Pairing David!Clark Kent x Wife!Reader
Summary It started with one strawberry. One chocolate. One kiss. While Clark was called away for Superman duties, you indulged. Now, you’re in the bath aching, breathless, and burning waiting for his return. (Home + Chocolates/Strawberries)
Tags 18+, MDNIN Smut p in v (unprotected), Accidental Aphrodisiac, Bathtub Sex, Underwater Oral (f receiving, Clark my celestial munch), Praise Kink, Size kink, Dirty Talk, Reader acting stupid horny as hell
WC 4.5k
thank you @maiamore for the gif!
Galentine's # 5 by @/wildflowersandvibranium & @/pinksplace| Mrs. Kent Diaries
The bath started as a distraction.
Something mindless. Something warm. A way to pull yourself out of your body, out of your head, and away from the pulsing ache that had been growing between your navel since dinner. But now, the water was too high and not hot enough and still somehow everything felt too much.
Clark’s name echoed in your head. Unprompted, but so loud and clear, and your whole body clenched.
What the hell did Kara give you?
Your back stuck faintly to the cool porcelain. Your skin prickled despite the cooler temperature, flushed and oversensitive. Your nipples were stiff, darker than usual, puckered tight. And your thighs, God, your thighs hadn’t stopped pressing together, knees drawn up, trying to trap some kind of friction between them, even if it hurt. Even if it made it worse.
The candles didn’t help. Neither did the low, elegant hum of the classical station drifting in from the living room. Everything felt like it was vibrating.
You reached blindly for another strawberry. Ripe. Cold. It burst between your teeth, and juice dribbled to your chin. You sucked it off with a small, breathless sound, heart hammering, eyes fluttering closed as heat pooled lower.
You hadn’t touched yourself. Hadn’t fantasized or flipped through old photos on your phone or even let your hand wander below the waterline. All you’d done was rest one palm over your stomach, slide it down slowly, tentatively, and whisper his name into the crook of your elbow, cheeks burning imagining his face, his hands, his abs. Sweet, steady, devastating handsome Clark. Your Clark.
And that was enough to light you up.
Okay, so you weren't just horny. Not just restless.
You were needy. Desperate. Aching and wet and floating on the edge of something that didn’t make any sense.
A quiet whimper left your lips, breath catching in your throat. The sound echoed louder than it should have in the tile-lined space. Curling forward, you rested your cheek against the rim of the tub, arms folded, your index finger drawing absent circles over the condensation on the tile. Your other hand trailed down to a piece of chocolate resting on a folded napkin beside the tub. The square was soft now, warm from the heat of the bath. You pressed it to your lips
Again, what the hell did Kara give you?!
Let's review: Dinner had been… normal. Sweet. Ordinary, if not for the way it had ended. The two of you tucked into takeout containers on the couch, hips brushing, laughing at the story Clark told about Jimmy leaving a single red rose on the new intern’s desk. It was 'anonymous', but obviously him.
Kara’s gift had been sitting in the fridge all week.
She’d stopped by the weekend before, dropped the box on your kitchen island with a shit-eating grin:
"Got these for you guys," she beamed. "Very rare. Total mood boosters. Or so I’ve heard!"
You hadn’t thought anything of it. The packaging was heart-shaped, the box glossy and red with little floral foil detailing. Just festive enough to be cute, just foreign enough to be intriguing. You figured they’d be perfect for dessert.
So you’d peeled the lid off, popped one of the rich chocolates into your mouth, followed it with one of the bright red strawberries.
And moaned. Loud. Instinctive.
"Dear God, this is almost better than sex," you’d declared, half-laughing, eyes fluttering closed, licking juice from your fingers with puckered lips. You tilted the box toward the light to read it.
It read: "Eltaea chocolates and Solari strawberries — Assortment!" A heart-shaped sticker was slapped on the center, and just below in Kara’s blocky handwriting: "Happy Valentine’s Day! Enjoy, bitches!"
Clark quirked a brow, arms crossed over his chest in mock protest, smile twitching at the corner of his mouth.
"Here—" you grinned, already crawling into his lap, "—you need to try."
You’d fed him the same pair—one chocolate, one berry—your fingers still sticky, your grin too wide. He’d caught your wrist when you pulled back, kissed your fingertips slowly, then kissed you, just as slow. The taste of him mixing with the sugar still hadn’t left your tongue, even after he was called away.
A collapsed bridge. Gas leak. People trapped in traffic under debris. An emergency.
He’d kissed your temple, forehead, and mouth again, tapping your ass as he motioned for you to shift off his lap. He whispered, "I’ll be right back, sweetheart. I promise."
That had been… what? Thirty minutes ago?
You blinked up at the ceiling, dazed.
Your thighs squeezed together again, and this time the pressure made your back arch. You felt slick even under the water, hypersensitive everywhere, your skin flushed and buzzing. You weren’t imagining this. This wasn’t nerves. Wasn’t routine desire.
Clark wasn’t even here. You rubbed your burning cheek against the cool tub’s edge and moaned loudly from frustration and ache, thighs twitching, nipples brushing against the cool porcelain.
You needed Clark.
.
The balcony door slid open with a dull, echoing thud ten minutes later.
"Sweetheart?"
A familiar voice carried down the hall. Fractured, pitched too high, like they had been running purely on adrenaline. "Where are you?"
Your throat was bone dry when you answered, voice coming out harsher than you meant it to, breathless and needy even to your own ears.
"In here," you called. "In the bath."
There was a pause. Then his quick footsteps thundered toward you.
He appeared in the doorway a heartbeat later and the sight of him stole the air from your lungs.
Soot streaked his jaw and collarbone. His suit was already peeled down to his waist, the top half hanging loose like he’d barely bothered with it, cape dragging behind him in a dark red spill. His curls were wild, pushed back from his forehead by frantic hands, damp with sweat. His chest rose and fell like he’d just flown through hell and back and hadn’t bothered to slow down once he’d crossed the city line.
And the second he saw you bare, lips caught between your teeth, knees drawn, and an expectant, longing look etched on your face.
"Oh," he breathed, bracing one hand on the doorframe. His jaw dropped just a hair, but his pupils were blown so wide there was almost no blue left. "Oh, baby. There you are. Nothing feels as good as coming home to you."
His voice cracked on the last word.
Crossing the room in two steps, he dropped to his knees beside the tub. His large, warm hands slid into your hair, thumbs pressing gently at your sweat-damp temples, fingers massaging behind your ears the way he always did when he was grounding you.
You leaned into him without thinking, forehead tipping toward his touch, breath shuddering.
"Your heartbeat," he whispered, voice husky. "I heard it. Out there. I felt it the whole time. It kept getting faster and I—" He swallowed hard, gaze flicking helplessly over your face, your throat, your chest, the way your breasts strained with every shallow breath. "Gosh, you’re burning up."
"Yeah," you murmured. "I feel… weird. Hot. And empty. Like something’s missing and it hurts." Your fingers curled weakly around his wrist. "Clark, do you feel weird? Because I think—"
You swallowed hard as another wave of pleasure rolled between your legs.
"B-because I think there was something in those treats Kara gave us."
Lifting a hand, you pointed clumsily at the open box perched on the side of the tub, unmistakably lighter than it had been earlier.
Clark’s eyes followed the motion. His brow creased.
"How many did you eat?" he asked, frowning.
You blinked, trying to think past the fog. "I—I don’t know. The strawberries would’ve gone bad. And those chocolates are… Clark, they’re the richest damn chocolates ever." A breathy, almost-hysterical laugh slipped out. "I think I’m losing it. Oh, fuck."
He stared at you for a long moment, your pulse pounding loud and erratic in his ears, your sweet, warm, unmistakably you scent, just… amplified. Sharpened.
Then quietly: "I feel like I’m losing my mind, too."
He cupped your cheek, palm broad and steady, thumb brushing just beneath your eye. He leaned in close, nuzzling the side of your face like he couldn’t stand even the inch of space between you.
"You smell like sugar and skin and—" His breath hitched. "Hon, you smell so, so sweet. I could just eat you up."
"Well why don't you eat me out first? See how really sweet I am. My pussy misses you."
Before he could answer, shocked by your brazen vocabulary, your mouth was on his.
The kiss was desperate. Messy. All tongue and teeth and need, like you were trying to breathe him in. His lips dragged away from yours, trailing down your jaw, your cheek, your mouth again and again, chasing the taste of you like it might feed his ache, too.
You whined into the kiss, wet hands scrambling for him, gripping the remains of his suit at his hips, and pawing his growing arousal. You could see him, feel him, hard already, thick and heavy and right in front of you, and proximity made your whole body clench tighter.
"T-take your suit off!" you begged, patience running thin.
Brows furrowed, Clark's worry flashed through the haze. "You sure? If you’re not feeling well, we should—"
"No," you panted sharply, shaking your head, already rocking forward without realizing it. "No, I’m sure. I need you. My pussy needs you. Please, Clark."
Your eyes dropped to his chest, so broad, solid, and familiar, and still somehow devastating every time you saw it. To his large, farm-and-battle hardened hands. To the size of his beautiful cock, even still hidden, even restrained.
"I need you to touch me. Need you to kiss it better." Your pleaded softly. Filthy. Unfiltered. "Fuck me all better, Clark."
For half a second, he stilled.
Not because he didn’t want to. Because he wanted to too much.
His hands tightened at the lip of the tub, his gaze sharpened, listening, measuring, feeling the way your pulse fluttered too fast to his touch. The way your scent clung heavier in the steam. The way your body kept tipping toward him like he was a black hole.
"You’re definitely more affected," he murmured, low and strained.
You nodded helplessly, breath catching.
"Yes, yes, I ate more," you admitted. "I couldn’t stop thinking about you. About how good your tongue feels. How big you feel inside me, especially when you've made me cum and you still fuck me. About how empty I was without you. It kept getting worse."
His eyes flashed dark and devoted and tender all at once.
"Okay," he said quietly, decision settling into his bones. "Then I’m not going anywhere. I’m not leaving you alone in this."
His thumb brushed over your lower lip, tender. Possessive.
"But if I get in that tub," he warned, voice rough. "I’m going to take care of you first. All the way. I need you to tell me if it’s too much, yeah?"
Your thighs trembled as you nodded, whispering, "It won’t be. It's all I want right now."
Clark exhaled, slow and shaking, started peeling off the rest of his suit.
You watched his hands first. Big, steady, trembling slightly as he dragged the rest of the suit down his hips, his thighs. The cape fell behind him in a heap of crimson, forgotten. Every motion exposed more of him. Each shift of muscle made your mouth water. His abs flexed and rolled as he knelt, skin streaked with soot and heat, chest still rising like he’d been crossing galaxies to get to you.
Then his cock. Hard already. Thick. Leaking. Dark at the tip and heavy with want.
You whimpered, couldn’t help it, couldn’t hide it. Licked your lips before you even realized. Your thighs rubbed together beneath the water, desperate for friction, slick with want, and suddenly so loney and empty.
His eyes locked on yours, ravenous.
"Gosh, hon," he rasped, dropping back to his knees, stroking his shaft in front of you. "You want this?"
Unable to look away, you nodded frantically. Your mouth parted on instinct, rolling a little onto your knees ready to beg.
"I want you everywhere. I want your mouth—want to ride your tongue, baby—make me cry on your cock, please—"
Cutting off another string of obscene words, he kissed you slow, open-mouthed, heat and tongue and something desperate all over again. Then he pulled back, hands smoothing down your arms, over your hips, into the water.
"I’ve got you," he murmured. "I’ve got you, sweetheart. I'm here. Just let me…"
Clark climbed in. The water shifted around him, flowing up the sides of the tub, rushing over your hips as his weight displaced everything else. Too much man for the narrow porcelain space. Too much of your Clark.
His knees pressed to the porcelain. His chest hovered over yours. And still, he sank lower, fitting between your thighs.
His hands found the back of your knees and liften them up gently, water cascading down his forearms. He peered up at you beneath his lidded gaze, licking his lips.
"My poor girl," he whispered. "You’ve been like this—so needy—for how long? Remind me?"
You almost sobbed.
"A while," you whined, throwing a forarm across your eyes. "Since you left. I’m sorry, Clark—I couldn’t stop I—I tried, but—"
"Shh, honey." He soothed. "It's okay. I'm here now."
You let your head fall back against the tile. Exposed. Thighs wide, trembling. Your fingers wove into his curls without thinking, tugging him closer.
And Clark, sweet, steady, starving Clark, moved his grip from your knees to curve the shape of your ass, lifting you up, mouth hovering over your pubic bone just above the surface of the bathwater.
He sank.
The water shifted again, and then it was silent.
Soundless, thick pressure wrapped around you as his head disappeared beneath the surface. The air left your lungs in a rush. All you could hear was the frantic thud of your own heartbeat, the faint ripple of water against porcelain.
His tongue met your clit.
You gasped, loud, broken, shocked. The sound rang out against the tile, echoed once, twice, then faded into something small and sharp as your hips jolted clean out of the water.
Clark groaned, bubbles rising between your thighs, and held you down.
You clutched at his hair, fingers tangling tight, your body floating, weightless and trembling, as his mouth dragged through your folds again repeatedly.
There was no mercy. No pause.
Just your Clark anchoring you down with strong hands, his broad shoulders forcing your thighs open, his mouth sucking you clit like he’d been starved for this. He licked slow and deep, savoring, then flatter, broader, faster until his nose was nudging your clit and your mouth was falling open with a scream you couldn’t stop.
The sound of your own voice ricocheted off the walls.
"Oohhh fuuuck, right there! It—Ah! Feels—so good!"
He couldn’t answer. Could only hum, moan enough to vibrate through your cunt, lick deeper, faster all beneath the water.
"Clark—fuuuck—baby, please—"
It obscene in how good it felt. Every muscle in your body jerked. The bath splashed over the edge, water trailing down your spine as you thrashed, hips bucking against his face.
You came so hard you nearly sobbed, heat tearing through your stomach and bursting between your legs as your thighs squeezed around his head.
Mouth sealed to your cunt like you were the only thing he’d ever needed to eat again, he kept going. His fingers squeezed your ass, held you while his tongue kept working you through your high.
The next orgasm hit before the first had fully ebbed.
You cried, shaking, floating in the water, your grip in his hair and the tub tight and frantic, head tipped back against the tile as your body seized and sang. It was too much and not enough. You wanted more. You needed him deeper. Harder. Inside.
Finally, he resurfaced.
His face glistened. His lips were swollen and wet. His curls were plastered to his forehead, and his breath was ragged as if resurfacing the Mariana Trench, and his pupils were blown so wide his eyes looked black.
"You taste like heaven," he rasped, water dripping from his nose, his chin, splashing onto your chest. "So soft, so darn sweet. Like the perfect, juicy strawberry."
You were still heaving. Still floating. Your thighs trembled as you barely nodded.
Surging up, he kissed you deep, open-mouthed, tongue dragging against yours until you moaned and rutted against him, clinging to his shoulders like you were about to fall through the tub and through all the apartments below.
"I have to be inside you, sweet girl," he groaned, forehead pressed to yours. "I need to be. I’ll lose my damn mind if I’m not—please, sweetheart—let me have you. Make love to you."
"Y-yeah, make love," you whimpered, pawing at his chest, nodding frantically. "Please, Clark, just—I can't wait any more—"
He cut you off by kissing you hard again, restraint barely there, teeth grazing your lip, tongue pressing deep. Then he leaned back, breath shaking, shifting until his spine met the other end of the tub.
His cock stood hard and heavy between his thighs, the fat head dark and swollen beneath the rippling water, twitching like it already knew what was about to happen.
Your breath hitched.
God, he was big.
You always praised him, worshiped this delightful perk being his wife, but like this, bare and waiting, framed by white porcelain and aromatic candies and steam, it felt insane. Like your body had never felt this hungry wanting all of him before.
He lifted his arms, beckoned you, an invitation.
You crawled into his lap, knees sliding into the water on either side of his waist, skin brushing skin, heat everywhere. Your hands found his shoulders, solid and familiar, your mouth slack with want as you reached between your bodies, guiding him home.
When you sank down on him in one motion, the stretch punched the breath right out of you.
A broken sound tore from your throat as he filled you thick and unyielding and perfect. Your walls clenched around him like your body couldn’t believe he was finally there, like it was terrified he might disappear if you didn’t hold tight enough.
Clark’s head hit the back of the tub with a sharp thud, his hands flying to your hips, fingers digging in hard enough to leave marks.
"O-oh, sweetheart—"
Your moan echoed off the tile, loud and unashamed, your whole body trembling with relief as you sank fully down, hips flush to his thighs.
"Yeah," you panted, dazed. "Yeah, baby—feel—feel good?"
You were soaked, frantic, tight around him, clenching like your body couldn’t bear to be empty another second.
You felt impossibly full. Stretched. Aching in the best way. The drag of him inside you made your spine arch, your nails scrape helplessly across his chest. He filled every inch, pressed deep enough to make your vision blur, like he was holding you open from the inside.
He was saying something. Trying to murmur soft reassurances, gentle pet names, something about taking it slow? But the aphrodisiac heat was roaring now, flooding your veins, making you reckless.
"No, fuck slow," you gasped, riding him hard. "I need you. Fuck, I love—absolutely fucking love your cock—"
Clark groaned, deep. "Honey—baby—slow down—"
"I can’t!" You moaned again, loud, breathless. "I feel like I’m gonna die if you’re not fucking me—harder—"
You slammed down again, the water rippling up your spine as you bounced on him, the edge of the tub creaking beneath you.
You sobbed.
He touched them again, cupping you, and you rode him harder, whimpering, "That’s it, baby. That’s so good, god—touch me there again—yes—yes—"
His hands trembled as he obeyed, rolling your nipples between his thumbs and forefingers, watching your face break open in pleasure as your pussy clenched down around him.
"You’re incredible," you babbled, barely coherent now. "So deep—so full—I love how you feel inside me—fuck, Clark—you were made to fuck me—ohh, I wanna make love to you—"
His mouth fell open, breath coming in ragged pulls as he let you take him faster, wetter, louder. His hips bucked helplessly beneath you, cock throbbing inside your tight heat, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as his whole body shook.
Your head lolled to your side, lids heavy and unfocused when you saw it. The box of strawberries and chocolates still perched on the edge of the tub. Something sharp and greedy sparked behind your eyes.
You reached for it with shaking hands, water sloshing dangerously as you leaned forward, the movement grinding you down on his cock in a slow, filthy roll.
Clark tried to say your name, tried to ask what you were doing, but you were already plucking another piece of chocolate and popping it into your mouth.
You moaned, loudly.
"Oh fuck," you breathed, eyes rolling to the back of your head. You leaned down and kissed him, chocolate dissolving between your mouths, your tongue sliding against his as you ground down again in one slow filthy circle.
"It tastes even better like this," you whispered. "Like sex and candy."
Clark whimpered—actually whimpered.
You picked up a strawberry next and fed it to him, your voice gone syrupy and twice as needy.
"Eat f’me, baby. You’ve been so good. Such a damn good husband, letting me use you like this—filling me up with your cock—working so hard—taking good fucking care of me—"
He bit into it helplessly, juice ran down his chin, glistening pink against the stubble of his jaw. Your tongue lapped it up, following to suck on his bottom lip.
"Fuuuuck—Claaaark—"
You barely remembered grabbing a piece of soft chocolate. You only knew it was melting between your fingers, sticky and hot from your skin. You were high on the way he filled you, on the way his cock curved inside you like it had been molded for your body, and without thinking, rubbed the piece across your breasts.
Chocolate smeared across your skin, across the curves and peaks of your pebbled nipples.
"God," he groaned, dragging his mouth across one chocolate-streaked breast, licking a path through the mess with obscene hunger. "You taste—hon, you taste incredible."
He closed his mouth over your nipple and sucked hard.
Your entire body snapped, spine arching, hands gripping his shoulders as your hips kept rolling, frantic and needy and utterly soaked.
"Yes—ooohh yes— Right there, right there!"
He groaned around your tit, licking and sucking until your nipple was red and aching, until the chocolate was gone and all that remained was spit and love bites.
Greed overpowered him, and he moved to the other breast with the same passion.
"Can’t—can’t stop," he panted, dragging his tongue across your skin, open-mouthed kisses pressed between your breasts. "You’re driving me insane—"
His hips bucked violently, cock slamming deep throughout, and you sobbed, dizzy with sensation and still craving more.
"I’m gonna —come again," you panted. "Gonna come on your big, beautiful, cock, baby, and you’re gonna give it to me, right? Gonna fill me up like I need, Clark—fill me—right, baby?"
"Yeah, I'll f–fill you up," he choked. "Sweetheart—if you keep saying things like that I won't last— you'll leak for days—"
"I want it," you begged, trembling all over. "Want you to fuck me full and keep it there—god, I want it so bad, want everyone to know—fuck a baby into me, Clark—I love you, Iloveyou, love you!"
Your nails raked down his chest, your rhythm faltering as you started to come again. Your whole body locked up, heat exploding through your stomach, your mouth falling open to chant his name that echoed through the whole damn apartment.
Clark was almost gone.
He surged up into you, loud, broken grunts spilling from his mouth as he chased his own release, and one–two–three—he pulsed deep inside, cum thick and hot, flooding you full and still not enough.
Your hips kept grinding through the aftershocks, both of you too far gone to stop, both of you moaning, panting, clinging.
He stayed buried inside, arms locked around your waist, mouth pressed to your shoulder, chanting sweet nothings and I love you's.
.
The bathwater had gone lukewarm without either of you noticing.
Chocolate smeared softly along the rim of the tub, half-melted and forgotten. One of the candles guttered low, wax spilling down its side, the flame trembling like it was tired of watching. The air was thick with steam and sweat and the lingering sweetness of strawberries crushed between fingers and mouths.
Clark’s arms cradled you close, one hand firm at your lower back, the other cupping your hip, keeping you settled. You were pruning, and you didn’t care. You didn’t want to move. You wanted to stay right here, boneless and full and buzzing, his body still anchoring you to the world.
You were still full of him.
Still warm and stretched and sensitive.
Still trembling in those aftershocks that never quite faded all the way out.
Your fingers traced lazy, distracted patterns over his chest, following the rise and fall of his breath, the faint scrape of stubble at his jaw when he dipped to press a kiss into your hair. The burn lingered in your blood like an ember that refused to cool.
Not satisfied. Just… softened enough to breathe and think again.
He shifted slightly, careful, one thigh braced, making sure you didn’t slip. He pressed a kiss to your temple, then your hairline. "You okay?"
You nodded, dazed and blissed out, cheek tucked into the crook of his neck. Your body gave a small, involuntary squeeze around him, and you felt him suck in a breath.
"Never better," you murmured. And it was mostly true. Because some part of you that still wanted more. Still throbbed and buzzed and reached.
Clark glanced toward the counter. The box sat there, damp at the edges, its lid askew. He reached for it absently, brows knitting as he tugged at the heart-shaped sticker plastered across the center.
It peeled away with a soft rip.
He squinted. Read. Once. Twice. One more time.
Then out loud, incredulous, voice climbing with each word:
"Eltaea chocolates and Solari strawberries…" He paused. Blinked. "Aphrodisiac Assortment?!"
Your head snapped up.
"Oh—oh no." You groaned and buried your face against his collarbone, mortification flooding hot through your chest. "There’s—there’s more—" You lifted your head just long enough to recite it with him. "‘Happy Valentine’s Day! Enjoy, bitches!’"
There was a beat of silence.
Then laughter. Wild, breathless, uncontained.
Clark laughed first, a disbelieving bark that shook his chest. You followed, shaking and helpless, pressing your face into his neck again as the absurdity of it all hit at once.
Kara. Of course, it was Kara. Your interstellar menace.
"Kara, what the fuck?" you wheezed, dragging your hands down your face, cheeks burning for a whole new reason. "We should—uh—probably not finish the rest, right?" You squinted up at him. "Take another bath. A proper one."
Still staring at your mouth, still swollen, still glossy; at your breasts, heavy, flushed, nipples dark and sensitive; at your thighs, splayed and distorted beneath the water, still trembling, still open around him, Clark's eyes narrowed, head tilted.
Then his gaze lifted back to your eyes.
"Nope," he said simply, a little pop on the 'p'. "We’re definitely finishing the rest."
You laughed, half-dazed, half-thrilled, and then yelped as he scooped you up without warning, water streaming off both of you. He held you with one arm under your ass, the other firm between your shoulder blades, his body still deep inside you, careful not to pull away.
"Clark—" you giggled, clinging to his shoulders, legs tightening around his waist.
"I’ve got you," he murmured, already kissing you, already moving. "And I’m taking you to bed."
He stepped out of the tub, slow and deliberate, keeping you tipped just enough so nothing spilled where it shouldn’t. You squirmed against him, still too sensitive, still buzzing, still aching in that delicious, half-satisfied way.
As he walked out, you reached back with arms outstretched towards the damp box of sweets still at the lid of the tub with a pout.
"Oh Gosh," He chuckled, shaking his head. He turned back and crouched until your fingers snatched the box with a triumphant little "Ah-ha!".
"You’re ridiculous."
You grinned at him, delirious and shameless, securely tucking the treats flushed to your chest. "You’re the ridiculous one for letting these go to waste!"
He carried you toward the bedroom, still inside you, still holding you close.
"Hon, you're absolutely right. We’re not wasting a thing," he said, chuckling.
You tugged him into a deep kiss and sighed, already burning again.
.
Thank you for reading! Any reblogs, comments, likes are forever appreciated, and keeps me motivated!
Sometimes the house became almost painfully quiet when Simon was away. Not the good kind of quiet, the kind that settled softly over the room and let you breathe for a while. This was different. A strange, persistent silence that felt like something was missing from the walls themselves, like the whole place had forgotten how to sound like home.
You did your best to fill it.
Books, music, little cleaning spurts that turned into reorganizing entire shelves, and, most often lately, cooking. Cooking helped. It gave your hands something to do and your mind something to focus on. It was soothing, for the most part, until you made something you knew Simon would have loved, and there was no one there to tease, taste, or steal the first bite.
Still, tonight’s recipe had gone well. The kitchen smelled warm and rich, all garlic and herbs and something sweet lingering underneath. You stood there with a plate in one hand, ready to finally serve, when you heard it.
A shuffle. Then a low groan from the front door.
Your whole body went rigid.
Simon was not supposed to be back for another week. You were alone. No guests, no deliveries, no reason for anyone to be at the door at all.
Someone was breaking in. Shit.
You went cold all at once, every lecture Simon had ever given you on self defense flashing through your mind, but panic left no room for careful thinking. You grabbed the plate tighter, your knuckles whitening around it, and moved before your brain could catch up.
The lock rattled, the door bursting open and you swung.
The plate shattered spectacularly against the head of the very tall intruder.
For one breathtaking second, you stood frozen, half expecting a stranger, a threat, anything else.
Instead, a familiar grumble filled the doorway, "Fucking hell."
Your soul left your body.
“Simon?” you gasped, throwing your hands up in horror as adrenaline shot through you so fast your fingers trembled.
He staggered inside, a duffel bag slipping from one shoulder and thudding to the floor. One hand braced against the wall, the other pressed to the side of his head.
“Are you okay?!” you gasped.
“I got smashed with a plate. What ya think?” he muttered, eyes shut tight.
“You were supposed to be back in a week!”
“Mission ended early,” he said with a pained groan.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Wanted t’ surprise ya.”
You stared at him.
Then gestured wildly at the ceramic graveyard on the floor.
"That is objectively the worst possible strategy for someone who constantly tells me to be careful because of all the enemies you've made."
He gave you a flat look. “Nice. Blame the victim.”
"The victim broke into the house like a raccoon with military training."
He huffed "rude."
“Just go sit down,” you said, already ushering him toward the sofa. “I’ll get the first aid kit.”
He kicked off his boots with a grunt and dropped onto the couch like all the bones in his body had collectively decided to quit. By the time you returned, kit in hand, he looked tired in that deeply worn-out way that made your chest ache, guilt gnawed at you like a tiny feral creature.
"Si, I'm so sorry," you blurted the second you sat beside him. "I genuinely thought someone was breaking in and then the door opened and I panicked and my body moved before my brain did and I hit you and—"
"It's alright, swee’heart," his voice came soft, steady.
You worked carefully, cleaning the scratches on his forehead and the small cuts along his shoulder. He didn’t even flinch much, though he did keep staring at you with that quiet, warm look that always made you feel like you were the only light in the room.
“Been through a dangerous mission,” he said, “an’ get home to get clocked by me wife.”
“It wasn’t on purpose,” you said, glaring at the cotton pad like it had personally offended you.
“Never said it was.”
“You are being very smug for a man who got ambushed by dinnerware.”
He huffed a laugh. “Usually wives greet their husbands with kisses and hugs. Not ceramic warfare.”
“I was trying out a new greeting method.”
He raised one brow. “Next time, how about a pan to the face?”
You let out a helpless laugh. “Shut up.”
“You hit me.”
“I thought you were breaking in!”
“Still counts as domestic violence, luv.”
You snorted despite yourself, and he looked absurdly pleased with that.
Once you finished, he leaned back into the couch with a long sigh, still horrified and still trying not to laugh at the stupidity of this entire situation. He tilted his head toward you.
“On the bright side,” he said, “I do know for certain you’re safe when I’m gone.”
Captain John price who feels a little insecure with his much younger girlfriend. It’s been so long since he’s been intimate with anyone and perhaps he didn’t have the same amount of “spring” as the younger folk.
So he goes to his most trusted lieutenant, asking for help.
That’s how ghost ends up holding your back against his chest while your boyfriend John is settled in between your legs.
“Look, see that Captain?” Ghosts fingers barely brush your clit, pulling the hood back. “You’re gonna need to show this part some extra love. Kiss it, suck it, lick it, hell, even spit on it.”
Price stares at your pussy with infatuation, drooling at the sight of you being so shy in his best man’s arms. He can feel your legs trembling as they drape over his shoulders.
You immediately let out a soft gasp as prices lips tenderly suck your aching clit.
Now price is a quick learner, and it doesn’t take him long to find just what makes you tick- you make it so easy with your adorable reactions after all.
You’re squirming, panting, whining- “shh shhh shhh,” muses ghost from behind, muscular arms holding you back. “Don’t make it harder for the man.”
He sets you straight with a decent slap to your right tit. You yelp, earning a low chuckle from the man. “Sorry, doll. Force of habit.”
Ghosts eyes trail down your body to where his captain is vigorously working his mouth like a starved man. “Doing well, sir. She’s ‘boutta cum.”
Prices tongue does a lovely flick over your clit before engulfing it whole again in his warm mouth. You can’t help yourself as you desperately roll your hips over his chin and beard, increasing the friction.
Ghost holds you tighter against him, hands resting on the underside of your chest as he whispers something only you can hear. “Cmon, baby. Cum for the captain why don’t ya? And after, we can get to the main event.”
You’re so caught up in the growing knot in your stomach that you miss the way ghost rolls his stiff dick into the curve of your ass from behind. “I like to lead by example y’know.”
Six foot somethin’, broad as a doorframe, tattooed arms, permanent frown carved into his face like stone. The kind of man who could walk into a room and make conversations die mid-sentence.
Which was exactly why the bright pink lunchbox sitting on the briefing table looked so absurd.
Soap stared at it.
Then at Simon.
Then back at the lunchbox covered in tiny white hearts.
“…That yours, LT?”
Simon didn’t even glance up from cleaning his sidearm. “Obviously.”
Gaz coughed into his fist to hide a laugh. Price suddenly found the paperwork in his hands very interesting. Soap, unfortunately, feared nothing.
“Christ alive.” he muttered, lifting the lunchbox by two fingers. “It’s got a bow on it.”
Simon’s eyes lifted slowly.
Dangerously.
Soap set it back down immediately. The room went quiet for all of three seconds before Gaz spotted the sticky note attached to the handle.
Pink ink. Curly handwriting.
Don’t forget to actually eat today. I mean it!— ♡
There was even a lipstick kiss pressed onto the corner. Soap made a strangled noise. “SHE LEFT YE A WEE KISS MARK.”
Simon took the note off carefully before Soap could touch it with his grubby hands. He folded it once and tucked it into the pocket of his vest with complete seriousness, like it was something precious.
Because it was.
“You keep those?” Gaz asked before he could stop himself. Simon gave him a look that practically said watch your mouth.
“Aye.”
The boys exchanged glances.
Not because Simon had a partner. They all knew that. And not because Simon was soft with you. They knew that too. It was the fact he never acted embarrassed about it.
Ever.
Didn’t hide the matching pink phone charger you bought him because he “always stole yours anyway.” Didn’t complain when you painted tiny strawberries on his phone case. Didn’t care that his keys now had fluffy pink pompoms hanging off them because you’d smiled so proudly while showing him. The man simply accepted every little piece of you with both hands.
Like loving you loudly was the easiest thing in the world.
Later that afternoon, Simon finally opened the lunchbox during break. Inside was organized chaos. Pink Tupperware containers stacked perfectly. Heart-shaped strawberries. A sandwich cut neatly in half. Little notes tucked everywhere.
One on the drink—
Hydrate or I’ll become evil.
One on the fruit—
You’re handsome. That’s unrelated, I just thought you should know.
And one folded beneath the sandwich.
Simon opened it quietly.
Miss you already. Come home safe so I can kiss you properly instead of leaving lipstick on paper.
His eyes softened instantly.
Not dramatic.
Not obvious.
Just enough that Price noticed from across the room and looked away to give the man some privacy. Soap, however, leaned over his shoulder with zero survival instinct.
“Awwww—”
Simon shoved him back without heat.
“Piss off.”
But there was no bite to it.
Soap grinned. “Ye love that shite.”
Simon took another bite of his sandwich.
“Aye.” he answered simply.
No hesitation.
No shame.
Just certainty.
Because you loved pink things. Cute things. Soft things.
And Simon loved you.
Which meant he loved those things too.
୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧ ⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅ ୨୧
A/N: I love a man who isn’t embarrassed by the things you love.
like the dog he is, he was sent to the dog house tonight—the guest bedroom. it's only been an hour since he hit the hay and his bones are already aching and screaming for reliet.
but he ignores the soreness in his limbs, his brain ruminating over a single moment that occured earlier in the day, the whole reason why he's in the guest bedroom and realizing that every single piece of furniture in this room is clearly just for decoration rather than comfort.
his stomach falls—you're mad at him.
you're not annoyed from him pinching the fat on your tummy or for taking an obnoxious bite of your sandwich, no, you're mad at him.
you rarely get mad at simon. sure, you bark at him here and there but the two of you have always been able to shrug it off and cuddle under the bedsheets at the end of the day but tonight you're so mad at him that you don't even want to sleep next to him, breaking the three year streak the two of you built together. the thought of that alone makes simon clutch at his pillow with a sadness that scratches at his throat.
his eyes open to darkness. only the bedside clock being the single source of light. it reads 2:02 AM. simon blinks, he's been thinking for longer than he thought.
initally he went to bed with a huff and pride in his chest, believing you were the one being immature and stubborn but now he feels a cold chill spread throughout his body as he begins to internally panic and regret his actions. suddenly the cold room feels hot and he jumps up and throws the blanket off him but finds no relief still.
his brain replays the dinner he had with you. simon had a long day—training thick skulled recruits, a disgruntled captain price, a nearing deadline that has come too close for comfort.
all of that was a heavy weight on his shoulders that he believed he could manage; he just needed a nice dinner with his lady and a good sleep. but you had a small complaint, "simon, you didn't kiss me goodbye this morning." you were genuinely sad. pouting and pointing your fork at him. normally, simon would shrug it off, say a quick apology and swear he would never do it again, but in the moment it was the cherry on top of his shitty banana sundae and he snapped at you.
"dammit woman, can't we have a bloody peaceful dinner for once?" he spat, fists curled tightly and teeth clenched.
immediate silence.
simon's face, tight with frustration and momentary anger, immediately fell once the words left his mouth. he never yelled at you before like that, as he swore to god he'd never intend to make his lover feel scared of him, but he could see in the shake of your hand that was holding the fork and the tremble in your lower lip that you were frightened by his sudden outburst. who wouldn't be?
a bark is a warning.
and simon loves you for the same reason he is sleeping alone tonight, for you immediately snapped back, "a simple kiss is not too much to ask for-who made you this meal? who made you your lunch? you wanna fuck me whenever but a goodbye kiss in the morning is too much to ask for?"
you shook your head at him. simon began to cower, eyebrows furrowed as he watched your eyes begin to turn glossy with tears. without another word you stood up from the table and left to the master bedroom, closing the door.
simon sat at the dinner table for a good while, clenching and unclenching his fists before laying them flat and looking closely at the calluses and scars on his palms. he lost all appetite, eyes flickering guilty from were you were sitting opposite from him to the door of the master bedroom. he knew immediately he fucked up.
and he still believes so now, as the clock reads 2:07 AM and he still doesn't feel an ounce of sleep within him. he breathes shallowly, running a hand through his short blonde hair in an effort to calm himself down, but nothing calms him down better than the feel of your touch. but you're mad at him, rightfully so.
he feels mentally stuck. simon has always believed in listening to the brain; he thinks that if he lets you have space and sleep this off you'll maybe be better in the morning, as he'd like that if the situation was switched around. but his heart stutters painfully at the image of you on the brink of tears at the table—you're just a room over after months of being thousands of miles apart and wishing upon lucky stars to be with each other, and now you're still both so alone.
alone and sad, under his watch, by his doing. simon in the past has given you a million reasons for you to be mad at him, hardly sending texts throughout the day or abandoned dates due to his hectic schedule, but you've maintained patience and kindness to him throughout it all. and he knows how much you do struggle with it, even though you try not to show it. this is ridiculous, simon thinks. you just wanted a fucking kiss for christ sake.
his back pops from how fast he gets up from the bed but he takes the pinch of pain that accompanies it as punishment for his deeds and practically throws open the door to the guest bedroom and rushes his way to the master bedroom. when he's face to face with the door he freezes in place, staring down the knob like it's his longtime enemy.
a thousand thoughts run through his mind. what if you're not even awake? what if you really don't want to talk to him? should he just wait until he blushes, frowning nervously. but he reaches out for the door knob anyways, turning it slowly.
the door opens with a low creak.
he opens it a few more inches, his eyes meeting partial darkness and the soft light of the tv running through roku city. illuminated is the bed and a few lumps under the blankets. simon's heart flutters at the mere sight of you curled up alone, you're laying on his side of the bed, clutching the pillow he uses the most which just weighs down his shoulders even more.
he softly patters towards the bed, climbing on with the lightest of movements like a scared stray dog who knows nothing better.
"y/n," he murmurs, reaching out a light hand to tap at your hip. he murmurs, reaching out a light hand to tap at your hip. he's not surprised when you flinch easily, he knew you wouldn't sleep either, not when you feel so deeply about everything. back in the beginning when he was just beginning to know you it used to annoy him so much but now he almost admires you, that you find beauty and care in even the smallest of things.
he shuffles closer to you, his hands planted on your shoulder and hip as you slowly sit up. you struggle to meet his eye, but his breath hitches when you finally do, seeing your face puffy and swollen from crying for god knows how long. he struggles to form the right words, panicking at the sight of you in distress from his actions but with a sharp exhale he scrambles onto the first words that come to him.
"i'm sorry, i—i didn't mean it," he rambles. he harshly swallows before continuing, "i was just already so mad, i shouldn't have.. yelled at you," he breathes hastily, his hands clinging onto you. you only blink hazily at him, surprised by this rare moment of emotional vulnerability from him.
"i'm sorry," he mumbles out once more, dread overtaking his body at the sight of you not engaging with him. he doesn't expect forgiveness outright, but damn does he wish you'd at least just say something—let him know you still feel something for him, that you don't hate him. hate. that word hate makes him shiver violently and scan your expression desperately for any sign of emotion.
you only sigh, looking at the nightstand's clock defeatedly. it's 2:13. you can't find the burn that builds up at your waterline again, your lips already beginning to quiver. "i just wanted a kiss."
simon huffs, swallowing again once more. "i know, ill do better, i promise," he swears, nodding up and down. you can't help but stare at him with wide eyes, he rarely ever promises anything. and with the few promises he has with you, he has yet to let you down.
you break eye contact with him, wiping the tears that fall down your cheeks. simon perks up when you begin nodding your head, "o-okay," you mumble. instantly relief washes over him, his heart pumping excitedly.
"okay," he breathes out, blinking slowly as he calms down. he watches as you look around sleepily before you begin climbing back under the blankets, still on his side but simon cares less and doesn't waste a second to get under the blankets with you. he's quick to wrap his arms around you, his body buzzing at the feel of your warmth on his skin.
there's a ease that washes over your body as well, sighing contentedly when he presses his entire body against yours, his chest to your back.
but just as you close your eyes, do you feel simon press a gentle kiss on the back of your shoulder. and then another. and another. and another.
"simon.. you don't have to," you say weakly, but simon only shakes his head no and continues to lay soft kisses along the bare expanses of your skin that is revealed to him. "i wanna," is all he says.
you don't fight it, you fall asleep back in his warm embrace with him peppering sweet kisses to the back of your neck. you won't forgive him yet, but you'll let him begin to earn your forgiveness.
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