought it was pretty. Like you."
You blink, eyes scanning his face. It almost sounds like he's rambling, and your cheeks warm up at the compliment. Still, wearing something a man bought you is far too intimate for your liking. He notices your hands twitch slightly at your sides.
You shift your weight like you want to step back but don't want to make it obvious. The silence that follows is thick. Your eyes drop to the box, then lift again to meet his. You're not smiling. He wishes you'd smile at him. The cute one with a hint of a dimple. You're so adorable.
"I don't want to owe you anything," you say quietly. "And I don't want you thinking that this means anything. Because it doesn't. I don't feel that way towards you."
Rafe's feels his heart sink like a rock in a body of water, his eyes trained on you as you lower your head, gnawing on your plump lower lip. You're a coward. He thinks to himself. Mumbling that to him while being incapable of looking him in the eyes. He reminds himself that this happens every time he makes a move on you, but it still stings.
"Why not? How do I make you want me?" The words tumble out before he can stop them. He feels like such a loser. He's practically begging for your attention.
"You dont, Rafe." You mumble. You don't meet his eyes again as you gather up your things, shifting uncomfortably as you turn away. There's no venom in your voice, like he's not even worth the time or energy to get mad at. "Stop wasting your time with me and go hang out with the girls your speed."
He frowns, pushing his body against the counter as he watches you lock everything up. His eyes drift to the way your tits push against your thin polo when you lean forward to grab your phone charger. Fuck, he wants you.
His mind returns to your last couple words. "What do you mean my speed? You're my speed. I want you to be my speed."
You scoff lightly, shaking your head. You think he's clueless. He knows you do. As you slide out of the concessions stand and come around to roll down the security shutters and lock it. He stares down at you, admiring the way your body moves. You're not answering him, so he holds onto your upper arm and turns you with little to no effort so that he can look at you. You're just… so out of his league, and yet, he can't let go of this hope. This stupid, selfish hope that you'll turn to him one day. That you'll see him the way he's seeing you now.
"I don't know why you're doing this," he continues, his voice rougher than he means. "But I'm not the bad guy here, alright?" He steps closer to you, leaning in. His heart races, his voice low but urgent. "I know you... you don't want me anywhere near you. But I can't stop thinking about you. Every damn day. Every time I see you, I-" He pauses, his breath catching in his throat as the words spill out before he can stop them. "It h-hurts. It fucking hurts, you know?"
The silence between you two stretches, and Rafe's chest rises and falls rapidly like he's been holding his breath for too long. His hands shake. He's not sure if he's angry or desperate, but either way, he can't let it go. He needs something from you but he knows it's not something you can give so easily. You stare at him silently through long lashes, your brows furrowed. You hate him. "I'm going home, Rafe," you say, not acknowledging his desperation. "I suggest you give this a rest."
He watches as you tear your arm out of his grip to brush past him and head toward your dingy little car, hips swaying as you walk. The pretty necklace he bought you is still in his possession. Like he's out of his mind, he stalks after you from a distance just as you get into your car. He walks to his own truck and decides to tail you to your home.
-
Rafe shows up the next morning like he didn't follow you home the night before and sit in his truck outside your house for hours with his hands clenched tight on the steering wheel, replaying your voice in his head on a loop.
"I don't want you." "Stop wasting your time."
He'd been a fight with his dad this morning, and that, paired with yet another day going by with you refusing to open up to him, had pushed him over the edge. The fight had been loud, ugly, and violent and had left his voice hoarse and his knuckles raw from punching drywall. He'd stormed out without a plan, just his keys in hand and the necklace in his pocket.
You're working in the stupid concessions stand again, your face a little sleep ridden, but so so cute. He stares at you like it hurts to look and hurts worse not to.
When you see him storm up to the front, you frown immediately "I told you to stop coming here," you murmur softly, stepping back just a little, but you don't yell or swear at him.
"I know, I know," he rushes out, his voice low and breathless. "But I-I need this. I'm going through some shit right now, alright? I'm not okay. I swear I'll leave right after, I just.. fuck, I just need to hold you right now. Please."
You blink, staring at him from behind the counter with furrowed brows and pursed like you're unsure. Your voice is soft. "Rafe…"
He talks over you before you can turn him away "I'm not trying to pull anything. I'm not here to freak you out. I…" He drags a hand through his hair, pacing outside the snack shack like he's going to have a meltdown. "Please. I really, really need this. God, I miss you and I don't even have you yet."
That makes you pause, your brain scrambling to process the sheer desperation in his words. Your face is warm for a reason you don't comprehend right now. Your eyes flick up to his, and you sigh. "Fine," you whisper, stepping aside to move to the side door and open it. "Just for a bit." He's inside before you finish the sentence.
He practically throws himself on you, arms around your waist, head buried in your neck as he exhales into your skin. You stumble a little because he's so big and heavy, but he wraps his arms around you tighter to keep you steady. Your hands go instinctively to his shoulders, and he relaxes, grounded against you the second he has you in his arms. You're so warm and soft and you smell sweet, causing his body to relax against yours. He can finally breathe.
You tentatively reach up to touch his hair gently, voice unsure. "Did… something happen?"
He just hums, not answering right away, eyes fluttering shut against your collarbone. "You feel so good," he mumbles. "Shit… I don't know what's wrong with me…"
You don't respond. You just let him hold you, fingers threading through his hair, and for a moment, he actually feels calm. He doesn't even care that you're not kissing him or telling him you feel the same. This is enough for now.
He holds you for a long time. Too long, probably, but you don't push him off. Your fingers are still gently threading through his hair, and Rafe presses himself against you tighter like he can fuse the two of you together if he tries hard enough. Feels like he wants to be in your skin. He doesn't say anything for a moment, just soaks in the warmth of your body, the comfort of your scent, the softness of your voice when you ask, "Are you feeling any better?"
He is, really. Much, much better. So much better that he forgot all about Ward and all his other stupid problems, but he needs more. You've got him hooked. "Can I come hang out with you in the stand today?" he asks quietly, nuzzling into your throat. "I'll sit in the back, I swear I won't bother you, I swear."
You hesitate, and he feels it immediately in the way your fingers pause in his hair. You pull back slightly, and he lifts his head to meet your eyes, already expecting the no before you whisper it. "I can't, Rafe. I'll get in trouble. I can't have people hanging around,"
"But I'm not just people," he interrupts, frowning. "I'd be quiet. Just… just let me be near you, please. I can't go back there. Can't go home. Just wanna be with you."
"Rafe…"
"Okay," he says quickly, licking his lips and pulling his hand from his pocket. "Okay, fine. What about the necklace, then?" You blink as he holds out the box again, careful this time, not slamming it on a counter or shoving it in your hands. Just opening it slowly, almost reverently. "Will you wear it? Please?"
There's a pitiful look on his face that makes your resolve falter. His eyes are shiny, lips red and swollen from biting and licking, his face flushed. He's holding you tightly with his free hand. You sigh softly, giving in. "Fine. Just… just for today."
His whole face lights up. "Really? You will?" You nod, reaching for the box, but he stops you gently, one hand brushing yours. "C-can I put it on you?"
You hesitate again, and he's already behind you before you can think of a reason to say no. His fingers tremble a little as he pushes your hair aside, letting the soft strands fall through his hands like silk. You smell like something clean and dreamy, like vanilla and sunlight, and he swears it makes his head spin.
He hooks the necklace around your throat, clasping it carefully, and then just lets his hands rest on your shoulders for a second too long. You're wearing his necklace. Surely that means you're closer to becoming his, right? You're being so nice to him today, he thinks. "You look s'pretty, angel" he murmurs, eyes trained on your skin. "It looks perfect on you."
You turn to face him, not frowning so much anymore. "Thank you… but, seriously. You should go now, my boss does rounds in the morning, and-"
"I know, I know." He nods quickly, eyes dropping to your lips, voice barely above a whisper. "Do you... do you think I could kiss you? Just once?"
You pull back slightly, unsure. "I don't think that's a good idea…"
"Please," he breathes, his hands grabbing onto your arms to make sure you don't run from him. "I swear I won't ask again. Just once. I'm not okay, alright? I need to know what it feels like. Just one. I'm begging you."
You pause. He's looking at you like he's breaking and one kiss could fix something inside him. You furrow your brows, caught between your own better judgment and the way his voice sounds all wrecked and shaky when he speaks, and you know that he won't let this go, so yet again, you give in. "…Just a small one."
He doesn't wait, pressing his mouth to yours with such desperation it makes you reel back slightly. His hands come up to your face, thumbs grazing your cheeks like you're made of glass. He makes sure not to go too fast or try to shove his tongue in your mouth. He wants to savor every last bit of this before you pull away and go back to ignoring him. When his lips move against yours, it's reverent, and his lips seal around yours, making soft smacking sounds. He can't help the breathy groans that leave him. When you finally pull back, he's not all there.
You're warm in the face, wide-eyed, and still close enough that he can feel your breath fan against his lips. "Rafe…" you whisper, gently guiding him back by the shoulders. "You should go." He doesn't say anything, just nods, eyes still glassy and dazed, letting you push the door open and give him a soft little smile, biting your lip to hold it back, as he stumbles outside, like he's in a fog. The door shuts behind him.
He walks to his truck like he's drunk, heart pounding, lips tingling, mind still wrapped around the way your mouth felt on his. He's never felt this before. Not with anyone. He sits in his truck for a long time after that, tasting you on his lips and listening to his heart drum in his ears.
-
Rafe doesn't leave his room for hours after the kiss.
He's lying on his bed, shirt thrown onto the ground and breathing way too hard. The way your mouth felt on his feels like it's been carved into his brain. Burned into it, more like. He can't stop thinking about how it felt to hold you and press his lips to yours all desperate and sloppy no matter how many times he tries to get it together. He can still faintly taste your strawberry lip gloss on his mouth and hear the soft little moans you made when you kissed him back, even if they were quiet. Next time, he'll make you scream.
He turns over in his bed, running his fingers through his hair. He wonders if he's drowning. Nothing feels real right now. You kissed him. He didn't force himself on you or make you do anything you didn't want to. You gave yourself to him, and now he needs more, but you're so difficult. Sweet and soft but just out of reach like you like watching him go crazy.
He sits up too fast, legs bouncing with nervous energy as he grabs his phone and opens your social media so fast it feels like muscle memory. He scrolls through your posts until he finds one he's seen many times before. One where you're at a kegger with friends in a little crop top with shorts where he can see the bottom piece of your bikini underneath.
You look like his wet dreams come to life. He likes this picture because it looks like you were made for him. All sunkissed, wearing his favorite colors, smiling all cute and innocent, fuck…
He tosses his phone to the floor like it burns to hold it and closes his eyes until all he can see is your mouth parting against his, the way your lashes fluttered. The heat of your body under his hands, how easy it would've been to just keep going, to press you up against the wall and devour you like he wanted to. He can't breathe.
He's sliding his hand into his pants before he can think, not bothering to take off his shorts or boxers, just easing his cock out of their confines and groaning at its sensitivity, hunching forward and slowly beginning to pump his hand up and down. He thinks about you in his necklace, bending you over the counter of your dumb little snack store, kissing you again… God, he thinks you're it for him. You're all he wants..
He moans softly, quietly, the sound muffled into his pillow. His hips buck up into his fist, and it's not just lust driving him, it's panic. It feels like you crawled into his veins and rewired every cell of his body. "Shit… can't last…"
He fucks into his hand harder, chasing the feeling with a frustrated groan. It's not enough. It's not enough. He wants your voice in his ear, wants your thighs around his waist, wants your little breathy moans right against his mouth.
His hand moves faster, messier, thumb dragging over the tip just to feel the way his cock twitches, but it's not the same, not even close to how it felt when you touched him. He tightens his grip on his cock a little to try and imagine how it would feel being inside you for real. Wetter, he thinks, and he leans back to spit in his hand, then going back to milking his cock with his hand, forehead pressed into his pillow. His voice is quiet and wrecked, whispered little groans into the pillow as his hips twitch, fucking up into his fist like your pussy's the only thing that could calm him down. "Fuck... fuck... want you s'bad, angel, mngh"
His hand stutters, hips jerking, and he cums with a low, guttural groan that's more desperate than anything, thick, creamy spurts coating his fingers, his chest, his boxers, but the second it's over, the second he catches his breath, the ache only sharpens.
When he checks up on you the next morning like a routine at your place of work, he swears he's gonna puke when he pulls up to the country club and you're not there.
At first, he tells himself maybe you're just late. Maybe you overslept or your car broke down or you're inside and he didn't see you. But after he walks in and asks your manager, only to be told with a shrug that "she's taking a chill day," it's like the floor falls out from under him.
Why didn't you tell him? You gave him no explanation, no warning, no clue about what you're doing or or where you are or who you're with and his brain is going fucking crazy. He drives around for thirty minutes, chewing his nail and shaking his leg and refreshing your socials like a psycho, until finally he pulls up outside your house, parks crooked, throws it in park, and marches up the steps like a man possessed.
He knocks once. Then again, and quickly, he's pounding on the door, then with both fists. His heart is racing. His hands are sweating. And then you open the door and he just sags, a shaky breath leaving his chest. You're in a giant t-shirt with and little shorts, holding a spatula in one hand and blinking up at him like you just woke up. "Rafe?"
He's already crowding the door, peeking behind you like he's trying to find a way to barge in. "Why weren't you at work?" You frown up at him, still surprised at the sheer unexpectedness of his arrival. Why is it that he shows up wherever you go? "I... I just took the day off."
"Took the day off?" he echoes like you just told him you're moving to another continent. "Why?" You blink, stepping back a little because of how close he is. "Just wanted a day to myself. I'm going to a bonfire later and didn't wanna be tired."
"A bonfire," he repeats, stepping over the threshold without waiting for an invite. "With who?" His gaze flicks over to your exposed legs, then your thighs and your lips, plush and a little swollen. "You never take days off. Since when do you go to bonfires?"
You furrow your brows, confused and still kind of sleepy. "Rafe, what's going on? Are you okay?"
"No," he says immediately, eyes flitting over your face, down your neck, lingering on the dip of your collarbone, where the charm of the necklace he bought you is still resting. "No, I'm not. You weren't there. I-I didn't know where you were, cause you never told me."
Your expression softens as you see that he's not doing so good right now. Feels like he needs you. "I'm fine. I was just making pancakes."
"Who else is going?" he asks, voice hard and words coming out fast. "To the bonfire."
You pause. "I dunno. A few people."
"Guys?"
You blink. "Probably?"
His jaw clenches. "What are you wearing?"
You splutter again, this time caught off guard. "To the bonfire?"
"Yeah."
"Ah... not sure yet, I guess"
He stares at you like he doesn't believe you. Like you're lying just to mess with him. "Are you gonna drink?"
You finally realize the absurdity of his comments and scoff lightly. "Why are you acting like my boyfriend?"
Rafe takes a step closer to you, his breath coming out shaky, his jaw tight. His eyes are dark, gaze heavy with something you can't quite place. "Because I will be," he says, low and determined, like it's a promise. You're caught off guard, but you don't let him see that. You cross your arms over your chest, clearly trying to hold on to your composure. "What?"
His eyes never leave you. He looks dead serious; there's not a single flicker of hesitation in his voice. "I'm gonna be your boyfriend," he repeats, firm this time, almost like he's daring you to contradict him.
You stare at him, the weight of it settling over the room like a thick fog, and Rafe takes a step closer, like he's trying to prove something just by you letting him be so close to you.
"You can't just disappear like that, okay?" he says, sounding bossy. "I thought you were gone. Like...gone gone. I had to talk to your boss, cause I don't like when I don't know where you are," he rambles, eyes locked on yours. "I don't like not knowing who you're with, or what you're wearing, or if someone's getting you drunk and trying to take you home."
Alarmed by how he's starting to sound frantic, you think this would be a good time to give him some space and angle the door just enough that he can't get past it. "Rafe, go home." you say quietly, not looking him in the eye as you tuck the spatula behind you and lean into the door like a warning. "You're freaking me out."
Rafe's face twists, first in confusion, like he's still catching up to what you just said, and then in disbelief, then anger.
"How am I freaking you out, huh? You're just overreacting, like always. Trying to treat me like I'm a goddamn basket case."
"I don't like this," you continue, more firmly now, your pulse speeding up. "You show up at my house and start asking all these questions like you own me or something,"
"It's cause I care about you," he snaps, voice rising a little as his eyes burn into yours, his chest lifting with every breath. "You don't get it, do you? You think it's nothing, but it's not. You disappear, you don't text, and now you're telling me you're going out to get wasted with God knows who." His hands are clenching and unclenching rapidly and he keeps raking his hands incessantly through his hair.
"I don't owe you an explanation."
"Yes, you fucking do!"
You flinch, just slightly, and he sees how your fingers curl tighter around the edge of the door, and it makes him panic. He steps forward like he's going to force his way in and you push the door tighter with a hard look, shaking your head.
"I'm not doing this," you say, voice cold now, your tone clipped and unfamiliar. "I'm not gonna let you guilt trip me just because I wanted one night to myself."
"You're not just trying to have a night to yourself," he says bitterly, jaw tight as he takes a shaky breath, eyes wide and manic-like, as though he's about to unravel right in front of you. "You're going out so you can slut yourself out, right? So you can get drunk and let some random guy put his hands all over you, and then you're gonna let him fuck you."
"Excuse me?" you hiss, eyes wide as your entire body goes still.
"You think I don't know?" Rafe seethes, running a hand through his hair, pacing back like he's physically trying to keep from grabbing you. "You think I haven't seen the way you look when you're flirting? You get that sexy little look in your eyes like you're begging to be bent over. Like you want guys' attention. A-and you post shit, you wear tiny hooker shorts and laugh at every guy that breathes near you and then act like I'm the one who's crazy when I don't want to fucking lose you!"
"You are crazy," you snap, voice rising for the first time. "You're out of your fucking mind. You don't get to walk into my house and tell me what I can wear or who I can be around just because we kissed."
"IT WASN'T JUST A KISS!" he roars. "DON'T YOU FUCKING GET IT? YOU'RE EVERYTHING TO ME!"
You flinch back when he screams at you, and your breathing goes shallow, lips parting like you want to say something else, but nothing comes out. "Rafe," you say instead, voice low, scared. "P-please, you need to go."
"No," he whispers immediately, shaking his head like a child. "No, don't shut me out. Don't do this. You don't mean that-"
"Go away, Rafe!" you cry out, and slam the door in his face before you can change your mind. The sound echoes through your house, bouncing off the walls and rattling your chest. You lock it.
On the other side, you hear nothing for a long moment. And then the soft thud of his fist hitting the door once, twice. Not to knock, just because he doesn't know what else to do. Then footsteps. Then silence.
You slide to the floor and stare at the spatula still clutched in your hand, heart thudding against your ribs like it's trying to claw its way out, meanwhile he storms away to his truck, immediately driving at an obscene speed. He cruises down the road with one hand gripping the wheel and the other twitching restlessly on his thigh, his head pounding. The sun's going down and the sky is darkening, and all he can think about is you in some tiny little outfit, smiling at some guy who doesn’t fucking deserve it.
He goes home to pass the time with whatever helps take his mind off you. Lifting weights, doing jobs for his dad, golfing...
By nightfall he's buzzing and out on the road, headed to your stupid bonfire.
He hits the brakes too hard pulling into the dirt road leading to the beach. Gravel kicks up under the tires and his pulse doesn’t slow. He leans back in his seat for a second, staring out at the distant flames and silhouettes gathering around them, and he mutters under his breath.
He's met up with some friends, his pupils are blown wide and there’s a girl clinging to his arm, some mutual friend who laughs too loud at everything he says and keeps taking hits to impress him. He doesn’t even remember her name.
He’s already smoked, he did a line back at the house, and now everything feels loose and hazy except the fire and the blurry shape of you. He spots you instantly. You’re standing near the fire, laughing with someone he doesn’t recognize, hair tucked behind your ear, drink in your hand, face lit up by the flames.
He drops his arm from the girl like she’s heavy and annoying, snatches the joint from someone's hand without acting, and leans back into the circle of guys while his eyes never leave you.
Every time you smile, or tilt your head to listen to someone who isn’t him, it feels like his skin is burning. He’s bouncing his leg. Grinding his teeth. His fingertips twitch like he’s about to do something reckless, like walking up to you and grabbing your wrist and dragging you off to somewhere private.
The heat of his stare pricks at the back of your neck, even as you try to ignore it and keep sipping your drink, laughing with your friend and pretending you don’t feel your skin flush for no reason at all. But it gets worse with every passing minute. Every little sound around you starts to blur and all you can feel is him staring.
When you finally turn your head, you find him sitting with a group of guys by the fire, his legs bouncing.
You tear your gaze away and pretend you didn’t see, but it only takes a little while before you go off to talk to your friend and there's a warm, huge body pressing against your back, hands snaking around your waist. Music thrums in your ears, and you feel him nudging his hips against your ass as the scent of weed and expensive cologne fills your nose.
Rafe's voice comes out as a quiet slur against your ear. "M'sorry, angel" he mumbles, pressing his face into your hair. "Don't... d-don't want you mad at me. Couldn't stay home. You're not a slut, I didn't mean that...I swear I didn’t mean it."
You push his arm off, stepping away and whirling around to face him. "Rafe! Are you serious right now? You show up here with some girl all over you and now you’re grinding on me like nothing happened?"
His face twists up in shock or hurt. You can't tell. "No...no, what? No!" he says, voice cracking. "I'm not playing you, why the fuck would I be? I did not do anything with her, I just...fuck, I needed to see you. You slammed the door in my face and I thought-"
"Thought what?" you snap. "That you could get a rise out of me and show me how replaceable I am?" Your words make his eyes go all glassy, just for a second, then they darken. He looks feral. He's tired of you and your inability to understand him or his feelings. His jaw tightens and his breathing spikes, and all of a sudden, he snatches your wrist.
"Come here."
"Rafe, let go of me!"
He doesn’t listen. He’s pulling you off the beach, down the sand while ignoring your scattered protests, all the way until you’re stumbling up the wooden steps of a closed lifeguard shack just off the edge of the bonfire. You yank at his grip but he’s too strong, too frantic, like if he lets go, you’ll disappear entirely.
He opens the door and drags you inside, then slams it shut and locks it behind him. The noise of the party dulls outside. Inside, it’s just heavy silence and the sound of both your uneven breaths. You shove at his chest, not a fan of being in such an enclosed space with him. "You're being just as insane as you were at my house, Rafe. You're not even sober right now, are you?"
He stares at you like you just stabbed him. "You don’t get it," he mutters, almost to himself. "You don’t fucking get it."
"I do get it!" you bite back. "I get that you're a manipulative and controlling bast-" That’s when he loses it.
"You think I'm playing games with you?" He screams, grabbing you and shoving you up against the back wall. Your body slams back against the solid surface, and he gets up in your face, nose pressed into yours. "You think I'm playing games? You think this is some fucking joke to me? You have no idea what I feel when I look at you. I can't eat, I can't sleep, I can’t fucking think without you taking over every single last FUCKING one of my thoughts. I've never..!” His voice catches, and his breathing picks up so much that he sounds like he's hyperventilating. "I've never needed someone like this."
You gasp out loud, heart doing a little jump at his words. You dont know if you're confused or nervous or flustered, but he's starting to panic all over again, like he didn't mean to say that. Not in the way he did, at least.
Rafe stares at you like he’s just realized what he said. Like the words ripped out of him before he could pull them back. His eyes are huge, chest rising and falling fast.
“You need me?” you say, and your voice comes out soft. Disbelieving.
His lips part, and he nods, just once. "Yeah. Yeah, I do. I need you so fucking much I think it's killing me. And I know I act like an asshole, I know I say shit I don't mean, but when you slammed that door in my face I thought I was gonna lose my goddamn mind." His voice breaks at the edges again, cracking away. "And then I saw you laughing with someone else and I wanted to kill him. I couldn't take it. You're supposed to smile at me. Only me."
You're quiet for a beat, not knowing what to say. You know you should be more angry and hold your ground, but he's looking at you so desperately. Like always. He squeezes your shoulders and looks intently into your eyes. "I didn’t touch her," he says again, voice barely above a whisper. "I...I-I didn't kiss her, didn't want her. She was just...there. I didn't even look at her. I was looking for you."
Your heart pounds and he comes closer to you, needing a response. Your reaction is difficult to read for him, filling him with uncertainty. He knows you probably don't feel the same towards him, and it crushes him. The silence between you stretches long enough to make him nauseous. But then you ask, in a quiet little voice, "Tell me again."
His brows furrow. "What?"
"That you need me."
He steps in again, and this time his hand comes up, shaking slightly, to brush your cheek. "I need you," he says, firmer now. "I w-want and need you so bad it makes me do stupid shit. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry baby, I just... fuck-" He trails off by attaching his lips onto yours to show you how bad he needs you, lips slotting over yours as he moans at your taste. His hands slide up under your shirt like he has to feel your skin, making their way to your bra, which he lifts up over your breasts to squeeze the soft mounds under your shirt.
You whimper softly against his mouth at the suddenness of it, the heat of his palms rough and eager as they mold over you, and that sound makes Rafe groan from somewhere deep in his chest, kissing you harder and messier. He tastes faintly of mint.
"Missed you," he slurs into your mouth, thumbing over your nipples with clumsy desperation, like he's trying to memorize the shape of you through touch alone. His forehead knocks against yours as he breathes you in, the two of you barely able to catch a breath between kisses.
You jolt, moaning and halfheartedly pushing at his chest, but he pinches your nipple as a punishment, needing you against him. "Mnh! Rafe, we shouldn't," you gasp when his mouth moves to your neck, trailing open mouthed kisses over your pulse, and you feel him nodding against you like he agrees, even though he's still doing it.
He kisses a path down your throat, dragging his nose along your skin. His hands stay under your shirt, squeezing and cupping your breasts. You feel him shudder when you don't push him away again, when instead you tilt your head to the side, granting him more access to your neck. He groans low and desperate, hands smoothing down your waist to your hips, pulling you closer until there's not a sliver of space between your bodies.
You feel how hard he is, grinding against you with slow, needy rolls of his hips. His cock strains against his pants, pressing hotly against you through your clothes, and it makes your breath hitch in your throat.
"Fuck," Rafe hisses into your skin, voice wrecked. "Fuck, baby, please..." He presses his forehead against your shoulder, panting, grinding his hips against yours again like he physically can't help himself. "Want you so bad. Been losin' my mind thinking about you, can't stop." His hands grab at your hips, your ass, trying to feel everything he can at once, desperate and frantic.
He pulls back enough to catch your face in both hands, making you look him in the eye. His pupils are blown wide, hair a mess, chest heaving. "Tell me you want it," he says, low and rough. "Tell me you want me, angel. Please." His thumbs stroke your jaw.
You blink up at him, chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. You don't say anything at first, and that moment of silence just makes him even crazier, and he lets out a broken noise, grinding against you harder, hips stuttering like he's about to lose it just from this.
"Say it," he begs again, voice breaking. "Say you want me."
You finally oblige with a little nod, head spinning. "I-I want you, Rafe. I want it..."
The second the words leave your lips, it's like something inside him snaps. "Fuck," Rafe groans, diving back in to kiss you feverishly, his hands already fumbling at the hem of your shirt, yanking it up over your head. He's frantic, crazed, muttering under his breath: "so pretty, so fucking pretty", as he tosses your shirt somewhere behind him. His hands are everywhere, roaming your skin like he's starving, like he’s trying to devour every inch of you.
He makes quick work of your bra, practically ripping it off and letting it fall to the floor. His mouth drops open when he gets a look at you and he immediately ducks his head, mouthing hotly at the tops of your breasts, whining against your plush tits, moaning at the taste.
His hands can't decide where to stay, cupping your breasts, sliding down your sides, gripping your hips, your ass, he's frantic like he's scared you'll disappear if he lets go even for a second. His mouth trails desperate, sloppy kisses down your chest, tongue flicking out to circle one nipple before sucking it into his mouth with a greedy groan, like he needs it to breathe.
Your fingers find his hair without thinking, threading through the soft strands, and he moans into your skin at the contact, bucking his hips into you harder, unable to stop himself.
He ruts against you like he's in heat, hips grinding up into yours in slow, messy rolls as his cock strains painfully against the fabric of his shorts. Every desperate push of his hips presses his hard length right up against your core, and you feel the heat of him even through all the layers between you.
"Fuck," Rafe gasps, drooling on your tits. His hips jerk forward harder, and the friction makes you both groan. He drags his mouth up your chest, laving his tongue over your breasts and sucking hickeys onto your cleavage, all while rutting against you like he's trying to get off just from the contact.
You feel him shudder, breath hot and shaky against your throat, and his hands fumble clumsily at the waistband of your shorts. "Need you," he mumbles. "Need you now."
He doesn't even try to be smooth, just yanks your shorts down your hips in a couple frantic tugs, letting them fall around your ankles, tugging your panties next. You're helping him too, panting and moaning against his face as you tug down his pants and his boxers, freeing his fat, leaking cock, flushed an angry red from built up arousal. You give pause at the sheer size of his cock, resting heavily against his tummy, looking up at him with wide, glassy eyes. "I-it's big, Rafe... " You trail off, nervous.
He shakes his head and pushes you back onto the wall and hovers over you. "It's okay, it's okay... I'll make it fit. Won't hurt my angel." He slides a hand under your thigh, lifting it so you have no choice but to let him grind against your bare pussy, the length of him dragging right along your slick folds.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck," he groans, rutting against you slow and messy. He's trying to savor you but can't stop how badly he wants you, and so his cock ends up slipping and sliding against you, catching between your wet, flowery folds with every other thrust. "Rafe" Your eyes flutter as you call out his name, clinging onto him. It feels so good that you're starting to leak wetness down your thighs. "You feel that?" Rafe pants, forehead pressed to yours, eyes fluttering closed as he rocks against you harder. "Feel how bad I want you? How fucking crazy you make me?"
You nod, breathless, overwhelmed, and Rafe lets out a wrecked little moan, rubbing his cock along your soaked slit again and again, like he's trying to carve the feeling into his memory forever. "Angel..." he moans out, voice loud and unrestrained. You wonder if people can hear you two inside the shack.
He continues holding onto your thigh with one hand and his cock with the other, sliding back and forth against your sopping little pussy. "I'm gonna put it inside you, okay?" He whispers, making direct eye contact with you. "Won't hurt you," he restates, voice low and sincere. You don't see how excited he is deep down to finally have you to himself. He's going to finally fuck you. Then, he's going to make you his girlfriend and never let you out of his sight again. You nod, whining softly and angling your body so he's lined up completely with your pretty pussy.
When the tip notches in your tight hole, you cry out at the intrusion, tears sparking in your wide eyes with the discomfort of having something so big beginning to fill you, so he presses his forehead against yours and coos softly, stroking your hair. "I got you, I got you. Shh... almost halfway," he uses the phrase to coax you, even though he's only got his bulbous head and an inch of his length in you. By the time it's really halfway, you can't take anymore and push on his shoulders. "Rafe! 'm too full, I can't..."
"You can, see? Look at me, look." He cups your cheek, nodding to you and slowly thrusting in and out to get you accommodated, nearly bottoming out entirely. Then, he shoves and stretches you out inch by inch, kissing you deeply to keep you distracted, and he feels you squirming and whining loudly as he gets deeper and deeper, and then he feels the wet squelch of his pelvis against your pussy, and he knows he's filled you up all the way.
You're so goddamn tight, and he lets out a low, drawn out moan. He looks down at where his cock disappears into your stretched out, dripping cunt. He can't believe he actually managed to fit the whole fucking thing inside you. Your little pussy is so goddamn tight, gripping him like a vice now that he's buried to the hilt inside you. Your thighs are trembling, and your back's arched off the wall because of the fullness of him inside you.
Rafe grunts as he slowly starts to thrust, his hips jerking forward to spear his rigid length deeper into your pliant body. Your slick walls flutter around him, trying desperately to accommodate the thick girth stretching you out. The way you feel is incredible, your pussy gripping him like you never want to let him go.
"That's it," he grunts, his voice rough and gravelly with arousal. "Angel, shit... your pussy was made for my cock." He starts thrusting faster, driving into you with more force as he enjoys the way your tits bounce with each snap of his hips. You're barely holding yourself up, legs quivering as he spears into you and angles you so he can hit every sweet spot in your warm, gummy pussy.
The thick length of his cock, pulsing and throbbing, spears into your soaked, gripping walls over and over again. He slams into you and grinds his pelvis against yours, his heavy cock burying to the hilt with each thrust inside your flutter walls. "Feels so good, Rafe," You whines softly, panting into his ear. Your praise fuels him and encourages him to fuck you harder, better. He rolls his hips against yours, stirring his huge length around in your stuffed hole.
Rafe fucks into you deep and you can feel him in your stomach, stretching you out, claiming every inch of your body. He's fucking you like he wants to fucking destroy your pussy and rebuild it to be a perfect mold of his cock. "Mhm? Feels good?" He pants, fucking into your cunt and grabbing your jaw with his free hand so he can see your cute, fucked out expression.
"You feel so good. So fucking good...only for me, right?" He demands, wanting your reassurance, and you nod, throwing your head back and moaning when he bumps against a really sensitive spot way too deep inside you.
He grits his teeth, sweat dripping from his forehead, his whole body working just to keep himself from cumming too fast because you're squeezing the life out of him. "You're fuckin' mine," he rasps against your cheek, thrusts getting sharper, rougher, more desperate.
His cock drives deep, grinding right against that sensitive spot again and again until you’re crying out for him, fingernails digging into his shoulders, your eyes glossy with unshed tears. "Say it," he breathes, grinding his hips up into you so deep you swear you can feel him in your ribs. "Tell me you're mine, angel."
"M'yours," you mewl helplessly, clinging onto him, and Rafe groans louder. He keeps pounding into you with a rough, messy pace, dragging his cock against every sensitive spot inside you. Your pussy clamps down harder around him, spasming, and Rafe lets out a wrecked moan, feeling you start to fall apart around him.
"Shit, gonna cum, angel. Gonna cum inside you so everyone knows who you belong to," he says, thrusts getting sloppier as his balls hit your ass slow and lazy, and he moans, eyes fluttering shut as he spills inside you, heavy, thick cream filling you completely. He doesn't stop until every last drop is buried inside you, and even then, he's still thrusting all rough all slow so you feel every ridge and vein on his heavy cock as he pumps you full. He won't stop till you cum too, and he rolls two fingers over your hardened clit, licking up your throat until he gets to your lips, and slides his tongue over yours.
One last bump of his fat cockhead on your womb has the coil in your tummy snapping, and with a loud moan, you cum all over his cock, splurting pearlescent juices on his cum covered cock. He groans, feeling his cock twitch inside you as you squeeze him impossibly tighter while you cum.
His eyes are glassy as he looks at you, lips parted, and he's still buried deep inside your pussy and holding your jaw, but his voice is gone. During the silence, you notice a flicker in his eyes, the way his pupils dilate as his eyes bore into yours. His mouth keeps opening and closing, making it clear he wants to tell you something.
He wants to say he loves you.
But he doesn't.
He pulls out, making sure your panties and shorts are on as he pulls out, letting his cum slip out of your pussy and rest in your clothes. He grins at the mess between your thighs, wiping off any residue to ensure that it isn't too obvious that you've got his load in you. He kisses your forehead and grins through low eyes, nuzzling your forehead. "Keep it in so you've got a part of me in you all through the rest of this fucking party."
I feel like boxer!rafe would be the kind of guy who would like drag you away from stores after a long day of you draining his wallet. (Smut!! Closer to the end!!)
And no, Rafe’s not an evil boyfriend, he’d buy you the world if he could. He’s just tired from his matches earlier that day, he’d went all out. Obviously, you had your own money, but why spend yours when you could spend his?
Rafe would’ve been patient through the first few stores, then you saw a thrift store (of course he let you in there, he had to), then you saw a designer shoe store, and you looked up at him all sweetly and innocent before dropping the fact that you’ve been wanting Miss Z’s since forever.
He looked up to the sky and exhaled as if he was looking for patience,”Seriously?”
And you nodded aggressively,”Yesyesyes!”
He looked at you, and sighed,”I really can’t say no can I?”
You grabbed his arm,”Nope!”
And he let you walk him there. You went straight to the Louboutin section, then got the shoes in your size—but wait—the Dior section looked good, so you browsed. Rafe ended up choosing one out for you, it was a pair of Adiorable slingback pumps.
You narrowed your eyes,”I thought you didn’t wanna come in here, Ray?”
He looked at you and shrugged,”Didn’t, but you’d just look good in these soo pshhh.”
Then you started tickling him, and he started tickling you back, and then he joked that he’d run out on you then you stopped…then hit his arm as your proof of winning. He just rolled his eyes.
After a quick snack at a cute bakery you said you had to try because well the cinnamon rolls looked good (Rafe was hungry so he went in there with joy), you stumbled across a boutique.
You weren’t really a reseller, you just wanted some stuff to inspire you on your next estate sale or Depop search for your own boutique. Rafe seemed to be distracted, so if you walked in there before he could see…then well he’d come find you and he’d have to pay.
But he saw and paused, and gave you a sideways glance and chuckled,”Seriously?”
You pretended not to hear him, already two steps to the door.
“Uh-uh. I love you, but not on my watch.”
In three long strides he caught up, grabbing you by the waist rom behind gently and picking you up and setting you back on track, well after kissing you silly of course.
You giggled,”Just one more!”
Rafe grabbed your face lightly with both hands and matched your tone of voice,”That’s what you said two stores ago, baby!”
“Walk.”
“Ray…”
“Walk.”
You rolled your eyes,”Fine.”
He stepped in beside you, draping an arm on your shoulder,”There’s always gonna be more shopping. How many things do you have waiting on that wishlist of yours?”
You thought for a second.
“I don’t know, I lost count.”
He nodded,”Perfext. I’ll buy all that. You give me the list and we go buy ‘em. But I gotta save my wallet. I have a chip coming up, and it’s big money.”
“Big money?”
“I could buy you the world and more, Y/n”
You kissed his cheek and whispered in his ear in a sultry tone,” You better win, buster.”
He inhaled sharply,”Don’t talk like that.”
You giggled,”What do you mean?”
“The voice.”
“What voice?”
He sighed,”Forget it.”
He opened the passenger side door, he tapped your ass softly. You turned around and stuck your tongue out. He went round the other side. You guys sat there.
Then you leaned over the console and whispered in his ear,”This voice, Rafe?”
He tossed his head back and ran his hand over his face,”Damn…”
The drive home was quiet, but the air between you still was heavy with tension. Rafe kept glancing over at you, cheeks a little flushed, one hand resting on your thigh like he needed the contact. That sultry whisper in his ear had clearly done its job.
By the time you got inside, he was already soft-eyed and pliant. You pushed him gently back against the closed door and kissed him slow and deep, tasting the faint salt of his post-fight exhaustion. He melted into it immediately, hands settling lightly on your waist instead of gripping hard.
“You’ve been so good to me today,” you murmured against his lips, sliding your hands under his sweatshirt to trace the ridges of his abs. “Carrying all my bags. Letting me drag you around. My big strong boxer… all tired and sweet for me now.”
Rafe let out a shaky breath, head tipping back against the door. “Baby…”
You tugged his sweatshirt off, kissing down his chest as you went. When you nipped lightly at his collarbone he whimpered—actually whimpered—and the sound went straight between your legs.
“Bedroom,” you said softly, taking his hand.
He followed without protest, letting you guide him. Once you had him sitting on the edge of the bed, you straddled his lap, cupping his face in both hands. His eyes were heavy-lidded, lips parted, already breathing harder.
“Can I take care of you tonight?” you asked, brushing your thumb over his cheekbone.
He nodded quickly, cheeks pink. “Yeah… yeah, please.”
You kissed him again, slower this time, grinding gently in his lap while your fingers worked open his jeans. When you freed his cock, it was already leaking at the tip, flushed and heavy against his stomach. Rafe hissed when you wrapped your hand around him, stroking lazily.
“Feels so good,” he mumbled, hips twitching up into your fist. “Don’t tease me too much tonight, I’m already—”
“Shh. I’ve got you.”
You pushed him back until he was lying down, then stripped the rest of his clothes off, followed by your own. Climbing back on top, you rubbed yourself along his length, coating him in your wetness. Rafe’s hands fisted the sheets, eyes fixed on where your bodies were almost joined.
“Please,” he whispered, voice cracking just a little. It was rare to hear him like this—needy, unguarded, completely at your mercy—and it made you ache.
You sank down onto him inch by inch, both of you moaning softly. Once he was fully inside, you stayed still for a moment, just feeling him throb, and leaned forward to kiss him again. Sweet, lingering kisses while you started rolling your hips in slow, deep circles.
Rafe’s head fell back, exposing the long line of his throat. “Fuck… you’re so warm. So tight. I love when you ride me like this.”
You smiled, brushing his hair back from his forehead. “Yeah? You like letting me use you after you’ve been such a good boy all day?”
He nodded frantically, hands sliding up to rest on your hips—not guiding, just holding on. You kept the pace languid and playful, grinding down every time he bottomed out, occasionally leaning down to suck little marks onto his chest and shoulders. Every soft moan and whimper he gave you was gold.
When you sat up again and started bouncing a little faster, his eyes fluttered shut.
“Look at me, baby,” you coaxed.
He did, gaze glassy and adoring. “Gonna cum soon if you keep doing that… feels too good.”
“Not yet,” you teased lightly, slowing down again until he was whining beneath you, hips chasing yours. “Want to play a little longer. You can hold it for me, can’t you?”
Rafe nodded, biting his lip hard. “I can… I will. For you.”
You rewarded him by reaching down to rub your clit while still moving on his cock, letting him watch. His breaths came quicker, chest rising and falling, but he stayed perfectly obedient, letting you set the pace.
Eventually you took pity on him, leaning down to kiss him messily as you rode him harder.
“Cum with me,” you whispered against his mouth.
Rafe’s arms wrapped around your back, holding you close as he finally let go—thick, warm pulses deep inside you while he moaned your name like a prayer. The feeling pushed you over the edge right after him, trembling on top of him as pleasure washed through you in soft, rolling waves.
You stayed like that for a long time afterward, still connected, trading lazy kisses and gentle touches. Rafe’s hands stroked up and down your spine, his voice sleepy and content when he finally spoke.
“Love you spoiling me sometimes too,” he admitted quietly, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Especially after a day like today.”
You smiled, nuzzling into his neck. “Good. Because I’m nowhere near done taking care of my tired boxer tonight.”
Summary :: After your husband gets into yet another saloon brawl being overprotective of you, you’re determined to give him the silent treatment to teach him a lesson. But he knows exactly how his charm and protectiveness affect you.
Pairing :: Cowboy!clark x reader
Cw :: nsfw :: p w/ plot :: overprotective/possessive clark :: smut & aftercare :: make up sex :: mentions of a bar fight :: pet names (honeysuckle, baby, darlin) :: unprotected sex :: praise kink :: v light angst :: rough handling :: est. relationship :: wall/holding :: exhibitionism (barn setting) :: no beta we die like men.
1.5k wc :: masterlist
“Y'know I can't help but be your bodyguard…” Clark’s voice is a low, honeyed drawl as he slips into the dimly lit barn, the heavy wooden door clicking shut behind him. He’s got that lazy tilt to his cowboy hat, looking entirely too smug for someone who just spent the last hour picking a fight with half the town at the saloon just because a man looked your way. He knows exactly what he’s doing to you — knows that his protective streak drives you crazy, even when you’re trying your hardest to freeze him out.
You keep your back turned, stubbornly wiping down the leather of an old saddle like it’s the most important job in the world. Your heart is hammering against your ribs, completely betraying the cold front you’re trying to put up. “Ain’t even gonna look at me, darlin’?” you hear the slow, deliberate thud of his boots getting closer.
You keep your eyes glued to the leather, but you can feel the heat radiating off him. He steps right into your space, his large frame completely blocking out the rest of the barn until he’s looming directly over your shoulder. 'Don't give in' — you think to yourself, biting the inside of your cheek. If you let him off easy, he’ll never learn to keep his temper on a leash.
“I was just lookin’ out for my girl — my wife,” he murmurs, his hot breath fanning against the shell of your ear. When you still don’t answer, he lets out a soft, amused scoff. He reaches around you, his gentle hands dropping onto yours to gently take the leather rag from your grip. You send a sharp glare backward — a look that says ‘you’re in trouble.’
He just grins, a roguish, dimpled thing that makes your knees instantly feel like jelly. “Yeah, I know.”
Clark hooks his fingers under your chin, tilting your face up until you have no choice but to look into those striking eyes of his. Before you can pull away, his other hand settles heavy and possessive on your waist, pulling you flush against his chest. He cradles you close, his thumbs tracing slow circles into your skin through the fabric of your shirt, rocking you ever so slightly to the rhythm of his own heartbeat. “Somebody’s gotta protect you, baby. Even if someone's knuckles are a little bloody for it. You really mad at me for that, huh?”
He doesn’t wait for an answer. He leans down, his lips brushing softly along your jawline, tracing down to the sensitive dip of your neck. A shaky sigh slips past your lips, your hands instinctively gripping the front of his shirt just to keep yourself upright.
“Show me how to make it up to you,” he whispers against your skin, his deep voice vibrating right through you. “You want me to beg, huh? Tell you I’m sorry, baby — get on my knees for you?” Clark slides his hands down, his palms skimming the curve of your hips, his touch growing heavier, more deliberate. His eyes are dark with a sudden, intense heat as he locks his gaze back onto yours.
He sinks lower, his hands sliding down the back of your thighs, lifting you effortlessly until you’re forced to wrap your legs around his waist. He backs you straight up against the sturdy wooden pillar of the barn, pressing his weight into you in a way that makes your thoughts completely scatter. The hard ridge of his length strains against his jeans, grinding slow and deliberate right between your thighs, right where you’re already aching and slick for him.
Clark buries his face in your neck, inhaling the scent of you like a dying man, his lips parting to press a warm, wet kiss right over your pulse point. His teeth graze the spot, just enough to pull a soft whimper from your throat. One big hand slips under your shirt, rough palm sliding up your bare skin until he’s cupping your breast, thumb circling your nipple until it tightens into a needy peak.
“Say it’s all fixed, honeysuckle,” he groans against your skin, rolling his hips forward in a filthy grind that has you clenching around nothing. “Tell me I’m doing a good job keeping you safe… say you’re mine.”
His fingers make quick work of your buttons, shoving your shirt open so he can drag his mouth lower. Hot, open-mouthed kisses trail down your chest until his lips close around your nipple, sucking hard while his tongue flicks in lazy strokes. You arch into him with a broken moan, fingers threading tight into his hair under that damn hat. “Clark…” his name comes out wrecked, half plea, half surrender.
He sets you down just long enough to yank your jeans open and shove them down your hips along with your panties, then he’s lifting you again, pinning you to the pillar with one strong arm while his free hand works his belt open. The thick head of his tip nudges against your slick folds, teasing, rubbing up and down until you’re trembling.
“That’s it, darlin’,” he breathes, voice rough as gravel. “Let me in.”
He pushes inside you in one slow, relentless thrust, stretching you open around him until he’s buried to the hilt. The burn is perfect, overwhelming. Clark groans deep in his chest, forehead pressed to yours, pupils dilated, hips rocking shallow and steady while you adjust to the full, heavy feel of him.
“Fuck, you feel so good,” he rasps, starting to move harder, deeper, each thrust driving you up against the rough wood. The wet sound of skin meeting skin fills the quiet barn, mixing with your gasps and his low, filthy praises. One hand grips your ass, holdng you open for him while the other braces against the pillar, muscles flexing with every powerful stroke.
He fucks you like he fights — intense, possessive, completely focused on claiming what’s his. Every roll of his hips drags against that sweet spot inside you until your thighs shake around his waist and your nails dig into his shoulders.
“That’s my girl,” he growls against your mouth, kissing you deep and messy. “Come on, lil' honeysuckle. Give it to me. Let me feel you fall apart.”
The pleasure coils tight and snaps hard. You cry out, clenching around him as the orgasm crashes through you, waves of heat flooding every nerve. Clark curses softly, thrusts turning erratic and desperate until he buries himself deep one last time, pulsing hot inside you as he comes with a low, broken groan of your name.
For a moment, the only sounds are your ragged breathing and the creak of the barn settling around you. Clark stays buried deep, holding you close, pressing soft, lazy kisses along your shoulder like he can’t bear to let you go just yet. And just like that, the anger is completely gone, leaving you entirely at his mercy.
“I got you, darlin’… I got you,” he breathes against your temple, his voice droppin into a low, gravelly hum as the adrenaline begins to fade from both of you. He slips out of you with a soft, wet sound that makes you shudder, but before your feet can even touch the cold dirt floor, he’s lifting you right back into his arms, keeping your thighs hooked around his waist.
He carries you over to the workbench in the back corner, setting you down gently on the edge where his old flannel shirt is draped. Your legs are still trembling, your breath hitching as the cool air hits your bare skin, but Clark is already moving. He grabs a clean cloth from the shelf, tipping the water canteen over it until it’s damp.
“Look at me, honeysuckle,” he murmurs, kneeling right down between your thighs. When you look down at him, his hat is pushed back, his eyes soft and completely devoid of the heat from earlier. He’s incredibly gentle as he uses the cloth to wipe away the slick mess between your legs, his calloused thumbs trailing over the inside of your thighs to soothe the ache. “Still mad at your husband? Huh? Tell me the truth.”
You shake your head, reaching down to trace the slight bruise forming over his knuckles from the saloon fight. A soft, breathless laugh escapes you. “You’re such an idiot, Clark.”
“Yeah, but I’m your idiot,” he grins, leaning up to press a soft, lingering kiss right to the center of your chest, right over your heart. He helps you pull your panties and jeans back up, tugging your clothes into place with a tenderness that makes your chest ache. Once you’re put back together, he pulls you down off the bench and wraps his massive arms around you from behind, buried into the crook of your neck as you both just sway in the quiet barn. “Next time, I’ll try to be good. Promise. But ain’t nobody allowed to look at you like that. Not while I’m drawin’ breath.”
not because he knows it makes you flustered, but because he genuinely thinks there's nothing prettier than looking at you while you're talking. if you're telling him about your day, rambling about a class, or explaining something you're excited about, he's completely focused on you. his eyes never leave yours, and somehow that only makes you more nervous.
you've always been a little shy.
even now, almost a year into your relationship, you still struggle to hold his gaze for more than a few seconds before you're looking down at your lap with a little smile tugging at your lips.
the first time he noticed, he honestly thought it was adorable. "baby."
you looked up from your coffee with a quiet hum. the second your eyes met his, your cheeks started warming.
he smiled to himself. "ah, there she is."
"what?" you asked quietly, your eyes looking away, then back at him. "just wanted you to look at me” he smiles.
you let out a giggle before looking back down at your cup. "you're so weird."
he leaned his elbows onto the table, resting his chin in his hand as he continued smiling at you. "you're just really pretty."
your face only got warmer. "john.."
"what?" he asked innocently, his eyes big as he looked at you. "i'm being serious, honey."
you shook your head, looking down to hide your little smile, while he laughed softly to himself. after that, it became something he noticed all the time.
whenever the two of you were sitting together, he'd catch himself watching you instead of whatever movie or show was playing in the background. if you looked over and caught him, he'd never look away. he'd just smile that pretty smile that made your stomach flip every single time. "why are you looking at me like that?"
"'cause i love looking at you, duh" he said so casually.
"you're making me feel nervous, john." you barely got out as you became flustered.
"good thing i'm not planning on stopping."
there was one specific evening, the two of you were curled up on his bed after dinner, your head resting against his shoulder while he played with your hand, the tips of fingers running over your freshly done nails. you looked up to tell him something, only to find him already looking down at you.
not saying anything. just..looking. his thumb kept slowly rubbing over the back of your hand while his eyes stayed on yours. he seemed so serious about it too.
"what is it?" you whispered.
he smiled widely. "nothin, baby'."
"then why are you staring at me?"
he shrugged a little, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear. "because i missed you today. like a lot. i literally could not stop thinking about you for even a minute."
you felt your heart melt, this boy literally had you down bad for him, "you saw me this morning."
"yeah," he murmured, still smiling, "and then i had to wait a six whole hours to see you again."
you laughed quietly, shaking your head. "you're literally so dramatic."
he reached up, gently tilting your chin with two fingers when you instinctively looked away again. his finger traced your cheek, he mumbled under his breath quietly, “so fucking pretty.”
your eyes slowly found his once more. you tried so hard to keep looking at him, but after a few seconds you couldn't help smiling and dropping your gaze again.
he laughed under his breath before leaning down to press the softest kiss against your forehead.
"you know," he whispered, "one day you're actually gonna look at me for longer than five seconds."
you smiled into his hoodie. "don't get your hopes up, johnny."
he wrapped both arms around you, pulling you impossibly closer until your cheek was tucked against his chest. "i've got forever to wait, sweetheart."
~ ~ ~
based off this request! i literally love writing john logan fluff sooo much 🥺🥰
Pairing - wc: David!Clark Kent x Gf!Reader - 2.4k
Summary: Clark tells you "it's fine" when you cancel on him again for work. Liar, Liar...
Tags: 18+, mdni, masturbation (m), detailed fantasy sequence (69, f + m receiving oral, p in v), Clark cums thinking about you, pussy pronouns, breeding kink, brief mention of pregnancy (no you are not) Established relationship, use of petnames (baby, hon, sweetheart), just stupid, unedited brainrot
I'll need to start tagging submissions as "finger lickin' good." gif by @ahrigifs
main masterlist | Mrs. Kent Diaries
Maybe he was in a rut.
Clark couldn't be certain, but the timing sure felt cruel. Silly. Damning. Devastating.
Like getting your period the morning of a long-planned seaside romantic getaway.
Three nights in a row, you’d called him honey-sweet and apologetic, exhaustion clearly dragging every syllable.
"It'll be another late night and early morning at work. All week, honestly." A tired yawn crackled through the receiver. "I think I’m going to crash at my place rest of the week, and see you this weekend. I’m so sorry, baby. I miss you, believe me."
Clark vehemently insisted there was nothing to apologize for, never mind the fever prickling beneath his skin, and that his cock jumped at the simple sound of your voice.
"How many times have I called you at ungodly hours for the same reasons? Deadline or disaster? Have you ever held it against me?" Was his counter, and before you replied with a deadpanned, "Actually, Clark, now that you bring it up..." He hurried on before you could finish.
He was A Man. A grown man who could survive five nights without making sweet, sweet passionate love to you.You needed to focus and rest, and he'd wait centuries to have your undivided attention if that was what loving you required. Fortunately, it was only until the weekend.
"I miss you, but most of all, I love you, sweetheart. It's fine!" All of this was said with his free hand locked around his knee, blunt nails pressing hard enough to leave pale crescents in the skin while he tried to force himself into believing it too.
But everyone knew the unspoken rule: anyone who said "it's fine!" that cheerful were liars.
.
The tension finally boiled over the second Clark stepped through his front door the following evening. He carelessly tossed his glasses and phone on his bedside table, pressed a fist to his mouth, and released a sigh heavy enough to empty his lungs.
Was it pathetic to be half-hard and aching just from missing you this badly? Or was that devotion? Yearning? Or, as Steve would undoubtedly tease with that little smirk, "whipped?"
Speaking of – Clark tugged his belt loose in a sharp tug. Dress shirt buttons followed. Zipper. Slacks shoved down his thighs, until he's whipping his cock from the confines of his slacks with a shaky, relieved sigh. The cool apartment air did nothing to help soothe the heat coursing through him.
If anything, fredom made the weight of his need more worse. The heavy pulse, the glossy bead already gathering at the slit, the way his length kicked against his stomach as though reaching for a body that wasn’t there.
He tried the cold shower first. Sensible, right? Stood under the icy spray, willing the rut to settle, willing his body to behave like the grown man he kept insisting he was. He rifled through unsexy thoughts: taxes, Perry's editorial calendar, the tamales Ma and Pa raved about when he last spoke to them.
Ninety seconds later, water was streaming over his closed eyes while every drop slipping down his chest became your fingers. Your palms spreading over his stomach. Your nails scratching lightly through the dark trail beneath his navel. Your warm mouth chasing the water lower, lower, until your knees struck tile and that pretty, wicked smile curved against the base of his cock.
He nearly broke the shower handle off with a frustrated growl, cock still brutally stiff between his legs, skin flushed crimson despite the chill.
In his haze, Clark climbed into the empty bed nude, triggering another cruel wave of reminders. Cold sheets welcomed him instead of your legs. Silence settled where your sleepy chatter should have been. No warm body curled beneath his arm. No soft complaint when he crowded too close. No hand wandering beneath waistbands because neither of you had ever been particularly convincing when pretending you only wanted to cuddle.
He stretched out across the sheets until his face buried into your pillow, inhaling the lingering scent of your shampoo, your shower gel, your favorite perfume dabbed behind your ear, you, you, you.
The scents went straight to his cock, and the urge hit like a meteor. With a pained whimper, Clark rolled onto his stomach and pressed his stiff, leaking member against the expensive sheets you bought when you first started spending the night.
Eight-hundred thread count, you’d told him proudly.
He wondered whether they were supposed to survive a sexually frustrated Kryptonian. Probably not.
.
The grinding began slowly, desperately, and experimental. Pleasure washed over him. Again, harder. Soon, wet smears marked every thrust, the motion creating a delicious friction against his sensitive tip, sharp enough to make his breath hitch.
Soon, slow wasn’t nearly enough to scratch that impossible itch.
His hips moved harder, faster, each desperate thrust leaving another damp streak across the fabric. His fists twisted into the sheets on either side of his head until the tendons rose along his wrists and the linen began to fray between his fingers. His tongue rested wetly against his bottom lip as he panted into your pillow, groaning each time his hips pressed down and the fabric dragged tightly along the underside of his cock.
The sounds spilling from him were embarrassingly primitive.
Low grunts. Broken breaths. A needy whine he would deny even under Kryptonite.
Eventually, they all melted into the only coherent thing he could say: your name.
Your name, muffled, over and over while your Clark humped the mattress in a poor attempt to fuck the fantasy of you out of his system. Bless his heart, it wasn't working.
If anything, it sharpened his hazy imagination into vivid, filthy focus. Your weight settling over him, knees planted wide on either side of his head, as you leaned forward in that sixty-nine position you’d joked about one too many times to make him suspect something.
You'd take his cock in hand with a slow stroke, press a kiss at the tip, stretching and hollowing your mouth around him until your nose brushed the heavy weight of his balls when you forced yourself deeper.
From underneath, he’d have the perfect view.
The generous curve of your plump ass hovered over his face. The delicate slope of your back arched deeper. The soft underside of your thighs framing his face while you lowered your core onto his mouth, already wet enough to leave a shining streak across his lips. His thumbs would dig into the soft flesh to keep you from clamping shut around his head while he buried his face between your legs. He would lick you messy, broad stripes through your puffy folds, sucking your clit until your hips bucked against his smothering mouth, then push his tongue into your dripping hole while the tip of his cock bruised the back of your throat.
You’d happily choke around his cock a little. The tight spasm of your throat wound squeeze the head.
Let your saliva spill down his shaft in warm, messy trails until it gathered along his happy trail, and he’d moan directly into your pussy,
"She's beautiful from this angle."
"She tastes so sweet."
"Shd clenched perfectly around my tongue just now. Please, sweetheart, please have Her do it again?"
Golly, Clark’s hips jerked hard enough to shove the mattress and frame several inches across the floor.
Continuing his fantasy, he would then coo about filling Her up so full, until She was overflowing with his come, until you were marked as his inside and out. At the same time, your mouth worked his cock with wet, sloppy determination, swallowing until your throat refused and pulling back with strings of spit still connecting your lips to the swollen tip.
He’d imagine you pulling off long enough to look over your shoulder, glassy-eyed and breathless, begging in a raspy voice to breed you, baby, put every drop where it belongs with his cum already on your tongue before he’d realize even giving it to you.
That scenario had Clark rutting faster, the bed creaking, squeaking, shifting under his barely-contained strength. His eyes suddenly flared hot with unrestrained heat vision, twin red beams scorching pinpoints through the mattress and most likely the floorboards before squeezing them shut.
Precum soaked a dark, sticky patch into the sheets beneath his cock, and his lower abdomen made every grind slick. A dark lock of hair clung to his forehead. His drool made the pillow damp against his cheek, and still.
Still, he couldn’t stop whining your name, couldn’t stop chasing the phantom sensation of your body molded along on his torso, and your slick coating his chin and dripping down his neck
Take him deeper. Sit down harder. Use his mouth.
Somehow, the fantasy deepened.
He’d pull you from his face and roll you beneath him before you finished. Your legs would be spread around his hips, knees pressed to your breasts while he lined himself up and pushed inside. He could almost feel you wet and hot around him. So, so tight after days apart that the first stroke would make both of you shake.
His mouth would cover yours while he fucked you open, tasting himself on your tongue and you on his lips. Every thrust would drive your body higher against the bed. Every needy sound you made would disappear into his mouth while the headboard struck the wall in a rhythm the neighbors could never mistake for anything else.
Mine. The word slid into the fantasy with frightening ease. My sweetheart. My girl. My perfect, exhausted Love
Spread beneath him and finally too ruined to think about anything else. Clark pictured his hand closing around your jaw, thumb slipping between your lips as he told you exactly what he intended to do.
Fill you, and keep filling you. Have my fingers gather my spend from your thighs and push it back deep before it tried to leak out again.
No matter how many times he admired the image of white from your swollen pussy, he groaned so loudly the windows trembled.
Gosh, how he wanted to breed you properly. To pin your hips down and fill you before the first load had stopped leaking.
Wanted your thighs sticky, your belly wet, the sheets beneath you soaked with both of you.
Wanted your voice exhausted because of him instead of work.
Until it stuck...or didn't.
The thought should have slowed him. Instead, it made his balls draw tight.
Did he want to watch your body change because of him? Did you? Or was this simply the rut talking? Some ugly, instinctive Kryptonian corner of him desperate to erase five lonely nights by marking you so thoroughly that even distance couldn’t make him doubt where he belonged—
With a mix of relief and disappointment, Clark came hard with a harsh cry of your name, hips jerking in short, punishing bursts as thick ropes of his spend spilled out onto the warm linen. More followed with each weakening thrust, hot come smearing along his cock and stomach as he continued to grind through the oversensitive aftershocks.
The orgasm left him shaking, heaving, and glazed in a cold sweat, drool still slick on his lips. His lips started to tingle from the real possibility of having you exactly like this on the weekend, letting him ruin you the same way he ruined these damn nice sheets, just more.
His spent cock give a weak, hopeful twitch.
.
The phone rang and Clark startled violently, eyes flying open as your name and that soft, smiling contact photo he’d taken one sleepy Sunday morning lit up the screen.
"Ahh, shoot!"
He fumbled for it, one frantic reach nearly sending the phone skidding off the table. He caught it on the second attempt and pressed it to his ear, swallowing against a throat gone dry, and breathing remained uneven.
Your suspicion came through the line immediately after his greeting."You sound funny. Everything okay?"
"Yeah—no, I’m fine." His voice cracked around the age-old lie. Clark cleared his throat, forcing something painfully casual into it. "Everything’s fine. Just… Superman duties, you know how it is. Tell me about your day."
You hummed, unconvinced, but too exhausted to press him. Instead, you continued talking, your voice low and worn-soft through the receiver, each affectionate little pause slipping beneath his skin. You told him about work, about a coworker who had nearly driven you insane, about the lunch you had forgotten to eat until far too late.
Clark listened, asked the right questions, and made the appropriate sympathetic noises between pauses. Guilt tightened his chest when you asked about his day, speaking to him in that drowsy voice you usually reserved for the minutes before falling asleep against his chest.
Unfortunately, another part of him remained painfully aware that you were lying in bed somewhere else. Perhaps wearing one of his old shirts you now claimed as yours. Perhaps curled on your side with bare thighs brushing together beneath the hem, touching the place where his body usually pressed against yours and missing him badly enough to ache too.
Clark knew better than to let his thoughts wander again, but then you called him baby once more.
His cock twitched against the cooling, sticky mess, then again. The spent length began to stiffen beneath his stomach, dragging slowly through his own come as blood rushed back into it.
Clark squeezed his eyes shut.
Your tired voice kept flowing through the phone, sweet and trusting, while he buried his face deeper into your pillow and inhaled what remained of your scent.
His hips shifted restlessly, chasing relief he had barely finished giving himself. Shame should have stopped him.
Instead, the idea that you were talking so innocently while he lay covered in his own release, getting hard again because you had called him baby of all things, made fresh need tighten low in his stomach.
Every filthy thought returned twice as vivid.
Your mouth. Your pussy. Your hoarse little plea to fill you.
How silly of him to think one damning orgasm would be enough.
