summary: after a hard night, frank needs to know he can still do some good
warnings: porn with a (bit of) plot. praise kink, rough sex, creampie, aftercare, and certainly other things i’m forgetting
a/n: @crumbledcastle28 wanted backshots, so here we go. i need this man in ways the human mind can’t comprehend and i’m praying to anyone that will listen that we see him tonight.
gif is from pinteresttt
frank castle did not have it “made.” in his youth, he found himself to be a troubled kid. in his early adulthood, he was living through traumatic events that would haunt him for the rest of his life. in his twenties, he lost everything. even now, he worked construction most days and took up his role as the punisher most nights.
he’d always had a bit of a rough go at it. until he found you. his salvation. you had never tried to “fix” him, at least not intentionally. but you had drawn him out from his pits of despair.
all the darkness he had lived in was combatted by your presence. he knew that home with you was a soft place to land.
however, that didn’t mean that he didn’t have his nights. nights where his mind couldn’t stop, where he couldn’t stop. he never felt bad about taking a life. but frank’s mind was a scary place to be when things got intense. he didn’t always mean for things to be taken as far as they were.
there had been plenty of nights in your relationship where frank would stumble into your shared apartment a soft, sad mess of a man. he would try to tell you he was fine, that he didn’t want you fussing over him, that he just needed a quick shower.
as soon as the scorching water would hit his body, reality would come crashing back. he’d scrub at himself quickly, ensuring that not an ounce of the blood staining his skin would ever touch yours.
he’d quickly exit the shower and search you out in the apartment, not even bothering to put on clothes. he knew what he needed, so dressing was pointless.
you’d allow him to take you how he wanted. oftentimes there was no “taking” you at all. he’d lay you down in bed, stuffing you with his cock and pulling you into him for hours on end. or on the couch, holding you in his arms until you’d fall asleep against his chest.
but that was only sometimes. the other half of the time he was crazed. he needed to feel you, yes, but he needed to release it all. he needed you to be crying his name, his real name. not cowering in fear from the punisher, not calling out his alias as pete. he needed to know that he was bringing you pleasure. he could still do something right. he wasn’t too far gone to bring his angel to heaven on earth.
and tonight… tonight he was going to bring you to to your ecstasy.
———
you heard the door close shut from your bedroom where you had been curled up reading. only one person knew the way through the various security codes and locks, meaning it was him.
frank was finally home.
sure, he’d only been gone a few hours, but it was hardly easy to find sleep without his form next to yours.
you glanced at the small alarm clock on your nightstand. 3:13. he made good time tonight.
you heard his bag drop to the floor, then a grunt as he bent over to remove his combat boots that you insisted be left at the front door.
you could almost sense his mood from the sound of his footsteps as they neared your room.
“frankie,” you croaked out as he opened the creaky wooden door.
“hey sweetheart,” he said, walking into the room and beginning to peel off his black henley.
you took him in. not too bloody, not horribly banged up from the look of it, just a new shiner gracing his face. he looked… okay.
but looks weren’t everything.
“everything- everything go alright?” you said trying to assess his mood. he seemed agitated, a bit fidgety. quick movements as he undressed. eyes darting around the room, almost unable to look at you. trigger finger twitching every couple of seconds.
“yeah. uh- yeah, baby. everything’s fine,” he said as he began to undo his belt and just in that intonation, the slight hesitation, you knew he was off.
you started crawling towards the end of the bed to where he was, seating yourself right in front of him.
he stopped his somewhat frantic undressing and looked at you there.
fuck, what a sight. eyes bleary with sleepiness, his shirt engulfing your frame. staring up at him with that look of concern in your eyes.
god he could- he could devour you.
“what’re you doing, huh?” frank asked with just a bit of bite.
“just checking on you. you seem… i don’t know,” you said.
“said i’m fine, baby. don’t worry about me,” he insisted as he walked into the bathroom attached to your room, closing the door behind him.
you released a deep sigh and fixed your gaze on the door. he was clearly agitated. maybe he just needed to decompress?
you heard the shower turn on and shortly thereafter found yourself lost in thought. concern for frank wasn’t a new thing for you to feel, but moments like this where he wouldn’t let you in and you couldn’t get a read on him always left you on edge.
before you knew it the bathroom door was open and frank, wearing only a towel around his waist, was staring you down.
“you just been sitting here?” he asked gruffly, raking his fingers through his wet hair, body now free from the little splatters of blood that had littered it.
“yeah just thinking bout you,” you responded.
he nodded, “was thinking bout you too,” shocking you just a bit.
he stepped closer to the edge of the bed, towering over your seated form.
“yeah?” you asked, looking up at him, recognizing that hungry look on his face.
“yeah, baby,” he responded, tilting your chin up just a bit further with one hand, the other holding his towel steady.
his lips captured yours in not quite so soft a manner. his mouth was hot, tongue almost instantly fighting its way into your mouth.
a groan escaped him as you allowed him entrance, leaning back onto the bed.
his body was instantly on yours, his towel falling and leaving his slightly damp form bare.
“christ,” frank ground out, hands roaming your body, lifting his t shirt and feeling your body squirm beneath his hands.
and you let him. kiss you rough, touch you everywhere. you understood now that it wouldn’t be a soft night. he needed to fuck it all out.
he expertly flipped your body, leaving you stomach down.
“just look so good,” he said, his hands traveling down your curves, smoothing over the swell of your ass.
“frank,” you moaned out as his hand dipped just a bit lower, nearly reaching where you needed him.
“i’ll take care of it, sweetheart,” he said as he swiped a finger through your folds.
“can feel how much you need it. want me to make it better, huh?” he asked.
frank needed to hear you respond. to tell him that you did need him. that he meant something. that he was more than just a tortured man who could show no mercy. that he could bring pleasure to this world, too.
“yes, need you to. please frankie,” you said pressing your hips up to meet his fingers.
instantly he grabbed your waist, pulling you up so your knees were underneath you. he pressed down on the center of your back, forcing you to arch yourself for him.
“that’s it, baby,” frank said once he was satisfied with your position, “fuck, you look so good like this.”
his hand roamed over your ass, squeezing a bit here and there.
you felt the head of his cock at your entrance and moved forward on instinct, preparing yourself for the onslaught of him.
“uh-uh, sweetheart. you stay still,” he said.
he pushed into you slowly, inch by inch, stretching you around him.
“fuck,” frank grunted out, “like you were fucking made for me.”
you were biting down on your lip, nearly drawing blood as you attempted to suppress the lewd noises you wanted to make.
and frank, ever so aware of your body, knew this. he knew that if you weren’t nearly squealing as he slid home, you were stopping yourself. and he would not, could not, have that tonight.
as he bottomed out, he leaned over your folded form and brought his hand to your face, gently tapping your cheek.
“let go of that lip, baby. cmon, let me know if it’s feelin good,” he said. because he needed that. frank had to know that he was still good for something.
you released your lip at his request and immediately a moan tumbled out.
“feels so good frankie, making me feel so full,” you mumbled in your haze.
frank knew you couldn’t see his grin, but that didn’t stop him from letting it grace his face.
“knew it would,” he said, a feeling of pride coursing through him as he started to thrust more consistently into you.
the sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room. soft groans escaped you both.
“that’s it baby, you’re taking me so well,” frank said in a near whisper after a particularly rough thrust.
frank kept a firm grip on your hips as he continued with his punishing pace. eventually, your brain went numb and the only thing you could do was cry out his name and tighten around his cock.
one hand slipped around to press down on your lower stomach, applying pressure that nearly made you scream.
“fuck frankie!” you squealed, and he just melted. this was all he needed. you, naked and needing him. he could give you everything.
he draped himself over your body, frame covering yours as his hand snaked down to you clit. his mouth brushed up against your ear and you could feel the heat of his words.
“yeah, know that feels good babydoll. can feel you getting close, feel you leakin’ on me, so squeeze down now, will you? let me take care of you,” frank rasped out.
and if that didn’t put you right over the edge, his frantic thrusts and the delicate figure eights he made over your clit did.
your orgasm was like a crushing force, or maybe it was just the weight of frank over you, whispering praises in your ear as he worked you through it.
“just beautiful baby,” he said as you fluttered around him, close to releasing himself.
“please frankie,” you whined as your legs shook with his continued thrusts.
“i know, i know,” he said, hips stuttering as he finally released into you, “my perfect girl.”
he slowly righted himself, now kneeling straight up and admiring the mess before him. the two of you mixed together around his now softening cock.
he pulled it out slowly, careful not to cause you anymore overstimulation.
you felt him leave you, whining as an emptiness returned to you.
“shh baby. did so good, let me get you cleaned up,” frank said, moving off the bed as you continued to lay there, knees finally giving way under you.
“my poor girl,” he said sweetly as he returned with a both a damp and dry cloth, “know i was rough but you took it so well. my perfect girl.”
you mumbled something incoherent into the sheet your face was smooshed against, some acknowledgment of the praise or whine of discomfort as he cleaned your most delicate area.
after frank took care to clean you up and returned the towels to the bathroom, he made his way back to the bedroom where you had rolled over and found a shirt of his to tug over your frame. your head was rested against a pillow now, facing the bathroom door, waiting for him to return.
he grinned as he saw you, letting relief flow through him. maybe he had done some fucked up shit before he came home to you, maybe he had brought nothing but pain into this world up until the moment he had you.
but then he had you. he knew that, if nothing else, he could be good for you.
dbf!clark giving reader aftercare after taking her virginity?? y’know, soothing her and being the gentle giant he is, whispering sweet nothings and letting her suck his thumb to soothe her after such an intense high
𓂃˖ ࣪⊹ dbf!clark kent x fem!reader
⤷ 𝒾𝓃 𝓌𝒽𝒾𝒸𝒽… aftercare with clark (18+)
his chest rises and falls beneath you, still warm, still humming with the aftershocks of what you just did together. his arms tighten around your back—gentle but unbreakable—as you curl into him, every nerve alight, every inch of you trembling.
"shh, sweetheart," he murmurs, lips brushing your temple. his voice is thick, rough in that way that makes your stomach clench all over again. "you took me so well. so perfect for me."
you whimper, pressing your face into the crook of his neck, breathing in the salt and heat of his skin. your thighs ache, stretched and throbbing, but it’s a good ache—the kind that reminds you how full he’d been inside you, how he’d pinned you down and fucked you slow and deep until you came apart.
his thumb grazes your bottom lip, calloused and warm. "here," he says, guiding it between your teeth. "suck, baby. helps with the comedown."
you do, hollowing your cheeks around him, and he groans, his other hand sliding down to rub slow circles over your hip. "that’s it. just like that." his breath hitches when you swirl your tongue, when you press your lips tight like you’re trying to pull him back in. "christ, you’re greedy."
you whine around his finger, and he chuckles, low and fond, before tilting your chin up to kiss you—soft this time, lingering, all the sharp edges of before smoothed into something tender. "easy," he murmurs against your mouth. "i’ve got you."
his other hand drifts lower, tracing idle patterns over the curve of your ass, thumb occasionally brushing the still-sensitive skin where he’d gripped you too hard earlier. "still with me?" he asks, voice like gravel, like honey. you nod against his chest, your lips still wrapped around his thumb, sucking lazily now—more for comfort than hunger.
he exhales, long and slow, and shifts just enough to press a kiss to your forehead. "good girl." the words vibrate through you, settling warm in your ribs. his fingers dip between your thighs, just a teasing stroke over your swollen folds, and you jerk—oversensitive, aching, but still so damn wet for him.
"clark—" you gasp around his thumb.
"i know," he soothes, easing the touch away. "not gonna push you. just checking." he nudges your legs apart gently anyway, his palm resting heavy on your inner thigh, possessive even now. "you’re a mess, sweetheart. my mess."
you whimper, squirming as his thumb drags back up to trace your lower lip again. he watches, dark-eyed, as you chase it with your tongue. "such a pretty little thing," he murmurs. "gonna take care of you. as long as you need."
his mouth finds yours again, slow and deep, tasting himself on your tongue. you melt into it, into him, and for the first time since he’d pushed inside you—since he’d made you his—you feel safe. ruined. perfect.
summary: you’ve known clark kent your entire life. you know him better than you know yourself, if you’re being honest. and you are way too comfortable with him.
warnings: 18+, mdni, smut (piv, unprotected sex, handjob(?) idk you’ll see, fingering, oral, praise, clark talks you through it, cum.. eating..?, finger licking/in mouth, cute n soft, BIG DICK!clark, size kink/difference, dacryphilia undertones, aftercare, clark gets exposed to a breeding kink, porn with little bit of plot), fluff, shy (at first) and soft!clark, teasing mainly from reader to annoy clark, lowk secondhand embarrassment, reader finally in her last year of university after taking a long fucking time to decide on what she wanted to do with her life, pet names (honey, sweetheart, baby), no use of y/n, NOT proofread // wc: 7k
yari yaps: i’m supposed to be writing my bwatober fic. but NOOOOO mr. kent has me in a chokehold and im a useless writer that can’t focus on deadlines (bwatober will be posted soon i promise i js cant work on it when this was on my mind) // divider credits
“So, I've been wondering— and you don’t have to answer— but is your dick different from humans?”
You say the words without even looking up from your textbook and notebook. A pen continues to twirl between your fingers as you absentmindedly fidget. The choking noise that fills the air concerns you for half a second, forcing you to look over your shoulder and at the man who was quietly going through his articles on his laptop before you rudely interrupted him.
“You haven’t talked in hours,” he mutters, referring to how you crashed his apartment just to study. He removes his glasses off of his face– frames that he doesn’t even need to wear– to drag a hand down his face like it would wipe away the absurdity of your question. “And this is what you say?”
“My anatomy class finally moved on to sex,” you say, as if that was supposed to explain anything.
“… Right.” Clark looks exhausted. He probably wishes he never opened his front door to you, but here you were. Well, even if he didn’t, you could always use the spare key that he gave you ages ago. “You know, I think I like you better when you’re not talking.”
You roll your eyes at his sass, “C’mon. You know why I'm asking this.”
Of course he does. You were the first person to know of his abilities— right after his Ma and Pa. You'd been there to watch him soar into the sky for the first time, finally unafraid. You watched him discover ice breath, and remembered how distraught he was as he looked at you.
Clark sighs, chest rising and falling dramatically with the breath. “My… reproductive organs are similar, from what I can tell.”
“From what you can tell,” you repeat, raising an eyebrow.
“I didn’t exactly grow up with Kryptonian anatomy lessons,” he shoots back immediately. “I haven’t seen a spliced Kryptonian in a museum— a body donated for science and research.”
You pause, then shrug slightly. “I guess.”
He huffs. Actually huffs, like he’s throwing a mini tantrum over your lack of thought to your question. Despite it, he still settles back onto the couch. His muscles no longer feel locked in place, he can breathe normally—
“So you don’t have an alien dick?”
“Sweet lord— what are you going on about?” he whines, looking at you with pleading eyes. You ignore it in favor of expanding your knowledge on his biology.
“You know,” you say, waving a hand in the air, “Some of the rifts— there’s documents on the corpses that come through. talking about how some male presenting aliens have both uterus and testicles, like they can impregnate and be pregnant, too—“
“I don’t have a womb,” he says, followed by your name falling from his lips in exasperation.
“But are you sure?”
“You know those released documents also included strong evidence that those aliens also had a menstrual cycle,” he quickly says. Clark moves his laptop off of his thighs, and leans forward with his elbows on his knees. He’s one second away from burying his face into his hands. “I haven’t— I think I would know if I was bleeding from my pen… from my thing.”
Clark's ears are red. Bright red. He can’t even hide it.
Suddenly, your questions are no longer out of simple curiosity. Now, you want to poke the bear. Except the bear is too sweet and kind to tell you to knock it off, to get out of his apartment, and to leave him the hell alone.
“Your thing?” you tease, a smile spreading across your face. “Your cock, Clark.”
“Do you have to be so vulgar?”
“It’s basic anatomy.” You cross your arms over your chest. “One that you claim to have.”
“I don’t—!” He runs his hands through his hair, clearly stressed. You can’t help but giggle at the sight. “I don’t claim to have regular anatomy, whatever that means.”
“So you admit that your body is biologically built differently.”
“I mean, yes, but not like that!”
“Like what?”
“Please,” he groans, nearly desperate now.
“Ooh, begging,” you say as your grin spreads even wider. “Are you trying to keep Kryptonian biology a secret?”
It doesn’t take much for him to break. You knew that. Always have, and always will. Clark was scarily easy to bait.
“My dick is normal!” he finally shouts, face still flushed. You swear he’s sweating, too.
“But how do you know that?” you ask. You’re not even trying to hide the lilt in your voice. “You compare lengths in the locker room in school?”
“Oh my— stop. please.”
“So guys don't do that? That’s just a myth said online?”
“You’re not totally off,” he quickly says, only to pause a moment later. “Can we talk about something else? Anything else?”
You pout at him, giving him your best pleading eyes you could muster. For someone made of steel and ice, this man melted at the sight of you. He always did.
A deep sigh escapes his chest as he leans back into the couch. “My college ex said my… penis… was above average. I haven't seen other men’s… things, but i’m assuming since she didn’t have an issue with it then it has to be normal.”
Your eyebrows raise. “Do you not watch porn?”
Your name falls from his lips in utter shock, matching the look on face. “You do?”
“You don’t?”
Clark stares at you, as if he’d been slapped with a bucket of freezing water. You can only stare back, waiting for his response.
“… No,” he finally mutters.
“Huh,” you say, taking in the sight of him. Even seated, he’s large. If you stood in front of him right now, you’d barely be taller than him. “Well, it makes sense that you’d be above average. with your height and all. Do you think that is also Kryptonian?”
“I don't know.” Clark shrugs, and it seems like the embarrassment of the topic is slowly melting off of him. “Probably?”
You hum, contemplative. “So, your dick doesn’t have ridges on it? Like spiky nubs along the shaft? Do you think your sperm count is higher than the average human male? Must be stronger, too. I wonder if a normal human woman would be able to carry your children to term without complications.”
A frown takes over his face at your rapid fire questions and commentary. Though he doesn’t look as bothered as he was earlier. It's as if he’s really thinking about it this time.
“I would really hope that whoever carries my children won’t have any complications, but that’s another thing that I wouldn't know until the time came.” Clark's pointer finger taps thoughtfully on his knee as he continues to think, “All of your questions have to do with research that hasn’t been conducted on me.”
“You didn’t answer my question about the appearance of your cock, Clark.”
This time, a pretty red takes over his face. “Why are you so intrigued?”
“Just answer, or I'm gonna demand you to just show me so I can find out,” you groan.
“If I do show you, would you stop asking?”
It’s your turn to freeze in place, blinking at him. He's still the shade of a tomato, but he’s not cringing at his words. If anything, he seems determined. like this would really shut you up.
“Take your pants off then,” you dare.
Clark, ever so obedient and kind, moves. his hands reach for the button of his jeans, so certain and sure.
Suddenly, you realize how close the two of you really are.
You grew up together with neighboring farms in Smallville. The two of you used to sleep in the same bed as children when your parents dropped you off at Kent's for a sleepover.
As a child, the two of you used to change right in front of each other. Even as a budding teenager, you didn’t feel the need to hide away from him, though he was always a respectful kid and began to turn his head away on his own.
Clark went off to college first to pursue journalism. It didn't stop your contact with each other, even when he went off to Metropolis first. You simply told him you’d follow him soon. And you did.
You had your own place in the city, no longer dorming as it was your last year in university. Still, you spent more time in Clark's apartment than on your own. You had a key to his place, welcoming yourself and making yourself at home even when he was at work on the Daily Planet— especially when he was at work as superman.
You’d fussed over wounds you knew would heal at the sight of first light, and he would let you take care of him. Clark knew it calmed you down.
Clark always let you do what you wanted, and would always do as you asked.
And now, he was unzipping his pants.
“Wait,” you say quickly, as his thumbs hooked under the waistband of his briefs. “Are you okay with this?”
Clark's eyebrows pull together, eyes flickering up to you. “You’re the one who asked, and now you’re the one backing out?”
“I just… I don't want to make you uncomfortable if you don’t actually wanna…” you murmur slowly.
“It’s you.” His words are said like it’s normal— like being you was a good enough reason to do anything. In this case— take his pants off. “I don't mind.”
You swallow, a weird rush of sentimental feelings going through you. Then, you nod, steeling yourself. “Show me your weird alien cock.”
“It's not weird,” he grumbles, “You’re lucky I love you.” A moment later, he’s lifting his hips off the couch slightly as he pushes both underwear and pants down his thighs.
Your jaw drops, and you suddenly can’t breathe.
The sight before you— he was right. His cock isn’t weird. If anything, it’s the prettiest dick you’d ever seen.
Maybe it was the mix of him being carefully groomed as well and the fact the man before you was already pretty everywhere else, but you don’t think you’d ever seen a dick as nice as his.
Clark's soft, but he’s still big. His skin is smooth, resting against his pelvis, dormant and asleep. You wondered if he was a grower— if he got bigger than the estimated seven inches you were staring at.
Even his balls were fucking nice to look at. The seam of it— oh my God. You were going insane.
“So?” he questions, breaking the silence and your thoughts. He sounds nervous, “What’s the verdict?”
You lick your lips, taking a deep breath. “You're actually really beautiful, Clark."
He stares at you, and you’re certain it was the last thing he expected you to say. So, you clear your throat.
“I mean,” you start, “I've seen a good amount of cock. Yours is, by far, the best.”
Clark blinks at you, still digesting your words. “… Thanks. I guess.”
“Is it as soft as it looks?” you ask, finally getting a grasp of yourself again. “It looks soft. Like— your skin.”
He pauses for a moment, looking down at himself. Then, he reaches.
You lied. You don’t have a grasp of yourself. Your sanity is gone, thrown out the window at the sight you were witnessing.
Clark, sitting there on the couch, pants pulled down, with his hand wrapped around his cock. He's still flaccid, but he’s running his hand along his dick, trying to get the best answer for your question.
“Just feels like… the rest of me,” he murmurs, frowning as he concentrates. “Nothing really different. You wanna feel?”
You’re a dead woman.
You brought up this topic. At first, it was genuine curiosity. Upon seeing his reactions, you moved onto some lighthearted teasing. It wasn’t supposed to progress to whatever was happening now. In the back of your mind, you’re wondering if he’s doing all of this now just to mess with you like you did with him.
The curious look on his face tells you he’s not even thinking about it.
You should tell him it’s a bad idea. That there’s boundaries in friendships, and even though you’re so comfortable with him, maybe there’s things you shouldn’t be doing.
But your feet are moving, and you’re standing in front of him within a few steps.
“You sure?” you ask, hoping your voice comes out steady.
Clark releases himself, then nods.
You’re leaning forward before you have the chance to allow more rational thoughts to invade your mind. It’s as if your hand wasn’t connected to the rest of your brain, moving before you could even stop yourself– and holy shit your hand is small compared to him. He's warm to the touch, skin smoother than you originally thought.
His cock jumps in your hand, and Clark flinches. The gravity of the situation just dawned upon him, and blood was rushing throughout him, coloring his cheeks and hardening his dick.
“Wait,” he whispers, breath catching in his throat. “I’m sorry— I didn’t— I'm not meaning to—“
“You really are pretty, Clark,” you cut him off, a little mesmerized.
You can feel his eyes on your face, but you’re not looking back at him. You still can’t tear your eyes off the annoyingly pretty sight of his cock. Then again, you should’ve expected it. The rest of him was just as gorgeous.
There's a vein popping on the underside of the shaft, thick and pulsing against your palm. His skin is still smooth despite losing the soft feel of it. And you were shocked— he was a grower. Both length and girth filled out with the rush of blood, and your mind wandered.
His ex was fucking wrong. This man wasn’t above average. He was far from it— this was off the scale. He was Godly.
“I don’t think you’d be able to fit.”
The words slipped out of your mouth softly, mainly spoken to yourself more than him.
Clark's breath hitches. “What are you…”
“Just, theoretically, if we had sex, I don't think you’d fit in with me. You'd probably rip me apart— my hand barely can hold all of you when you’re soft, let alone hard. I don't know if it would even feel good to have you inside of me.”
“Oh my… You really can’t be saying these kinds of things while you’re still holding me,” he groans, head dropping back against the cushions as he shut his eyes.
“I’m not wrong,” you argue. “Logistically speaking, there’s no way this would feel pleasurable for me– you’d tear me in half before I even get to cum.”
He lifts his head, and you look up at him. He's still flushed, but now he looks offended. “If we had sex, I wouldn't just stick it in you. I know it’s bigger than average so I'd make sure you’re prepared first. I'd need to fit at least three fingers in you— comfortably— before either of us could imagine me inside you. Besides that, who says I wouldn’t make you cum at least twice before I even want my dick in you?”
You can’t help the warmth you feel in your nether regions— like a sudden zap that went between your legs to make you feel weak at the knees.
Clark notices. He always does.
He swallows, visibly nervous as a whisper comes from his lips. “Did I make it weird?”
You’re surprised you can even suck in a breath. You shouldn’t be able to breathe. Your autonomic nervous system should be failing, but here you are.
“Only weird if you think it’s weird, Kent,” you murmur.
“You smell different.”
Fuck him, and fuck those super senses of his. You should’ve known better— he could easily spot every single twitch in your body, the change of scent as pheromones exit your body, and the feel of the light tremble of your hand against him.
But despite all of that, a smile comes to your lips.
“Now you’re making it weird,” you tease.
A devastating grin spreads Clark Kent's face. “My apologies. Thought we passed weird when you didn’t take your hand off me,” he hums.
“You want me to?”
The smile falters, and his eyes meet yours. He's reading you. Your face. reactions. Anything he can use to figure out what’s going through your head. You're doing the exact same thing to him.
Finally, he speaks.
“No. Want you closer, actually.”
You don’t fight him when his hands reach for you, landing on your hips. You don’t fight him as he guides you towards him, your knees resting naturally on either side of his thighs.
You’ve released him now, but only in favor of your hands sliding up his chest before finding home on the broad expanse of his shoulders. He's looking up at you, blue eyes swimming with an emotion you see every day— love.
Only now you’re realizing that the simple love you!’s that you’ve been throwing at him meant something else entirely for him.
“There you are,” he murmurs, thumbs rubbing circles into your hipbones. “You only notice me when my dick is out and between us?”
“Thought you didn’t like that word,” you say, a little breathless.
Clark smiles a bit wider, eyes sparkling. “I don’t mind it every once in a while.”
A laugh falls from your lips as you stare down at him, taking in every ounce of affection he was oozing out at you. You want to say something to acknowledge his feelings, but not yet. Not when you’re currently hovering over him, his cock still out and slowly, but surely getting more firm as the seconds pass.
“You gonna show me how you’ll fit?” is what you say instead.
You’re in his bedroom within a blink of your eyes— comfortably beneath him as he hovers over you.
“Sorry. ‘m a little excited,” Clark confesses, breathless as if moving at the speed of light was difficult for him— of course not. It's you. You're the entire reason his heart rate picked up, that his hands were slowly turning clammy, and why he feels like he can’t breathe.
“I can see that. feel it, too,” you grin at him, and a groan pulls from his lips as he shuts his eyes. Still, he doesn’t move away. If anything, he presses closer, slotting himself perfectly between your legs, dick pressed right against your aching core.
“You're lucky I love you,” he sighs.
Clark descends on you, lips meeting yours in what you can only explain as home. He’s warm, always is, but never in a suffocating way. He’s like the first warmth of spring after a long winter.
“Take this off,” he murmurs against your lips, but is already moving to remove your shirt for you.
His hands slide under the fabric leaving goosebumps in his wake, and breaks the kiss for just a moment to pull it completely up and over your head. It’s discarded without another thought, tossed somewhere to the side.
He cups both breasts through your bra, lips trailing from the corner of your lips, down to your jaw, and finding their place on your neck.
“Gosh,” Clark sighs against you, peppering tickling kisses down to your collarbone, “I’ve dreamt about this moment before.”
“Do I live up to your expectations?” you ask, breathless. You arch, pushing your chest further into his palms.
He groans, and if you didn’t know any better, you’d say this entire situation causes him pain. Except you do know better, and he’s in heaven.
“Better,” is all he says before his kisses move even lower.
You’re certain he used his x-ray vision to locate your nipples over the thin padding on your chest. There’s no other way, you think, that he managed to be so precise. In the back of your mind, you wonder if he’s ever used this ability to feed some of his darkest desires.
No, you decide. Your sweet, kind Clark wasn’t like that. Though you really wouldn’t have minded it.
A soft moan slips out of you, cautious and shy. His response? To smile against your chest, and reach beneath you, undoing the clasp of your bra with a single manipulation of his fingers.
“You practice that a lot in college?” you whisper as he tugs the fabric off your chest.
“Mm… Not lots of practice, but enough,” he hums, eyes taking in the sight of you. He looks in awe, unable to believe this was truly happening to him. Soft hands run down your sides, just needing to feel you. “So pretty, sweetheart.”
Your heart flutters in your chest, and you can feel your skin warming. Just one compliment, one silly little nickname, and you’re melting for him. Maybe he’s got you wrapped around his finger more than you realized it.
“Want this gone,” you tell him, tugging on the hem of his t-shirt in attempts to gain some form of control over the situation.
Clark chuckles, and gives you a small nod. “Yes, ma’am.”
He doesn’t give you any time to appreciate the beauty of him— the sculpted muscles that lay beneath the slightly baggy clothes he wears in hopes it hides his superhuman physique. Usually, he keeps his shoulders pulled in, a slight slouch to his posture, but in this moment he’d never looked larger. Confident. Yours.
Your sweatpants and panties were being removed from you, joining whatever corner your shirt was thrown into.
Without hesitation, Clark fit himself right between your legs. His hands wrapped around your knees, moving you to hook over his shoulders comfortably. Of course, not without him pressing a sweet kiss to the inside of your thigh.
“You smell so good,” he whispers against your skin, lips trailing higher and higher up your leg until he was hovering right above where you needed him most. “Goodness… Already dripping for me and I haven’t even done anything.”
“You gonna hurry up and do something, Clark?” you ask, impatience pulling from you without realizing it.
“Easy there.” His eyes lock onto yours from below, a sparkle on them. “Gotta make sure you’re ready for me, baby.”
Before more whines of complaints can form in your head, his flattened tongue licks a slow strip between your folds, parting them and giving him perfect access to your aching clit.
A moan vibrates through your core, unabashed and utterly delighted.
“Tastes so good, too. Could stay here all day,” he mutters against you, breathing hot and heavy.
“Clark—“
“Yeah, yeah. I know,” he huffs. “One day.”
Clark didn’t verbalize the rest of his disappointment. Honestly, with the way he thoroughly laps at your core, you might have to reconsider your decision.
It’s as if he had been dying of thirst for his entire life. He dips his tongue in and out of your core, groaning in absolute joy, before moving to suck on the sensitive little nub that’s begging for his attention. You can’t help it when your legs start trembling around his head, threatening to close and trap him there. In the back of your mind, you realized that he wouldn’t care if you did. He’s able to hold his breath for over an hour, after all.
The sensations are all too much for you to handle, sparks flying behind your eyes as Clark seems to struggle to pull himself away from you. Eventually, he gives in. Tonight mercy is granted to you as you stop tugging on his hair to begin pushing him away instead. From the way his eyes are blown out, nearly every part of his eyes covered with black instead of blue, you know that you’ll find yourself back in this position another day.
But not right now.
Right now, you need him– all of him–
“Slow down,” he mutters to you as you yank him up your body. Clark rests beside you now, free hand helping him prop his head up to give himself a good view of your entire body. “Haven’t even started to stretch you out.”
You whine, heart still pounding from being brought to heaven and pulled back down to Earth. “Clark, you need to hurry up.”
“We have all the time in the world,” he coos at you in an attempt to try and soothe you. It doesn’t work. What does work is his fingers gliding up your thighs, reaching the warmth between your legs, and pushing in.
You always knew Clark’s hands were big. It matched the rest of him– long, slender fingers that seemed like they could whole the entire world with ease. If you verbalized any of this to him, he would tell you that he was doing exactly that– holding his world safely in his hands.
The introduction of a second finger has you squirming beneath him.
“You’re so soft,” he says, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead– a stark contrast from the filthy way his fingers were spreading you open with a scissoring motion. “So wet for me, aren’t you? Gosh… Can you hear yourself?”
Of course you can. The squelching noise coming from your lower half was hard to ignore, after all.
You coated his fingers in your essence, and Clark was certain you were seeping into his skin, marking him as yours. You wouldn’t be able to smell yourself on him, but he would still be able to smell you on his skin for days to come.
His digits curled slowly within you, rubbing against that extra soft, spongy part inside of you. His eyebrows shot up in amusement as you gasped out his name, hips lifting slightly off the bed.
“Right here, honey?” The low baritone, gravely whisper of his voice in your ear sent shivers down your spine. He was invading your every being, just as you’d done to him for years on end.
The stretch of his ring finger made the air in your throat catch.
“Easy,” he orders, clicking his tongue softly in disapproval.
“It’s— fuck, that’s… A lot,” you manage to stutter out, eyes screwing shut.
“If you think this is a lot, how can you ever imagine taking me?” he asks, almost teasingly.
A shaky breath exits your lips. “You’re— you’re enjoying this.”
“And you’re not?” Clark shoots right back at you before plunging all of three digits into your fluttering hole— right down to his knuckles.
Your best friend doesn’t wait for your answer. Instead, he begins to work into you, the length of his fingers slowly massaging in and out of you. You twitch beneath him, mouth falling open in a wordless moan.
Try as he might, his actions were only making you clamp down tighter around him. You were trying to suck him in, keep him deeper within you.
With one more slight curl, you were coming undone. Your fingernails digs crescent marks into his wrist, trembling as you attempt to keep your sanity intact.
Slowly, his fingers exit you.
“Mm… I don’t think you can take me tonight,” he mutters, more to himself than you. You nearly missed his words, all of your body paying attention to the way his fingers moved upwards to lazily circle at your clit. He presses a kiss to your temple, “Next time, hm?”
Your heart nearly stops in your chest as you look up at him, wide eyed and pleading.
“What?” you ask, voice hoarse and dry from the moans you gave him. “Clark— No, need you—“
“I’ll just hurt you if we do it today.” He shakes his head. “Need to spend more time. One night of prep isn’t enough—“
“What if I want it to hurt?” you cut him off, head spinning. Clark looks at you, eyebrows pulled together in confusion. “Just need you in me— need you to stuff me full. Need it so bad, Clarkie.”
He’s not convinced yet. You know it for a fact. He’s still thinking too rationally for your liking. But he’s pulled his hand away from your legs, resting it on top of your stomach instead— if he was truly unaffected by your words, he would’ve continued his ministrations. No, he was trying to keep his control by limiting his touch.
You couldn’t have that.
Your hand finds his cock again, eyes still locked with his. His lips part to suck in a tight breath of air as you slowly palm at him. You run your hand up and down his length slowly, then reach the tip. To your delight, he’s leaking.
“Look, baby. He’s crying for me,” you whisper to him, swiping your finger across the head of his dick, picking up a bead of precum in the process.
For the first time that night, Clark’s gaze breaks away from your eyes. His eyes drop down to your lips, watching as your fingers enter your mouth to lick off his arousal. His breathing picks up, ever so slightly.
You release your fingers with a pop, then move to rest them on his lips. He opens his mouth without any instruction or order, tongue wrapping around your fingers and licking, sending a new wave of excitement crashing through your body.
“So big, so hard for me,” you sigh, almost pouting at him, “And you’re not gonna fill me up?”
Clark moans around your fingers like it pains him, like he’s trying his best to hold onto the restraint that you’re chipping away from him.
“You know I’m on birth control,” you tell him, pulling your fingers from his lips. He moves forward slightly, as if trying to chase them. Once again, his eyes meet yours. “You wanna indulge me in some more research? This one would be an experiment, really.”
He swallows. “What kind of experiment?” His voice is broken.
You smile sweetly at him, resting your hand against his chest. You can feel his heart beating rapidly under your touch. He’s waiting, on the edge of whatever sanity he has left.
Finally, you whisper, “I want to see if Kal-El’s sperm can beat the efficacy of my daily pill.”
Within a breath, Clark pulls you to the cusp of his bed. Your legs only dangle off the edge of the bed for a few seconds before he pulls you to rest them against his hips. He shadows you, cock resting on your tummy as he leans over and presses a hard kiss to your lips. His teeth catch and tug, demanding entrance that you happily give him.
His hands rest on the inside of your thighs, spreading you open for him as he pulls back his hips slightly. The length of his cock drags against your skin, leaving a trail of burning desire and want. He coats himself in your slick, depositing a moan into your throat as he does.
The tip of his cock is right at your entrance, parting your puffy folds, and stops. You’re about to whine against his mouth, grab at his shoulders or wrap your legs around him, but he doesn’t leave you waiting for long.
Clark Kent is a fucking liar.
Three fingers and two orgasms was not enough to prepare you, prepare anyone, if you were being honest. Even with the fact you were quite literally dripping for him, it still wasn’t enough to ensure a smooth entry. Then again, he did warn you. This was partly your fault for egging him on until he couldn’t stop himself anymore.
Your lips still against his, eyebrows stitched together as you try to adjust to the foreign body entering you. Clark notices– of course he does– the way your muscles lock beneath him. Your lungs stop pulling in air, and you’re gripping his forearms so hard he actually registers a small nip of pain.
His voice cuts through the cloud in your mind. “Breathe, honey.” Clark showers you with kisses– your nose, cheeks, eyes, neck– anywhere he could reach. “I know it’s big, baby, I’m so sorry.”
With his words snapping you out of it, you suck in a greedy gulp of air as you open your eyes to look at him. “F… Fuck, Clark,” you gasp out.
“I know, I know,” he reiterates to you, patient and so understanding despite the fact you were the one that begged him for this. “Try to relax for me, okay?” Another kiss gets pressed to your eyes, his lips catching a stray, salty tear that slipped out. Your heart skips as you watch him swipe his tongue across his bottom lip, tasting your tears.
“You’re so big– God,” you say, voice cracking.
“Not God,” he corrects with a chuckle, “But yes.”
“Fuck you,” you whine, unsure how he can find this situation funny. Still, the way he lets out another small laugh above you does ease your body just a little bit– probably from the familiarity.
You focus on Clark, deciding that he will be the best way to distract yourself from his cock, as ironic as it may sound.
The way there’s a slight crinkle around his eyes as he smiles at you. If you focus, you can see yourself in the reflection of his eyes. There you lay beneath him, skin flushed with a light layer of sweat all over you, hair touselled and mussed up, yet he still holds a love for you that you don’t think you’re worthy of carrying.
His skin is warm under your touch, always is, but goosebumps are left behind wherever you touch. His body is reacting to you, showing you that the littlest things you do leaves a mark on him both physically, emotionally, and mentally.
How he touches you with extreme care, though you know it’s easy for him to break even the toughest of metals in his hand without even breaking a sweat. He’s always treated you delicately. Always a gentleman, opening every single door without complaint or annoyance, pulling out your chair whenever you have a meal together, and holding your hair back whenever you end up drinking a little too much. So kind, thoughtful, and nice. You wonder how much you’d have to push him to fully break you.
It’s only when your mind trails back into its sinful desires do you register his hips fully flushed against yours, his length sheathed within you.
Clark’s pulling in shaky breaths, hands resting on your hips with his thumbs rubbing circles into your skin. His forehead rests against yours as he closes his eyes, trying to get a grasp on his bearings once more.
“I… Sweetheart,” he grunts. “You’re still so tight around me.”
As if his words were to be a reminder of your situation, your walls flutter around him, sending pleasure through both of your bodies.
“Move,” you tell him, breathy. “Please–”
“Hang on,” he cuts you off, shaking his head. “I’m not paused right now for you. I might–” Clark cuts himself off, biting the inside of his cheek. For a moment, you thought he might curse aloud for the first time in years. Instead, he swallows thickly. “I might lose it right away if I don’t give myself a break right now.”
Pride swells in your chest. “Superman is a minuteman?” you tease softly.
“Hey–”
A shared moan stops whatever rant he was about to go on, thanks to your hips rolling against his. And you can feel it, how his dick twitches deep inside of you, already so close to the edge even though he just got there. You can also feel him pressing up right against your cervix.
His fingers dig into your hipbone– not hard enough to bruise, but hard enough to warn. Clark pulls back, looming over you as he takes in a deep breath.
“You’re playing dirty,” he accuses, voice as tight as how he holds his jaw.
“So what if you cum fast?” you grin at him, hands moving to rest on his abdomen. “Don’t tell me Superman can’t go a couple rounds.”
His eye twitches, and you know you’ve hit him somewhere personal. Then again, baiting Clark Kent was always your favorite pastime.
“Of course I can,” Clark says with a tone you know all too well– one that lets you know he’s about to prove you wrong.
His hips pull back, cock dragging out of you so painfully slow until just the tip of him is left within you. You mistakenly believe that he’s going to slam back into you without any warning. He doesn’t.
Clark pushes back inside of you slowly, giving you the chance to properly feel the ridge of his tip as it meets the shaft of his dick. You can feel a pulsing vein on the underside, matching the rapid beat of his heart. You can feel him separating your gummy walls with each new inch of him, forcing you to accommodate his size. And you can feel the bulge in your lower abdomen– him– deep inside of you.
“Shit,” you gasp out, but you don’t have time for anymore words. He’s pulling out once again before thrusting back into you, setting an easy, comfortable pace. Despite it, you can’t even begin to form any thoughts. He’s splitting you apart, filling you in ways that you’ve never felt before.
“That’s it,” Clark chuckles from above you. You catch a lazy, nearly fucked out smile paint his face as he watches you. “You know, I think I like you better when you’re not talking.”
You whimper in response, unable to properly respond to him.
He hums, leaning back down to kiss you, his movements never stopping. “I got you, baby. Don’t worry– You’re so pretty like this.”
Clark swallows all your moans and whines like he’s desperate to have them. All you can feel is him– his hands running up and down your body to map you, the feel of his cock piercing in and out of you, his tongue brushing against yours, his muscles rippling and flexing whenever your hands find somewhere new to hold onto.
“You look so good like this. So perfect, so beautiful— gosh, you look so pretty with me inside you,” he murmurs against your lips, voice strained ever so slightly. He moans out your name when your walls flutter around him again, giving him one brief warning. His hips snap harder into yours, efforts renewed as he urges you to your doom. “C’mon, baby. Give it to me– need you to make a mess all over me.”
As one final push, Clark presses a hand onto your stomach, snapping the last bit of pressure within you. “God– Clark!” you cry out, eyes rolling to the back of your head as you begin to tremble beneath him.
All the while, he never lets up. If anything, the pace is faster, chasing your high with everything he has– prolonging your pleasure for as long as possible.
One more time, your name falls from his lips, this time strangled and needy before you feel a warmth deep inside of you. He’s coated you from the inside, both of your sticky juices mixing together into one substance as he lodges his cock deep inside of you, poking at your cervix.
Clark collapses over you, careful to keep most of his weight on his forearms. Still, his chest is pressed against yours, allowing you to feel the thumping beneath his skin.
He collects himself faster than you, lips trailing all over your neck and collarbones as his cock jumps within you, hard once more. When you look at him with disbelief, he gives you a stupid grin that you nearly melt for.
“What’s with that look?” he asks, nipping at your lips. “You only have yourself to blame for this.”
“I didn’t do anything just now.” You frown at him, though not entirely upset.
“No,” he agreed, “But you did challenge me to put a baby in you. I’m feeling competitive tonight.”
You almost wish you never said those words out loud, never teased or poked him until he broke. Almost.
Warm water sloshes around you as Clark lowers himself into the bath behind you. He instantly engulfs you with his size, his body granting you more heat than the tub you both sit in together. You lean back against his chest, closing your eyes.
Exhaustion ran deep in your bones. You don’t fight against Clark as he begins to scrub your skin with soap, cleaning off the sweat and stickiness that accumulated during your time together. Still, you know he can’t get rid of the markings he left behind.
You caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror when Clark carried you into his bathroom earlier. Purple, manmade flowers had grown across your skin, effectively ensuring you’d be wearing high neck clothing on days you didn’t feel like doing your makeup.
You should be mad. You should scold him for losing control, but frankly… you don’t really care, especially not when he lowers his head slightly to press a delicate kiss to your shoulder.
“How do you feel?” he murmurs against your skin.
“Good,” you sigh, content. “Might be sore tomorrow, thanks to someone.”
“You asked for it,” he reminds you, and you can feel him smile against your skin.
“Yeah, yeah,” you dismiss, but you’re smiling too.
Tomorrow, you both will have a discussion. A long talk on where you both stand in each other's lives, and how to ensure your relationship with each other won’t end up in flames. But all of that is for your future self to deal with.
Right now, you’ll revel in his touch, allow him to wrap his arms around you, and fall asleep to the sound of his breathing.
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summary: you and clark stir in the middle of the night. apparently, you both have the same idea.
tags & cw: SPOILER ALERT! it's literally just smut, sleepy sex, fem afab reader, FILTHY dirty talk (clark gets needy when he's tired), unprotected p in v (pls wrap ur willie before you get silly), hittin' that shit from the side, spooning, breeding kink if you squin- well okay no it's pretty obvious actually, pussy pronouns, he randomly starts begging?? don't know how that snuck in there
wc: 3.2k
a/n: I warned y'all that I was fucking feral. Oh, and also...HAPPY FIRST DAY OF KINKTOBER YOU FREAKY FUCKS! 🎉🎉 enjoy this filthy lil domestic smut fest!
want some more clark content? Check out my masterlist!
You didn't even know what time it was; somewhere between two and three, if you had to guess. Both of you were more asleep than awake, eyes half-closed and bodies loose with exhaustion and languor as you huddled together on a tiny sliver of your California king.
"We should go back to sleep," is what your insatiable, hypocritical hunk of a boyfriend had insisted only minutes before. Of course, the slow grind of his hips against your ass entirely contradicted his words, and if the death grip he had on your hip was any indication, you were fairly certain sleep was now the least of his concerns.
To be fair, you were as much of a hypocrite as he was. After all, you'd been the one to plant a firm grip on the wandering hand that had snaked around your body from behind; and yet here you were, matching his movements grind for grind, touch for touch.
You don't even remember how it started, your memory fuzzy with the blur of sleep. You must've woken up around the same time. You recall feeling Clark's strong arm tighten around you, the feel of his lips against your skin. Not kissing, just lingering. A promise of his want for you as he wrapped himself around your smaller body.
There was some sort of mutual acknowledgment—perhaps in the shape of a brief kiss, messy and mostly missing its target as both of your brains struggled to navigate the liminal space that existed between consciousness and unconsciousness. Maybe it was spoken, a muttered "can't sleep?" from him and an affirmative hum from you. Then a shuffling of bodies; Clark's closer to yours, crowding you against the side of the massive mattress and tangling your legs beneath the covers.
"Clark," you had warned him initially. And, really, genuinely, it had been your honest intention to only allow him a few deep kisses before putting a halt to things with a large yawn and a promise to continue in the morning. There was always something to be learned in the art of delayed gratification, after all.
But then he'd gone and whined all low and heady in your ear, large palm splaying over the bumps of your ribs beneath your sleep shirt as he ground his rapidly hardening cock against you with nothing but the barrier of his boxers and your panties.
"Please, honey? Don' even have to put it in. Just wanna feel you…"
Yeah. You'd been helpless to stop him after that.
You quickly joined his cacophony of sporadic, pathetic noises as your hips rocked together. Honestly, it was ridiculously vulgar for a little dry humping, but you were both too tired and too distracted to care. One of your hands had reached behind you, tangling in his sleep-mussed curls as he breathed hotly into your neck.
"Got me so worked up, sweetheart." His voice was damn near shaking, and it was doing embarrassing things to the growing mess between your legs. Clark pressed a hot kiss just beneath your ear. "Feel how hard you've got me? S'cause you're so darn pretty. An' all mine."
Oh, you could feel him alright. All eight, thick, hot inches of him as you teased each other with friction. The hand across your ribs slid lower, tracing along the line of your panties and drawing a longing whimper from your throat.
"She throbbin' for me, honey?" Clark whispered against you. The feel of his warm breath across your neck made you shudder. "Oh sweetie, I can smell how much she needs me."
"Yes," you panted. "Touch me," you begged, low and lazy with exhaust but undeniably desperate. "Please, Clark."
He hummed against your skin, skirting his fingers just beneath your waistband in teasing swooshes that made your hips jerk back against his barely clothed cock. The anticipation of it was heating your blood, warming your sleepy brain.
Then he tightened his grip on the undergarment, yanking the front part taut against your skin, allowing you a deliciously tight strand of fabric to rut your clit against like a feral animal.
Seeing the shape of your writhing bodies hidden beneath the top sheet somehow made it filthier. You gripped his wrist, unable to get your fingers all the way around and the reminder of your size difference caused your swollen clit to throb in need.
Clark was mouthing at the junction of your neck and shoulder, panting with his eyes glued to your face as he watched you grind on the strained fabric of your panties, whining whenever your clit caught just right against the rigid material.
"Feel good, baby?"
Your response came in the form of his name, breathy as it escaped your lips. He increased the strength of his hold on your underwear, pulling the fabric tighter in time with the movement of your hips.
"Can you cum like this?" was pressed, open-mouthed, into your cheek bone. Having his words this close, this inescapable, was doing immeasurable damage to your insides. You nod absently, focusing on the rising crescendo of your orgasm.
"Wan' you to touch me though," you add, almost as an afterthought. Because the only thing better than having your swollen little nub stimulated was having Clark stimulate it, his fingers larger and rougher than yours. More practiced, more patient. "Please. Want you to do it, baby. Make me cum f'you."
He seems to like that idea, pressing a firm kiss against your cheek before finally releasing his grip on your sullied panties. His touch isn't gone long, hand finally vanishing beneath the garment as he shifted impossibly closer.
Clark gasps against your ear as his fingers make contact with your burning slit, slick and abused from the torturous grinding. His voice was a barely-there rumble in your eardrum. "Shit, baby," the expletive—a rare occurrence from his modest farmboy vernacular—shot straight between your legs, and you were certain he could feel the way your center pulsed in its need. "So warm."
"Need you," was your muffled rebuttal. "She needs you, Clark."
Large fingers pressed up and down your sopping cunt, firm and leisurely. He didn't slip them in, not yet; just kept them moving, a steady stream of motion rubbing over hypersensitive skin. Your hips lazily chased the motion, complimenting his touch with their unhurried movement against his fingers, which in turn pressed you further against his stiff cock.
You felt him shifting around behind you, the arm he was laying on moving somewhere low. You'd been too distracted by his touch to notice his freed cock until it was sliding between the plush of your thighs, heavy and hot and so, so hard. The swollen head of him snagged on your sopping panties, and the moment you felt him slip underneath and slide against your slit, you and Clark released twin groans of relief—finally, the skin on skin contact you'd both been craving.
The haze of sleep blanketed the sensation, simultaneously intensifying and nulling your pleasure until everything was a dizzying blend of hot and intense and laggard and easy. At your ear, Clark was already losing it. "O-oh, that's so good. So good, sweetheart. Feels so nice, doesn't it? Golly, you're drivin' me insane..."
His swollen tip would nudge your clit on every pass, encouraging the reciprocal motion of your gyrating hips, seeking more and more friction as the air around you heated beyond its physical manifestation of sweat. You moaned, content to let yourself feel the way he touched you, his hand sliding back under your t-shirt and higher to grope your chest, grounding himself as he touched you.
He was whining again, a symphony of wrecked sounds against the side of your face as he continued the slow, excruciating slide of his cock through your pussy. The wet sound of it was making your head spin.
"I k-know I said I wouldn't put it in," he started. "But…golly…I want to. Pl-please let me? Jus' wanna feel you all warm and wet and perfect wrapped around me."
"Y-you can, I just don't know if I'll be of much help," you supplied. As appealing as it sounded, you—in unfiltered honesty—were not willing to put in the work, tired beyond any rational thought. Fortunately, the way you felt about Clark far surpassed reason.
Clark however—your thoughtful, tender, giving, incredible lover and partner—was more than willing to do the proverbial heavy lifting. After all, what was Superman for?
"Shh, that's okay, hon. Just relax. Let it feel good," he was cooing into your hair as his hand slid down between you. "Jus' feel it, baby. Feel my cock pushin' in." He teased the bulbous head right at your pulsing hole, pushing in just enough to edge you both.
You snapped your head back in frustration, eyes fully opening for the first time in an attempt to shoot daggers at him through the dark. He was right there, so close and yet so achingly far if your throbbing pussy had anything to say about it.
"Clark."
"Kiss me?" he asked, voice pitched in a needy whine that you were helpless to ignore. You obliged like a reflex. He slid home the moment your lips met, unintentionally interrupting your kiss with matching moans that poured into each other's mouths.
The first push was a stretch; a nubile burn that you felt punch slowly into each of your lungs. He was so fucking big, and you were continually blown away by it every single time you were together. Despite your sleep-addled brain you remembered all the time Clark had dedicated over the years to prepping you for him; the kegel exercises, the breathing. Every praise encouraging you to relax and breathe through it. It was a conscious effort to slacken your inner muscles enough to let him in fully.
He noticed, of course, when you did. "That's it. Oh, good girl. Let me in. Mhm."
"S-so much, Clark," you whined.
"Too much?"
"No," you breathed. "Just..intense."
"Sorry, baby," he said, voice low with guilt. "Should've prepped you better. Just…just couldn't help m'self."
"It's—ah—it's okay, Clark. Like bein' full of you."
He kissed along your jaw. "Mm. Yeah?"
You were quick to nod, tilting your head against the pillow to allow him better access to your neck. He gently brushed your hair aside, draping slow kisses down the side of your heated skin as his hips pumped lazily into yours.
Clark finally pulled down the sheet covering your moving bodies when the heat of everything was getting to be too much. "Mmm, look at how well she's takin' me, baby."
Fuck. That damn accent. Whenever his sweet Kansas twang slipped out—usually in moments of intimacy like these—it was almost enough to make you cum on the spot. Something about the low headiness of it made your entire body flush.
Your eyes fell to the spot where you were joined; you remembered then that Clark could see a hell of a lot clearer in the dark than you. In the twilight of your bedroom you could only barely make out the peeking head of his cock when he pulled out before gently pushing back in.
"My sleepy girl." His course whisper made your eyes flutter back closed. You let your body fully relax save for the movement of your lower half, haphazardly following Clark's guidance with his hand planted on your hipbone. "There we go. Nice n' slow. Feel it. So wet f'me, aren't you?"
"God, Clark." You managed to raise your leg, bringing it to rest on his hip. It gave him the room to sink in that much deeper, and you both moaned at the slight change. "So good, baby. Feels so good…"
"Mmmm," he murmured, gently taking the lobe of your ear between his teeth before laving it with wet little suckles and kisses. You could feel every slow drag of his cock as he pressed into you, his tip accidentally kissing the wall of your cervix on a few occasions that made you whine and shudder in his arms.
"S'tired, but just can't resist my girl's sweet pussy when she's this soaked for me. Jus' listen to her…so messy and so needy. What's a fella to do, hm?"
His general neediness in junction with his sleepy, lowered inhibitions made for a lethal combination that caused the ache in your abdomen to twine and knot at an exponential rate. If he kept this up, he might make you cum from penetration alone; which wasn't impossible, but certainly more difficult for you on a regular basis. But with the way he was talking…
Clark wasn't one to get overly explicit in dirty talk. He was, after all, a country gentleman through and through. But in moments where he allowed his abnormally intense (read: Kryptonian enhanced) libido to take the reigns, the filthy things he'd whisper or grunt in your ear were enough to make a grown man blush. The fact that they almost never contained actual cuss words either somehow had triple the effect. Because how could kind, sweet, stammering Clark Kent who got flustered when you said "fuck" be the same man who was avidly professing to you how much he wanted to breed your sweet little pussy with his cum?
You knotted your fist in his hair as he continued to thrust lazily into you. The bubble between you was a hushed mess of sound, wet with the slow movements of your joined bodies and low with the sighs and grunts of your shared pleasure. Nothing about it was hurried, and everything about it was perfect. An intoxicating blend of slow and easy teased with the jagged edge of building tension; you were climbing somewhere with no precise destination in mind, but were content to enjoy the journey.
Clark's hand gripped the meat of your thigh, fingers digging in just near the bend of your knee to hold you open for him as he slowly guided his cock in an out, in and out. He sought your mouth once again, tongues tangling languidly.
You eventually gave in to the needs of your neglected clit, your fingers slipping between your sodden panties to rub sloppy circles over the engorged nerves. Though you could probably reach orgasm with the prolonged thrusting of his cock, something told you Clark wouldn't be lasting long enough to see that particular feat through. Which was completely fine—flattering, even. Anyways, you wanted more than anything to ensure that you could come around him, with him, for him; so round and round the pads of your fingers went, spiking the pleasure in your gut.
You were once again reminded of your boyfriend's inhuman levels of attentiveness when his hand was quick to swat yours away, replacing your fingers with his own.
"My job."
Your jaw went slack as he rubbed your clit in time with his cock, steering you higher as you ascended the mountain of your release.
"C-Clark…" you stammered. You could hardly believe that less than ten minutes ago you'd been sound asleep and now you were moments away from an orgasm so intense you feared it might knock you right back out. "I'm gettin' close—"
"I know." He licked a strip from the base of your neck to just below your ear. "I can feel her squeezin' me. So, so good, sweetheart. Wanna feel you cum on this cock, baby. It's yours, I'm yours. Let me make you cum, sweet girl."
"Let it happen. Give her what she wants," he urged.
The pace of his swirling fingers picked up slightly despite the tempo of his hips staying brutally sensual, thrusting long and deep, taking his sweet time exploring your depths. The dual sensation was enough to get you right there, balancing on the knife's edge of ecstasy as you awaited the final push and fall.
Your jaw fell in a silent scream when you finally shattered around him, muscles clamping impossibly tight as you drowned in the intense stretch. Clark was latched onto your neck, kissing and sucking and groaning as he felt you tighten on his cock.
"Yes, baby. Jus' like that, gosh…f-feels s-so good. Grippin' me so darn tight…"
You couldn't help the slight jerk of your body, more awake now than it had been since the start of this encounter as you rode out the aftershocks on his still-thrusting cock. Clark didn't stop circling your clit until your hand shot to his, body shaking with oversensitivity.
"So good for me, my darling girl." He was babbling other nonsensical praise into your ear. You could tell by the pace of his hips that he was nearing his own end. You craned your neck back, inviting his mouth back over yours as you encouraged him to let go.
"Y'close, baby?" you whisper, breath hot.
"M-mhm," he whimpers.
"Want it inside?" You let your voice drop into a sultry murmur that succeeded in drawing the prettiest sounds from Clark's throat. "Yeah, I bet you do, honey."
His stone grip had returned to your hip. "Pl-please—"
"Yeah? You wanna fill me up, Superman?"
"Yes, o-oh, yes." His breathing turned staccato in a telltale sign of his impending release. "M'gonna breed this p-perfect lil' cunt. M'so c-close sweetheart, it's comin', mm—"
"Yes, yes, cum," you whine. "Mm! That's it, c'mon. Fill this pussy, Clark. Make me yours, baby."
That does it. He's gasping against the side of your face, lips brushing your damp cheek as he cums. You feel every perfect inch of him, twitching and pulsing inside of you as he floods into your womb. It's easy to imagine the beautifully messy white ring that's formed at the base of his cock as he fucks his cum into you; because when Clark Kent cums, he cums a lot. More than any man you'd ever been with, and it wasn't even a close competition. You can already feel—and hear—the overflow as it slicks your thighs.
You know he's finally come down when his body relaxes, going noodle-limp behind you as he peppers absentminded kisses all over your shoulder, neck, arm. Anything his soupy brain can reach without significant movement, his lips are sloppily pressing against it.
The afterglow is colored mainly by the dark of your eyelids, which you can barely manage to blink open. The dopamine crash hits you like a freight train, and you both seem to remember the time of night when exhaustion returns with a vengeance.
"Baby," his voice barely manages to drag you out of slumber. "You need…need to pee." He was breathing into your hair, hand moving in slow, soothing motions over the sweat-slicked side of your body.
"Mm. In the mornin'," you grunt in protest. If you were any more awake, your heart would be melting at the consideration he has for your health and wellbeing.
Evidently, he's not taking no for an answer. "S'much as I love my cum in you, I don't want you gettin' a UTI."
Your yawn morphs into an exaggerated sigh. "Only if you carry me. Can't move."
He chuckles. Clark nuzzles into the back of your neck, dotting kisses over your nape. "Didn't hurt you, did I?"
"Mmm. No. An' even if you did, you know I like bein' a little sore. S'kinda hot." You can tell he agrees in the low sound that rumbles from his chest.
"Alright. C'mon. Bathroom." He carefully rolls over you and out of the bed, before lifting you bridal-style with the sort of ease you'll never fully get used to.
You yawn again, palm and head curled over his heart. "I love you."
Clark presses a kiss into your hair. "I love you too, sweetheart."
!! 18+ minors dni - this post contains explicit content !!
summary: the only thing on clark's mind when he's poisoned with kryptonite is coming home to you—the wife who's a closely kept secret—to feel the warmth of your reassurance.
tags & cw: nsfw, fem afab reader, clark has a secret wife (it's you hehe), smitten clark, emotionally distraught clark, smut with feelings, shower sex, fluff and angst, unprotected p in v, canon scene rewrite(?)
wc: 8.8k SERIOUSLY IDK HOW TF THIS HAPPENS LIKE WHAT AM I EVEN TALKING ABOUT WHAT
a/n: PLEASE READ!! This fic was heavily inspired by this oneshot by the lovely @finelinevogue so please go check out their work as well! I also drew inspo from Clint Barton in Age of Ultron. ALSO given the new deleted footage we got today this feels just...ugh.
I hope you enjoy! Likes, reblogs, and comments highly appreciated :)
want some more clark content? Check out my masterlist!
You were the only thing on his mind. Lingering just in front of the grief and shock of his last few days was the thought of you. Your voice, your warm skin and equally warm smile, holding him close and telling him everything would be alright, that this was okay. That you would still be there.
As he fought to breathe through the poison in his lungs and the pain blurring the lines of his vision, he was thinking of you with exceeding desperation.
He had to see you. Hear your voice. Let himself be held by you. Let the radiance of your proximity wash over him, sustaining him better than the sun ever could. He didn’t call you sunshine for nothing.
Gosh, it was all he could think, after everything. It was all he could say.
Sunshine. My sunshine. Have to see my sunshine.
Lois was giving him odd looks that he caught whenever he managed to keep his eyes open for longer than thirty seconds. He was well-accustomed to her scrutiny, but the way she was looking at him now gave him the impression that she was far more concerned about her friend than she was journalistically inquisitive. Even so, Clark knew her well enough to know that she was undoubtedly dying to pry—to wedge the shovel of her poison pen beneath his weakened exterior and dig up the history in his pleading eyes.
The fact that she did not question a single thing said a lot about their friendship. Distantly, Clark thought to thank her later with a gift card to Jitters. Maybe a freshly baked platter of cookies that he’d take the credit for but really he owed everything to his Ma’s recipe, scribbled in the margins of a small notebook she’d given him for college.
He would write a little note as though pen and paper could make up for the hell he’d put her through. Sorry you had to save me from a pocket universe, it would read. I promise to try and not have another identity crisis that results in my incarceration and slow, painful torture from which you feel obligated to rescue me from.
Unfortunately, any remuneration would have to wait until he could lift his head without feeling like he was going to nosedive through the floor.
“I think we’re here,” he heard Lois’ voice, steady and even despite everything that she’d been through in recent hours.
Hours. Had it already been hours? Time passed funny when you were wading in and out of consciousness.
“Sunshine,” he was mumbling before he could stop himself. “M-my sunshine—”
Thankfully, he had enough of his wits about him to not say your actual name, at least not until the T-Craft had landed safely on the edge of the Kents’ forty-some acres of farmland. Who knew what kind of bugs Mr. Terrific had in his aircraft. And no one—not even the members of the Justice Gang—knew about you. Of course, Lois was surely about to find out, but the ramifications of that were the furthest thing from his mind.
My sunshine. I need to see you. I’m coming home. I think I’m almost home.
“Yes, we’re here, Clark.” Darn it, he must’ve said all that out loud. “You gotta help me, okay?”
Yes, he sighed, and his lungs burned in protest. Internally or externally he could hardly discern. Please. I need to see her.
Krypto was prancing in anxious circles the moment the aircraft touched the ground. A violent shiver wracked Clark’s body when Lois appeared at his side, struggling to curl his arm over her shoulder and hoist him out of the comparatively small seat. His hulking size didn’t help matters, though Clark did everything in his limited power to help her.
Unfortunately, most of his brain was preoccupied with finding you. Seeing you. Hearing you. Feeling you.
My sunshine.
Golly, his head was spinning.
“C’mon, big guy,” Lois strained with the effort of lifting him. He felt horrible. Guilt-ridden and ashamed that she had to see him like this, broken and battered. He worried about his parents’ reaction, too; because of course he’d inherited his obsessive level of worry from them.
Everything about everything was just…awful.
Please, oh please. My sunshine. I need you to make it better.
The stairs of the T-Craft whirred mechanically as they unfurled. Together they trudged down the stairs and into the misty midwestern night. Clark had no idea what time it was, but sincerely hoped it wasn’t too late. His Ma and Pa needed their rest. He shouldn’t be disturbing them like this, least of all after what they’d just learned. For Pete’s sake, he shouldn’t even be showing his face—
His parents were in front of him, worried expressions drawn tight across their faces. And the guilt was quickly replaced with relief at the familiarity of their warm eyes.
Family. Home.
“I’m Martha, this is John,” Ma explained as Pa stepped forward to help Lois.
“Lois,” she greeted as Krypto loped across the dewy lawn.
“Oh, goodness gracious. What on earth happened?” Ma was frantic, eyes scanning his disheveled body as the four of them trudged slowly to the ranch.
“Very long story,” he heard Lois mumble. “He’s…it’s from Kryptonite,” she offered as Ma urgently scanned his tattered face. Her own face fell at Lois’ words.
Perhaps a little selfishly, Clark was still mostly distracted by his thoughts of your proximity and how close he was to being in your arms. Your shared residence was about a two hour drive West of Smallville, which was a hell of a lot closer than he usually was to you in Metropolis.
If he were in better shape, he could find you by your heartbeat. He’d done it so many times, it was like breathing. But breathing right now was a grueling effort, and his senses were depleted. He wasn’t himself, in more ways than solely physical. Simply put, Clark didn’t know who he was anymore.
But you did.
You carried a piece of him with you, always. Perhaps without realizing. You cherished every part of him in ways he’d never understand, and right now he needed more than anything to have you remind him of who he was. To the world as Superman, but more importantly, to you as Clark Kent.
He must’ve been babbling again, because his Ma was hushing him in the same tone she’d used when he would cry as a boy. “You’re alright, son. It’s okay. She’s on her way, comin’ as fast as she can.”
She’s on her way.
The relief punched through his body harder than the Kryptonite had.
He didn’t remember being ushered up the front porch, down the hallway of his childhood where he struggled to fit in. Now, in more ways than one. The pictures that lined the walls felt mocking; representative of a life he thought he’d known. A weight he thought he knew how to carry.
Pa and Lois helped him onto his bed, which was uncomfortably small. Even as a sprouting teenager, the twin XL did little to contain his abnormally large frame. As a grown adult, his feet hung awkwardly over the end of the bed, calves digging into the footboard.
Clark hardly knew what was spewing from his mouth—garbled sounds, distressed huffs. A few incoherent words, distraught pleas to his Ma and Pa about the ugly truth of his heritage, as tears seared down the sides of his sweaty face. But once again, you were always right there, lingering just beneath the surface of his pool of sorrow.
Sunshine. Sunshine. Sunshine.
It was too dark without you.
“She’s on her way, sweetheart,” Ma spoke, and nonsensical as he was, he could still hear the pain bleeding into her voice at the sight of her son, so obviously wounded beyond what the eye could see. Pa was on his other side. He could feel a hand, calloused as his own, resting gently on his shoulder.
“Who is she?” it was Lois, somewhere across the room. Curious, as always, but careful.
Pa says your name. Even hearing it is like feeling the sun caress the cockles of his heart. “Our other Mrs. Kent,” he adds.
There was a pause. Then, the single, incredulous “oh,” from his colleague.
“Sh-she’s almost here?” Clark hears himself ask Ma, because he can’t help it.
“Yes, Clark,” Ma says, her fingers in his hair. He doesn’t know how much longer he can stay awake.
“I had no idea that he was…” Lois trails off, sounding slightly mesmerized.
“Nobody does,” Pa supplied. “And we’d sure like to keep it that way, hm?” Pa’s voice was threatening in the way that calm lingered before a storm. Most often, the cell would pass with nothing but the threat—the smell of rain, a warning of downpour. But the threat, the promise, was there.
“Of course. I would never say anything,” Lois responds. She sounds sincere. Lois Lane is sharp and cunning and full of more spitfire than the Kaiju he’d fought, but she is always sincere.
“Ma,” Clark could feel himself fading. “Ma. I need her. Please, I n-n—”
“I know, Clark. I know. You just relax. You’ll be alright. If you can't wait up for her tonight, you’ll see her in the mornin’, okay?”
He’d been about to protest when he felt it. Felt you. Even with muted senses, there was no denying the slam of the screen door. The spike in his hearing, reaching out to listen for your breath. He felt his body lift slightly off the bed, only to be gently pushed back down by his parents.
Sunshine?
He calls for you. Your real name, this time.
“Clark?!”
Your panicked voice makes his stomach twist.
No, don’t hurt, sunshine. Please, it’s alright.
You burst into the room and the entire atmosphere shifts. Pa gives his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. Ma loops her arm through Lois’, whose eyes had immediately locked onto yours. Everyone vacates the room quickly and quietly; even Lois goes with nothing more than a questioning look, though Clark knows he owes her an explanation in the near future.
Meanwhile, you haven’t torn your eyes from him.
“Oh god, oh god,” your face twists in misery at the sight of him. And although he hates to see you hurting—especiallybecause of him—the selfish bits of his soul can’t help but feel relieved. He feels it in every bone in his body, the way you lift the burden of his sorrows simply by existing in the same space, pouring your light onto him without even trying.
Between the two of you, you had always been the stronger one. He’s not afraid to admit that.
Despite his body’s protests, his shaking arms encircle you the moment you’re within reach. His nose burrows into the junction of your neck and shoulder, and he doesn’t even care that he’s crying anymore. Can no longer hear the sound of his own warbled voice above the pounding tempo of your heart.
“Clark,” you breathe, voice low and trembling.
“My sunshine,” he stammers. “You’re here.”
“Of course I am, baby,” you say as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. He shakes beneath you. You’re real and warm and smell like home. He can no longer discern why he’s crying—physical pain? Emotional turmoil? His parents’ message? Or is it nothing more than the relief of feeling you?
“Oh Clark.” Like him, you’re shuddering. “You…they told me…are you—” you start and suddenly stop when his muscles spasm with phantom pain. He doesn’t mean for you to see, but close as you are there’s no hiding the way his body shakes like it’s just now remembering the poison in his blood.
The usual firmness in his embrace is lacking and he knows it. You know it.
“Okay, okay. Just relax,” you say next, and your voice shifts like day to night, slow and seamless. It’s remarkable how easily you’ve slipped into the tone he needs—soothing, calm. Simply present. Your palm splays at the top of his head before combing through his messy curls with the kind of tenderness that makes him think you’ve forgotten that he’s indestructible.
Well, maybe not entirely.
“I’ve got you, Clark.”
His jaw quivers against your skin. “D-did…you see the…the video–”
“That doesn’t matter right now. Just breathe, rest.”
“I’m so sorry, I–”
“It’s okay.”
“Tha-that’s not me. I would never hurt anybody– please, I—”
“Clark,” he feels a kiss pressed to the crown of his head. When you pull back to look at him, there’s a desperation in your eyes that he’s helpless to ignore. “I know that. Right now you have to focus on healing, okay? You’re very hurt.”
“M’fine,” he tries. A last-ditch effort to abate the deepening concern in your eyes.
“Right. And I’m Batman.”
“M’jus’ a little banged up…”
“It’s Kryptonite poisoning, Clark. That’s more than a little banged up.” You’re examining him, he realizes. Cupping his cheek and tracing the lines of his face, neck, and shoulders with your worried eyes. Gosh, he can’t stand it. Can’t stand to see you fretting over him. Even if it secretly means the world, even if all he wants is the reassurance that someone still sees him for him in spite of the world’s shifting view. But he doesn’t want you to suffer for it.
He tries to speak, but his voice catches like sandpaper against his dry throat. The sound is mangled, rough. It pinches your brows together and you’re cradling his face now. Horrifically, he sees your eyes turn glassy. He moves his shaking hand to rest over yours.
“Oh god, Clark. You could…you could’ve died—”
His heart clenches again.
It’s okay.
I’m okay.
Don’t worry.
All that comes out instead is a disoriented whine.
“Don’t go.” he finally manages instead of the comforting words he’d wanted to give you. “Please. Don’t go.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” you say with as much finality as you can muster. But then you try to move like you’re leaving, like you’re lying, and he can’t have that.
“Stay,” he slurs, and uses what little strength he has left to ensnare you in his hold.
You grumble in protest. “I am. There’s just not enough room for both of us.” You’re right, but he doesn’t care.
“Stay,” he repeats, and that’s all it takes. Maybe you’re equally as helpless in denying him as he is in denying you. Maybe you both care a little too deeply and that’s part of why he can’t let you go and why he knows you wouldn’t actually leave this room if your life depended on it.
You clamber awkwardly onto the bed, and it squeaks as you give your best attempt to get comfortable in the tiny rectangle of space that remains after he’s filled almost the entire mattress. You flinch like he’s burned you when he winces as you’re getting settled, and all he can think about is how badly he wants to kiss away the pinch in your brows.
“Clark, I’m going to hurt you,” your eyes threaten to spill over. “I don’t want to make it worse. You…please. You need to heal.”
Unfortunately, he’s already content to doze off now that you’re here; one arm draped across his chest, your legs carefully brushing his. He reaches a hand down to the bend of your knee and swings your leg over his waist to bring you closer.
“Could never hurt me,” he mumbles into the top of your hair. “Jus’ stay. Need you t’hold me, sunshine. Please.”
He hears a sigh of defeat leave your lips when he shudders through another sharp ache that wracks his entire body.
Right, Kryptonite. He was poisoned. He was injured. He is hurt. It’s easy to forget when you're this close.
“Oh, Clark,” you whisper. The hand across his chest moves to caress his cheek, fingertips ghosting over his stubble before tracing the black tendrils of his sickened veins down the side of his neck.
“My sunshine,” he manages as his eyes slide closed. He sounds pathetic, and although he wants nothing more than to be strong for you he knows it’s more than he can manage right now. You’re right—he needs rest, but he couldn’t have gotten it without you.
“Shh, I’ve got you,” you exhale into the space beneath his jaw. “It’s okay. I’m here. Just rest. It’s okay.”
“M’ s-sorry…”
“It’s alright. I’m here. I love you, Clark. I don’t care about the video, okay? I’m here because I love you. Without exception.”
I love you. It makes his heart want to sing it back, but he’s just too tired. So he hums low in the back of his throat, attempting to let his body relax now that you’re at his side.
As it always does, your presence works like cough syrup around a sore throat. Soothing and calming the inflamed bits of him.
“We’ll talk tomorrow, okay?”
He vaguely feels himself nodding.
My sunshine.
You settle over him like dusk, and he slips into a dreamless sleep.
~~~~
It’s just his luck that he wakes feeling almost as miserable as the night before. Despite being physically restored, the doom and gloom of his thoughts did not seem to evaporate overnight. He wakes feeling just as bad about everything—the video of his parents, Mali’s death, his failure to save the rest of the prisoners in Luthor’s pocket-prison, Lois and Terrific putting themselves in danger for his sake. Heck, he still feels awful about the Justice Gang’s rather violent elimination of Kaiju.
And of course, he’s sickened by the stress he’s put you under. Because he knows you as well as you know him, and he’s aware that you worry yourself sick every time that he’s gone. Which recently, has been more than he’s preferred. Now, with everything that’s happened, he knows you were beside yourself at the news. At the unknown. And he despairs over the fact that he couldn’t get to you sooner to explain—that you were the one finding him, and in this wretched state no less. Really, he should be the one comforting you.
But golly, does it feel nice to be on the receiving end of your warmth.
When he wakes, you’re no longer in bed with him. He’d expected as much; it wasn’t ideal trying to sleep whilst half hanging off the mattress. In your place is the white fuzzy mass of his cousin’s mutt, tail thumping rhythmically against the comforter with barely contained energy.
Clark sighs, bringing a hand to stroke Krypto’s head when the door creaks open.
Krypto’s ears flop up, the left one obnoxiously high in his signature look of curiosity, and he starts shaking in excitement at the sight of you. He pushes off of Clark’s stomach, and his groan of protest makes you scold the dog softly.
“I thought you’d be in here. Hey! Gentle. What did we talk about?”
For whatever reason, Krypto listens to you more than he listens to…well, anyone. The dog gives a soft whine before nuzzling your legs as you approach. Clark smiles at the sight, sitting up in bed as you give Krypto a scratch behind his perked ear.
“Alright. I think Ma cooked up some extra bacon. Go pester her for a bit, yeah?”
He gives your shorts a playful tug before loping down the hall. You close the door softly behind him and wander over to the side of the bed.
You look tired in the way that someone who just woke up does, and he adds your lack of sleep to the long list of things currently dampening his mood.
“Hey,” you say.
“Hi,” he greets. Although he is just as lost for words as he was when he was writhing in pain, Clark is sure his eyes convey enough of his inner turmoil given the way that you sit at the side of the bed with a steadying breath.
His hand immediately seeks yours. He brushes his thumb over your wedding ring, eyes settling on your face. Right away, you get the message.
With a shy smile you remove your hand from his to click open the large, intricate locket you never go anywhere without. It sits right over your heart, made from bits of the Fortress’ sunstone crystals. A single ring falls into your palm, and you click the necklace shut again. Then you’re grabbing his left hand to slide the band home at the base of his ring finger. You press a kiss over the jewelry. Then another for every knuckle.
Clark is watching you fondly the entire time, like you hold the sun itself in your hands. His smile broadens when a gorgeous flush appears on your cheeks under his stare.
Your eyes dance across his face and upper body. “How are you feeling?”
He can’t stop looking at you. “Better. Normal.”
You nod with a shaky sigh. “Good. That’s good.” Clark watches your throat dip as you swallow, before looking between his eyes with a raw sort of pain that all at once makes his chest feel like it’s being cracked open. “I was so worried,” you say in a whisper.
“I know,” his voice is just as quiet. “I’m sorry. Gosh, I’m so sorry, baby…” he lets his head thunk back against the headboard.
“Hey,” you grip his fingers. “Don’t. Don’t do that, Clark.”
“What?” he asks.
“Talk like everything bad that’s ever happened is a result of your personal failure.”
His jaw clenches. “It sort of feels that way right now.”
“I’m sure it does,” you say. “But that doesn’t make it true. You’re a good person, Clark. The best I know. The best any of us know.”
He can’t look you in the eye as he huffs derisively. “Doesn’t matter. None of it was real. None of it was honest.”
“Why?” you challenge. “Because your birth parents said so?”
Clark shakes his head. How is he supposed to explain? How is he supposed to tell you how utterly unwound he feels? As though someone unstrung his innards and used them to spell out his truth for the whole world to see? How is he supposed to tell you that he's responsible for an innocent man's death? That that very thing is what his parents would have wanted?
“You don’t understand,” he says weakly. “It…I thought I knew who I was. That I was sent here to help people. To keep them safe.”
“You are. You do.”
He shakes his head. “It’s not the same anymore.”
“It is to me,” you say firmly. “Clark, you’ve dedicated your entire life to helping others. That doesn’t stop or magically go away because the context of that video is different from what you originally thought. And…” you pause for breath, and maybe for courage. “And I don’t believe that you’re the person you are today solely because of your biological parents. I’m sorry, but I don’t.” You hold his hand a little tighter. “You never knew them. Not in the ways that mattered. And I know that’s bothered you, but…if that's who they were, then you're nothing like them, Clark. You’re an amalgamation of the people who know and love you now, the people you’ve helped. Your Ma and Pa. Kara. Me. Lois and Jimmy. Every cat you’ve rescued from a tree. Every person and life you’ve saved.”
He can’t break away from the fierce determination in your eyes even if he wants to. With the gravitational pull of a burning star, you draw him in. “You get your never-ending caring and hope for this world from the people you’ve surrounded yourself with. They’re just as much a part of why you do what you do as your birth parents were.”
Clark feels his jaw tremble. Feels the words seep in through his skin like rays of sunlight. This is why he needs you. Why you, above everyone and everything else, were more precious than anything.
Still, it’s difficult to believe, even coming from you. How is he supposed to accept that his parents’ intention was for him to destroy the planet? To harm the very people he’d sworn his life away to protect? Even if he was the result of his upbringing, the foundation of his morals as Superman were all wrong. Corrupted. Misguided.
“I don’t know how to exist without that part of me,” he says.
“No one said you had to,” you say gently. “You’ll always be Kryptonian. But it’s what you value about that heritage that counts. And to me, what you’ve valued the most is the very thing that sets you apart from the rest of us.” He grounds himself in the way your fingertips brush across his knuckles. You continue with a fire in your eyes that warms him to his core. “The strength. The speed. Every other one of your gifts. Clark, you’ve spent your life using what makes you different not to harm, not to conquer, though you so easily could. But to help. To do good. And I think that selflessness is what makes you just the same as any decent human who’s ever known what it means to be different.”
He’s lost for words any longer than, “thank you. I love you. I’m sorry.”
He doesn’t realize he’s pulled you close until you’re nearly chest to chest in an awkward standing-sitting hug.
“You don’t have to be sorry,” you say. “I love you too.”
“Thank you,” he breathes. “For just…just being you. Being here.”
“Of course, Clark. We'll get through it together, okay?” you soothe, and he feels your breath travel down his neck. He wants you closer. You hesitate at the push and pull of his hands.
“I’m better. Promise. No more pain,” he reassures you.
Through the curtains, the early afternoon sun flickers across your face, and it makes the sparkle in your eyes dance as you allow him to pull you into his lap. Your arms go around his neck and then he’s falling into your chest, letting you cradle his skull as he breathes you in.
“I missed you,” he mumbles, the cool chain of your locket pressing into his cheek.
“I missed you more,” comes your response.
“Is Lois still here?” he asks. He’s certain that she’s buzzing to interrogate him.
“Left early this morning,” you say. “Something about Jimmy’s unimaginable penchant for snagging women and saving the day.”
Clark presses a kiss to your collarbone, making a mental note to send her a text. Right now, though, he’s content to feel the way you rise and fall slightly in his lap with every one of his breaths.
“Are you upset that she knows?” he asks, because he’s genuinely curious. When Lois had pieced together for herself that he was Superman, there was no talking himself out of it. She wasn’t a sharp-witted, Pulitzer-prize winning investigative journalist for no reason. But for as long as you two had been together, Clark had kept your marriage a successful secret from everyone who knew of his alter ego. You’d agreed it was better off that way, even if it was difficult.
He’d been Superman for nearly three years now. He believed in the good of humanity, but he’d also seen some of its worst. If the wrong people got word that he was married, he might as well paint a giant red target on your back, and he couldn’t stand the thought of you put in danger because of him.
“No,” you say carefully. “I liked Lois from everything you’ve told me about her. And she was very understanding when we spoke this morning, if not a little shocked about the whole thing. But I trust her. And I know you do too.”
He absently rubs his hands up and down the length of your back. You’re in one of his high school t-shirts; he’d long outgrown them and had been more than happy to donate them for a better cause.
“Okay,” he says, before kissing the heart-shaped dip of your collarbone.
Clark withdraws slowly to look at you. You’re beautiful. So, so pretty. He doesn’t deserve you. Your kindness and honesty. Your willingness to be patient with him, to understand when he has to miss dates or anniversaries and still welcome him with open arms when he returns to you. To stand at his side even when the rest of the world has turned against him. To patch his wounds in the ways only you know how.
That beautiful blush reappears, and you give him a bashful smile. “Stop it.”
“Hm?” he hums innocently.
You fiddle with the fabric of his cape. “Looking at me like that.”
“I’d apologize, but I’m not actually sorry, so that’d be a lie.” He rubs his thumbs over the apples of your cheeks. “I just like looking at you. You’re so beautiful. So bright. It’s like having my own personal sun following me wherever I go.”
You lean in to brush your nose with his. “You’re a hopeless romantic,” you say breathily, and he hears the way your heart speeds up.
“Not hopeless. Heartfelt.”
You giggle, and it flutters around in his ears like birdsong.
“I’m so grateful you’re okay,” you say softly, nudging his nose. “When Ma told me what happened, I thought—”
“Hey,” he stops you with a reassuring squeeze of your hips. It’s fascinating how he reacts to the intense way in which you fret over him; he craves the attention of the person who knows him better than anyone while simultaneously wanting to prevent anything negative from ever harming your spirit, including himself. “I’ll be okay.”
Your gaze turns firm. “You’re a good man, Clark Kent. Don’t ever let the Luthors of this world make you doubt that.”
“I’ll try,” is the best he can promise you. Because it still hurts, everything about it, and he won’t deny that. But you’ve done your due diligence in assuaging the guilt, just as he thought you would. Like a seasoned surgeon, Clark can feel the stitches of your words piecing him back together with meticulous precision. But scars take time to heal.
You place a gentle, barely-there kiss against his upper lip, and his body reawakens like prodded coals over a dying flame.
“I know the man I married,” you breathe against his mouth, hips shifting above his. “And I know he’s wholly good. Full of kindness. Compassion. Sincerity.” You ghost another kiss against his lips, and he chases you on an exhale as you withdraw.
“What’s the saying?” he asks, firming his grip on your waist to halt your wiggling. It’s making it difficult to focus. “Behind every great man there’s a greater woman?”
You chew on your lower lip, and it takes all his willpower not to pluck it from your teeth with his thumb. “I don’t know if that applies in our case. Is anyone greater than Superman?”
“I think you know my answer to that, sunshine.” Just like that, he can’t take it anymore. He kisses you soundly, reverent and slow. You breathe life into his lungs with the way you press closer, humming in pure bliss. Your fingers curl into his hair, tentative at first as though you’re still concerned with breaking him. Which, to be fair, you absolutely have the power to do so. Just not in the sense he thinks you’re worried about.
Clark often forgets that you need air a great deal faster than he does, but is reminded of this fact when you’re the first to pull back. You don’t go far, especially not with him chasing after you, nosing along your jaw and peppering kisses on any spare inch of skin his greedy lips can find.
After a few long breaths you guide him back to your lips. He lets you tilt his head with your palms across his jaw. He lets you lead. Lets you have anything and everything you want, always.
You’re running your hands down his front, fingers catching over the dirtied crest across his chest when your kisses turn breathier.
“Mmm. You need a shower,” you murmur into his lips.
His answer comes in the way he swings his legs over the side of the bed, easily lifting you into his arms. You squeal in surprise, fingers curling into his cape as you giggle into his neck.
“Ma got breakfast keepin’ warm in the oven?” he asks, relishing in the way your thighs squeeze around his abdomen.
You nod. “More like lunch. It’s past noon, Superman,” you tease, scattering kisses across the muscles of his neck.
“Sorry,” he apologizes. He had been exhausted and more than needed the rest, but he shouldn’t have kept you all waiting so long. But since you already had… “Surely a few more minutes won’t kill anyone.”
In truth, he doesn’t think he could let you go if he tried. He’s drawn to you in a deeply intimate, inexplicable way. Has been since you were bumbling, bashful, teenagers dancing together at Smallville High’s homecoming. And though he’s usually perfectly content holding you without expecting anything more, right now he needs you close in a way that is only satisfied by his baser instincts.
Especially considering recent events, he just can’t help it—he needs your touch, craves it like a bird longs for empty sky, captivated by the promise of freedom and light. In the wake of his reputation’s imminent destruction, he needs it now more than ever. Craves the pacifying nature of your touches; in equal measure, he longs to undo you as much as you undo him.
“Clark,” you’re breathing heavily against the crook of his neck, hiding as he walks down the hallway to the sole bathroom in the Kent residence. “I'm sure your parents will notice if we're hogging the bathroom.”
“You said it's past noon? I’m sure Pa’s already tending to the cows,” he counters. “Ma’s likely on the porch micromanaging. And,” he gently nudges the bathroom door shut with his heel, “you’re my wife. I need you.” He sets you down, and the room feels laughably small as you both crowd the space. He doesn’t let you get far, cradling your skull and guiding you to look up at him as he draws near. “They understand. Wouldn’t have called you otherwise.”
It’s an obvious guilt trip and you both know it. But it works. Golly, does it work. Because you’re looking at him with a face full of surrender and he can smell the way the air turns between you.
“Please?” he asks next. He always does. It’s more than a courtesy, it’s about reciprocation. He only wants you if he knows you want him too. “Please touch me, sunshine? I needed you so bad these last few days.”
You nod, and in the next beat he’s already slanted his mouth to yours. You kiss with the blended weight of anticipation and relief, and when you touch each other next, clothes start hitting the tile.
He’s working down your shorts as you fumble with the faucet you both forgot to turn on so the water could heat. Your hands struggle with the clasp of his cape and the zip beneath. It’s always an adventure trying to get his suit off, and after all these years Clark has accepted that there’s simply no sexy way to do it. You share a few laughs and at one point he almost falls over trying to get down the ridiculous trunks, but he’s easily distracted by your scaldingly warm hands over his bare chest.
When the last of his uniform finally hits the ground, it feels like shedding a second skin. Despite everything, Clark still cherishes being Superman—it's a privilege and an honor. By now, it’s so intricately interwoven into who he is that sometimes he can’t distinguish between the two parts of himself. However, for once he lets himself accept the wave of relief as red and blue crumple on the floor. The weightlessness that comes with finally getting to be Clark Kent again. He has a lot to work through in the coming days, what with trying to re-learn what the cape means to both him and the rest of the world. Right now, though, he’s giving himself some grace. He’s being selfish.
He's forgetting it all in favor of feeling you, and letting you feel him in return.
Your hands light a trail as you explore the planes of his body, which twitches and tingles beneath your warm fingertips. Clark is equally as exploratory, pinning you softly against the countertop as his palms skirt the outline of your naked body.
He'd been with you just over a week ago, but each time feels new, somehow. He gets the same thrill out of touching you that he did the very first time. He chalks it up to your mysterious ability of making him feel born anew every time you touch him—as though the way you beam unto him causes him to blossom into your light. In fact, he becomes so overwhelmed with the feel of your skin beneath his hands that he shakes.
"Clark…" you notice right away, because of course you do.
"I'm okay," he pleads, words muffled because he can't take his lips away from your skin. "Just…I missed you so much."
That seems to shatter something in you, a broken whine rattling from your chest as you arch your body into his. In an attempt to not run up his parents' water bill, Clark blindly shoves the shower curtain aside, guiding you into the cramped space.
You hiss in discomfort when you step over the lip of the tub. Clark quickly steps in behind you, bearing the brunt of the still-cool water that is clearly taking longer than it should to warm up. He'll have to take a look at the water heater later.
As is the rest of the Kent ranch, the shower is quaint and by all means not designed to accommodate a 6'4 Kryptonian, let alone a 6'4 Kryptonian and his wife. But you've made it work before, and you're both too eager and too overcome with longing that you're willing to ignore the claustrophobia of the small tub.
Clark's head sits a good few inches above the line of the shower curtain, but he doesn't mind at all. Particularly because he's not spending much time standing straight anyway, head and lips preoccupied with leaning down to ravage your mouth with his.
Your bodies dampen quickly under the spray and every touch becomes slippery. Your nails clutch his shoulders as he tucks you against the corner of the shower furthest from the warming water; you're generating enough of your own heat, anyway.
"Clark," you whine his name like a desperate prayer and he knows instantly what you're asking for. If he didn't, surely the way your hips were moving against his solid thigh would've clued him in.
He manages to wrench a hand away from your beautiful face to slide down the front of your body. He detours at one of your breasts, distracted by the way your nipple—already almost fully erect from the cold water—hardens further under his attention. He can't help himself, leaning down to replace his fingers with the warm muscle of his tongue. You arch into him instantly, hooking a leg over his hip and shamelessly grinding against his cock as your head tilts back against the acrylic wall.
Even with the water swirling over your bodies, he can feel the wetness of your cunt as it slips against his cock, intoxicating in its invitation of heat. He can't help his groan, mouth popping off of your breast when the sensitive tip of him just barely catches at your entrance.
Suddenly there's two tight little hands entangled in his damp hair.
"Clark," you beg. "Please, just…just—"
His brows pinch together as he attempts to distract you with a kiss. "Gotta prep you." His thumb finally swirls over your engorged clit as he says it, and the reaction is instantaneous, evidenced by the change in pitch of your whines.
He's not trying to be cruel, but Clark knows he's—as Jimmy once crudely suggested—"largely endowed". Hell, he remembers the bulging of your eyes the first time you'd been about to have sex. He'd blushed profusely and stammered through reassurances, promising he'd take as much care and time as you needed to prepare for him. Suffice it to say that penetration had not been successful that night, but that was perfectly fine with Clark. It was the first time you'd let him go down on you as an alternative.
Of course, several years of marriage later and he's gotten it down to a science. You weren't nearly as prepared to take him as you could—as you should—be. Especially standing up.
Apparently, you're hellbent on torturing him today. Which is so, so cruel. Don't you remember the last few days he's had?
"I don't care," you shudder the words against his mouth. "Please, I just want to feel you. I want…I want you to feel me, use me, just…just please."
Good golly. He's stronger than this. He knows he is. But you reduce him to fragments of the man who's saved the world countless times. Fragments only you have the power to put back together with your lips and your hands and your sweet, sweet, pussy that's so warm and so wet and he can smell how eager you are—
"I don't want to hurt you," he forces himself to say it. In part because it's true, but also because it's the only way for him to cling onto his wavering restraint.
You understand his hesitation. He knows this because when you guide his eyes to yours, they're purely soft. The lust lingers, simmering at the surface of your blown pupils, but the look on your face is gentle. Reassuring. Wanting.
"You won't, I promise," you whisper. "I missed you, I missed having this. Especially with everything that's happened." You place a gentle kiss on his lips. "I want you to make love to me, Clark. Just wanna be close to you."
The decision is made before you even finish speaking. All it took was one flash of those soft, overly delicate eyes for him to melt.
Clark plants a peck on your kiss-swollen lips. "You'll tell me if it's too much?"
You nod. "You know I always do." Then your hips are resuming their torturously slow grind against his, and his eyelids flutter at the feeling.
You kiss him as he reaches between you to align himself. He makes a show of rubbing the sensitive head over your clit, just enough to make the need boil over and drive you both mad with anticipation. When he can no longer stand it, Clark pushes into you slowly. Everything around him narrows to the singular point of your pleasure—the way your expression sharpens at the intrusion; the way your nails bite into his biceps.
"Oh, sunshine." The sound he lets out is low and obscene, but in an attempt to be mindful of his lurking parents, he presses it into your mouth instead.
You smother your own cry against his lips too, gasping at the feeling of being split open by him. The pause he gives you to adjust lingers longer than usual, because he'd meant what he said about not wanting to hurt you. That, and the feeling of your velvet-coated cunt wrapped so snugly around his cock demands a moment's hesitation lest this be over before it starts.
He takes your impatient squirming as the sign to move. Clark starts slow, pushing himself deeper while pulling out slower. Several times, he slips out entirely, sliding the length of him through your sopping pussy up to your throbbing clit. You make the sweetest noises, soft in your attempt to keep them at a respectable volume.
"Okay?" he checks in on a particularly deep thrust.
You nod, lip between your teeth with a look that borders pain and pleasure; but you're starting to meet his movements and he can hear the way your heart pounds—you're enjoying it as much as he is. Your muttered praises and assurances melt through his skin and flow over every inner piece of him like magma. He feels like he's welded to you, sinking further into the molten heat of your body, helpless to do anything but fuse against your skin.
"Stretching me so good."
"I missed you."
"So glad you're safe."
"God, feel so full."
"I love you so much."
Clark has always been an overly emotional person who feels everything in troves; in moments like these, charged with too many feelings to put words to, that intensity increases tenfold. Telling him you love him nearly does him in. He loses himself in the feel of you, in the way your body feels like safety, your voice sounds like home, and it's simultaneously too much and not enough.
His eyes fall on the silver locket—the one you never take off, especially when he's gone, housing his wedding ring for safekeeping. A piece of him with you wherever you go. He presses a kiss over it, its metal taste amplified by the water. He looks up to find your eyes hot on his, rapt with intensity.
A hand cups his cheek. “Don’t scare me like that again,” you demand, though the sound is breathless and he’s eager to envelop your words with his mouth, but he waits.
"I promise," he says, and he'll spend the rest of his days trying his hardest to keep it. Though, he knows you're aware that he can't keep every one. But you love him anyway, and it feels unfair, and now he feels bad, so he's kissing you again because he adores the way it makes you cling to him that much harder.
When he retracts, there's a floaty look across your features as you tremble in his arms, hips canting to match his rhythm. Clark pinches your chin between his thumb and forefinger, your noses brushing as he guides your dreamy eyes to his. "You okay?"
You let out a breathless moan as you nod, beautiful eyes searching his. "Feels so good," you say, silken and full of yearning.
He presses kisses onto your shoulder. "Feels good for me too, sweetheart."
Clark cradles the crease of your knee, shifting you higher and opening you wider. The angle changes, and you both groan at the subtle, intense difference. The open-mouthed kiss you share is messy, slow, and uncaring as you breathe into each other's mouths. Everything about it is sensual and close and perfect, exactly what his weary soul had longed for.
Naturally, the pace increases as the tension steadily begins to build. He can feel your hard nipples scraping across his chest, the slip and slide of your bodies amplified by the falling water. He reads the focus on your face and can tell you're trying desperately to get there, to meet him in the middle. So of course, he has to help you along, because he exists for the sole purpose of your satisfaction. His own release is nearly inconsequential, a happy byproduct.
Two thick fingers settle just where you meet, and he stimulates the nerves all around your quivering cunt as he moves, feeling the way his cock breaches you on every thrust. Up, down, up, down in sloppy lines that trace the lips of your labia.
Clark watches your jaw fall and anticipates the sound that follows, quickly using his free hand to stifle it.
"Shhh, honey. Not too loud."
It seems that only invigorates your pleasure. Those beautiful eyes of yours roll into your skull. Clark takes the chance to be a little mean, as penance for your earlier goading him into skipping foreplay. His fingers settle at the apex of your thighs, and you jolt against the firm wall of his chest when he begins to circle your clit.
You're moaning becomes unbidden, barely muffled by his hand as he increases the staccato movement of his hips. One of your own hands roots in his soaked hair, the other splayed across his ribcage as you drool into his palm, everything a mix of sweat and water and spit.
You look blissed-out and beautiful.
"I missed you," he breathes. "You're so pretty. I missed you so, so much. My sweet girl, my sunshine. You're everything t'me, did you know that?" He thinks that drawn out moan might be a yes. "M'nothing without you. I love you so—ah—so much. Yeah, I know, baby. It feels so good, doesn't it?"
He lets his hand fall in favor of anchoring himself to your hips.
"F-fuck, Clark—"
He's begun to suspect that you've uncovered his dirty little secret—that hearing you curse drives him wild. He didn't typically enjoy profanities, but hearing them slip from your sweet little mouth entirely on accident, entirely because of him—well, that was a completely different situation.
His hips snap forward and it yanks another expletive from your lips.
"Gettin' close, honey?"
Your nod smushes your nose across his face. "Clark…"
"C'mon," he pants into your ear. "Let go. Let it happen, baby. Oh, I missed you so much—"
The telltale quaking of your thighs alerts him that you're nearly there. Clark is suddenly overcome with his desperation to feel it, fully ignoring the tingling that's settled at the base of his spine, the weight in his balls, the taut feeling spreading through his abdomen. His fingers rock over your clit, frantic but precise, just the right amount of pressure.
Your whines have increased in volume, and distantly Clark prays that his parents are actually outside, because there's no way they can't hear your sharp cries as your nails burrow into his skin, longing to leave marks that'll heal faster than they harm.
He begs you again, your name tumbling out of his pleading mouth as he urges you to cum for him, and that does it. Your release is tense, the shock of your overwhelmed nervous system escaping your body in several jerks. It's too much to feel you clamping around him, and his control snaps like a rubber band. Before he knows it he's fucking you through your release, chasing his impending high.
"Oh, baby," his voice shakes as it fans across your cheek, humid against your shower-soaked face. "You're gonna make me cum."
"Please," you weep. "Clark, please, inside me, need t'feel it, please cum in me, baby."
And finally, the next full-body shudder that wrecks his body is pleasant instead of painful. He whimpers like it hurts, but it's the furthest thing from pain and the closest thing to heaven. He burrows his head into your neck, body slumping forwards as he pumps his hips into you, feeling his warmth seep deep inside your fluttering cunt. Your hands run down his back, up his sides, down his chest, up his arms. You pull his face out of hiding, ushering his mouth back to yours with languid movements of your lips on his.
"I love you," he says into the kiss, wet and messy, water and spit mixing in your mouths.
"Love you too," you shudder.
For reasons beyond his comprehension, Clark feels his eyes fill with tears. For a moment, he hopes the guise of the shower might keep you from noticing, but of course it doesn't.
"Hey." Your warm hands spread across his face, thumbs tracing his cheek bones. "What is it?"
His voice breaks. "I'm just…I'm sorry. Sometimes it feels like I don't deserve you."
"Clark." Your voice isn't pitiful. It isn't bothered. It's overflowing with tenderness, and the kind of understanding that only comes with knowing a person better than you know yourself. "I wish you could believe me when I tell you that you're one of the best people I know. But even if you can't, at least trust in how much I love you."
A tear falls, and it's is the one droplet of moisture among many that you choose to swipe away with your fingers.
"I love you, do you hear me?" you repeat. "I'll be here for you, always."
He nods, and there's a cracked feeling in his chest that he can't decide is good or bad. Maybe it's a mix of both—maybe it's the rawness of vulnerability, or the type of sensitivity that comes with being this known.
You hold him for several more moments, the rain-sound of the water hitting the tub lulling him into a state of tranquility.
"We should…probably actually bathe," you mumble eventually.
He gives you a loving smile, pecking each corner of your lips before kissing you fully, because he can. Because he wants to cherish it.
"Thank you," he says one final time. "For loving me. For giving me a chance."
You press a kiss onto his lips as you reach for the shampoo. "Always."
You might’ve talked about it before but I’m curious what you think… like imagine reader not being super experienced (maybe had sex once or twice with someone else before Frank) and being surprised by how big — how thick — he is the first time they do it.
Ok I do have to point you to, frankly, my magnum opus of "its so big" plot. Like I ate with this one. Now, it is a daddy!frank fic so proceed with caution if that's not your thing but aside from occasional "daddy" use, it's really just soft dom dynamic.
Now having said that, I'm in the mood to expand on his thickness. Because the girth is really what's most remarkable about him. Shocking, really. When he presses into you, it's like a vice in your hips-- a dull ache at the pressure of it.
His eyes are always flicking between your face and the spot he enters you, concerned about your comfort and laser-focused on your cues. He stops when you wince-- laying a gentle hand on your stomach and clicking his tongue to get your attention.
"You alright babygirl? Need me to stop?" he asks, paused inside you.
"M'ok," you mumble, nodding your head. You reach out your hand for him to hold and he takes the cue. His hand engulfs yours and his thumb swipes your skin soothingly.
"Goin' slow sweetheart. Ain't gonna hurt ya," he reassures you, resuming his slow press. His thick cock spreads your folds to their limits, the ache radiating between your legs. He continues holding your hand, the other on your knee.
"ohmygod," you huff out, squeezing your eyes shut and arching your back as he gets deeper.
"I feel it honey, I feel it," he coos, assuring you that he senses the restriction too and he's being cautious.
He removes the hand on your knee and grips the base of his cock. He squeezes your hand in his other hand as he begins to press himself in further, using his hand to control his pace and press.
"Attaaggiirrl," he says slow and with a note of pride in his tone, feeling your wetness coat him generously, providing more lubrication for him and easing his entrance. "That's perfect baby," he adds, "what a good girl."
With more gentle force, you feel the nudge of him deep in your belly. With his length mostly seated, you feel the need to press your legs further open, attempting to gain even an inch more space for his thickness.
"Relax relax," he urges, tapping your leg to encourage you to let your muscles ease. You inhale a deep breathe and purse your lips to blow it out slow. Frank feels the way it eases the constriction on his shaft. "That's it sweetheart. Once more," he instructs you. You comply and do the action again, this time with Frank pressing in as you exhale.
"Perfect baby, so fuckin' perfect," he coos, "last one. Can you do one more f'me?" he asks, his eyes locked on your core. When he hears the familiar whoosh of air from your lips he pushes a final time, easing the whole length of him inside you. You squeak at the sensation and squeeze his hand.
"Breathe breathe breathe," he says in quick succession, raising his eyebrows and nodding his head as he catches your eye. He mimics the action for you himself. You nod frantically, doing it again and feeling the tension ease.
"Attagirl. Need ya to keep breathing just like that. Don't stop sweetheart, understand?" he asks. You nod again and repeat the action. In, out, in, out, in, out and Frank begins to pump in tandem, filling you til there was nothing but him.
synopsis: Clark fucks you to help comfort you after you break up with a shitty boyfriend
cw: smut, unprotected p in v, creampie, reader is crying, Clark is a sweetheart, they're pretty much making love and not just having sex
wc: 681
“He wasn't even worth it, baby,” he murmurs as he rocks his hips slow, his cock dragging along your gummy walls. “He was such a piece of shit. Why are you wasting tears on him?”
He gently wipes the tears that fall, his thumbs catching them as they roll down your pink cheeks.
You sniffle softly, torn between the pain of the lost relationship and the pleasure of Clark in you. “I loved him,” you whisper, more tears falling despite your attempts at stopping them.
“He doesn't deserve that. He doesn't deserve you,” Clark assures you, grabbing one of your thighs and pulling it over his waist. “You deserve so much better.”
You sob, nails raking over his back, gasping as his thick head grazes your cervix. “I thought I'd marry him.”
Clark shakes his head. “Baby, look at me. This is how you deserve to be treated. With love.” He pecks your cheek. “With respect.” He kisses the corner of your mouth. “Like a goddess.” His lips find yours, tender, careful. He can taste your salty tears on his tongue.
He pulls away after a moment, kissing down your neck. You sob quietly, hips pushing against his to match the slow rhythm he's set.
“I really loved him,” you whisper.
“Don't think of him while I'm in you,” Clark says quietly, not unkindly. “Focus on me. Feel me,” he slides a hand down, pressing it over your womb, “in here. I'm right in here. Just focus on that, yeah? For me?”
You whimper, nodding softly, and stop talking about it. The tears still fall, though. Heart still raw with the pain.
Clark kisses your jaw. “I'll treat you better,” he promises, voice thick. “I'll bring you flowers every day, make you dinner every night. I'll fuck you like this, and I'll make sure you cum. You don't ever have to worry about anything, I'll do everything. You just have to be happy.”
He gently kisses the streaks of tears on your face, licking them up, wishing he could stop the pain. His lips move up to your forehead and they linger there.
“I'll love you like you deserve to be loved,” he promises. “You won't ever wonder about it with me.”
Still thrusting slow and steady, Clark's fingers find your clit and rub it gently, grunting when your pussy squeezes around him tight.
“Clark,” you gasp, back arching. “Oh.”
He smiles softly. “Let me take care of you, hon. Your only concern right now is to feel good. Don't worry about anything else.”
You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, feeling every inch of his skin against yours. He's warm, a little sticky with sweat, and smells of pine and musk and something uniquely him. You bury your face in his neck, feeling his pulse against your ear, the warmth in your womb spreading over your body, almost searing now.
You buck your hips against his, mewling when Clark angles his up so his cock presses against all the sensitive spots in you. His fingers don't relent their steady circles on your clit, and you're over the edge before you can warn him.
You come hard, legs shaking, breath coming in gasps. You can't do more than breathlessly murmur, “Clark, Clark, Clark,” like some mantra, and then you're falling back on the bed, limp.
He follows soon after. His own orgasm shakes his body, shoulders heaving as he groans, spilling his cum into you, his fingers digging into your hips. He takes deep, gulping breaths, summoning as much strength as he can to keep himself up and not squish you under his massive frame.
“There you go,” he says lowly in your ear, kissing your temple with what little energy he has left. “There you go. Good girl. See? All you ever have to do with me is let me take care of you. You'll never have to worry about anything ever again.”
♡ please comment and reblog my work, it means so much to me and inspires me to keep writing
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taglist - if you wanna be added to my Clark Kent taglist, lmk 💛
You’ve been Clark Kent’s best friend for years. You’ve patched him up after patrols, covered for him in the newsroom, and loved him in every way except the one that terrifies you most. But after one too many failed dating app matches and the gnawing ache of inexperience, you ask him to do the unthinkable: take your virginity.
At first he refuses, horrified at the thought of hurting you, of crossing a line he’s spent years building. But when you threaten to give yourself to someone else, his protective streak wins out. What begins as “lessons” in intimacy slowly unravels the boundary between friendship and something deeper.
Lesson by lesson, touch by touch, you both edge closer. Interrupted moments, quiet nights of worship and tenderness, the no-kissing rule that becomes the last fragile shield between you. Until one night, that rule shatters, and with it, every illusion that this was ever just practice.
Content Warnings
18+, MDNI, Explicit sexual content (oral sex, mutual masturbation, penetrative sex, first-time exploration, light overstimulation), Virginity loss, Emotional angst, jealousy, avoidance, fear of rejection, References to Clark’s past relationships (Lana Lang, Lois Lane), Heavy yearning, slow burn, best-friends-to-lovers tension, Best Friends to Lovers, Mutual Pining, Gentle but Hungry Clark Kent, No-Kissing Rule
Word count: 34k
A/N: yes both parts are gonna be named after sabrina carpenter songs bc i have the album on repeat rn
Part 1: When Did You Get Hot?
Status: posted!!!
You and Clark Kent have always lived in comfortable patterns, late-night dinners, movie marathons, patching him up after patrols, covering for him at the Planet. He’s your best friend, steady and certain, the one constant you’ve always been able to count on. And when your frustration with your lack of experience boils over, you blurt the unthinkable: you want him to be your first.
Clark refuses at first. He's horrified, protective, pacing your kitchen like a man afraid of breaking something precious. But when you threaten to give yourself to someone else, his fear of losing you outweighs everything else. He agrees, reluctantly but resolutely, and the two of you strike The Pact. Rules are set: slow steps, gentleness, dinners and handholding, and above all: no kissing on the mouth.
Part 2: Tears
Status: posted!
The lessons were never meant to last forever.
Clark’s tenderness carries you further than you ever imagined— whispered praise, worshipful hands, nights that blur the line between practice and something more. But perfection brings fear, and the boundaries you set begin to crack.
Jealousy, distance, and silence threaten the fragile balance between you, until the weight of what you’ve both been holding back finally breaks. What began as lessons in intimacy becomes something neither of you can deny any longer.
Because some rules aren’t made to protect you. They’re made to be broken.
Posting Schedule: Part 1 posted now (surprise!) and Part 2 posted now!
It started the second you woke up in his bed—his shirt hanging loose on your frame, soft and worn from years use. You padded into the kitchen barefoot, wearing only his worn Metropolis U shirt from the night before. It barely hit the tops of your thighs, the faded cotton soft against your skin and clinging where your body was flushed and hot. Your nipples were hard, embarrassingly so, the peaks clearly visible through the thin fabric.
Clark glanced over his shoulder, and that fucking smile—soft, sweet, and knowing—spread across his face. “Morning, baby.” His voice was warm and low, like honey dripped over gravel. His eyes dipped to your chest for just a second before he turned back to the stove. “You slept okay?”
“I… yeah,” you said, though your voice was breathier than intended. You didn’t even try to hide the way your gaze raked over his broad shoulders, the flex of muscle as he worked. God, you wanted him to touch you. Everywhere. Right now. Every damn time you ovulated, it was like Clark became your personal gravitational pull. You couldn’t stop touching him—holding his hand, pressing against his chest when he passed you, trailing after him like some love-drunk groupie. Even now, you were already moving before you realized it, crossing the kitchen to press against his warm, broad back, arms wrapping tight around his waist.
“You’re clingy this morning,” he teased gently, resting his big hands over yours. “Not that I mind. You wanna sit down and eat, sweetheart?” But you shook your head, burying your face between his shoulder blades, inhaling him like he was oxygen. Your thighs rubbed together as you tried to ignore the slick heat gathering between them.
“No… I just… wanna stay here for a minute,” you mumbled.
Clark’s chuckle rumbled through his chest. “Mhm.” He turned in your hold so easily, big hands landing on your hips to tug you closer. “You’ve been following me around all morning.”
“I haven’t,” you lied breathlessly, fingers curling into the waistband of his sweatpants.
“Mm.” He didn’t sound convinced. Setting his mug down, he turned toward you slowly, eyes dragging over your body until your skin felt hot all over. “You’ve been quiet today.”
Your stomach flipped as he stopped in front of you. His huge hand cupped your chin, tilting your face up toward him. “Not mad at me, are you?” he teased, thumb stroking over your lip.
“N-no,” you breathed. You swallowed hard, heat pooling between your legs in a way that was impossible to ignore. Your fingers tightened on his sweatpants as his hands slid down your waist, settling firmly on your hips. The worn fabric of his shirt rode up, exposing the smooth curve of your belly, the dampness between your thighs growing impossible to hide. He smiled, slow and knowing, and bent his head, lips grazing your neck just below your ear. “Been a long day already, huh?”
You whimpered softly, tilting your head back to give him better access. “I’m… I’m trying,” you confessed, voice shaky but desperate. “You were… last night…” Your cheeks burned, but your hips betrayed you, rolling forward against the hard line of him.
Clark pulled back just enough to grin down at you, amused as hell. “You’ve been trying to keep it together all morning, huh? That’s pretty impressive.”
“Not really,” you whispered, voice rough, trembling. “I’m so fucking wet.”
He laughed softly, like it was the best confession he’d ever heard. Then, without breaking eye contact, his hands moved lower, cupping your ass and lifting you effortlessly against him. “Come on, baby,” he said, voice thick with promise. “Let me take care of that.”
“Please,” you whispered. “I can’t—fuck, Clark—I need you.”
“I know, baby,” he soothed, lifting you like you weighed nothing and setting you on the counter. “You’ve been squirming all morning, poor thing. Should’ve said something sooner.” And then his mouth was on yours, deep and possessive, swallowing every broken sound as his fingers slipped under the hem of his own shirt—your only layer—and found you already wet and throbbing for him.
“God, you’re soaked,” he groaned against your lips. “You were trying to hide this from me? Baby, you know I’ll give you whatever you need.”
You whimpered as he pushed two thick fingers inside you, curling them perfectly, already making your back arch against the cabinets. “I fucked you so good last night I thought you’d be satisfied for a while,” he teased, his free hand sliding up to squeeze your breast. “Guess I’ll just have to fuck you even harder this time, hm?” And God, with the way he was manhandling you already, you knew he meant it.
Being with Frank Castle is like loving a loaded gun—dangerous, heavy, and impossible to forget once it’s in your hands.
He’s not gentle with the world. But with you? That’s different. Still rough. Still raw. But different.
The nights with him are quiet—at first. The hum of the city, the sound of the locks clicking into place one by one. Frank always checks them, every time. He sleeps closest to the door. He sleeps light, like a man who never really learned how.
But when you touch him—really touch him—something changes in his eyes.
There’s heat under his skin. Like a fuse burning slow until he lets go.
Frank in the bedroom is intense. Focused. Like his whole body is tuned to yours. He doesn’t talk much, doesn’t ask permission twice. He watches your face, learns every sound you make, and then pushes until you make them again—louder. Until you’re trembling, clawing at his back, gasping his name like a prayer and a curse all wrapped into one.
He likes control. Likes to pin your wrists above your head with one hand, his mouth dragging slow over your collarbone like he’s starving for you. Like he needs you to forget the blood, the war, the weight he carries.
But he never forgets himself—never loses control of you. Even when it’s rough, it’s never careless. His hand on your neck isn’t just dominance—it’s possession. And comfort. You’re safe in it. Caged in something dangerous, yes—but safe.
“Open your legs, baby,” he’ll growl against your ear, voice rough like gravel, fingers already slipping under the waistband of your panties. “Let me take care of you.”
And he does.
He eats you out like he’s starving. Makes you cry out over and over until you’re twitching under his mouth, thighs locked around his head like you’re afraid he’ll disappear. His beard leaves your skin tender, lips swollen, body ruined—and he’s still not done.
Frank’s idea of aftercare isn’t soft words—it’s staying wrapped around you all night, one arm draped heavy across your waist, your back to his chest while his breathing evens out.
It’s him mumbling, “You good?” in that deep voice, even if he just made you come so hard you forgot your own name.
It’s him leaving a bottle of water by your side of the bed before you wake up, tucking a knife under his pillow like he’s still on watch—because he is. Always is. For you.
Being with Frank Castle isn’t soft. It’s not flowers or love songs.
It’s bruises on your hips and kisses to your forehead. It’s riding him until he snaps and flips you over, hands on your waist, fucking you so deep and slow it feels like worship.
It’s survival. It’s trust. It’s a kind of love that bleeds.
And he’d burn the whole world down before he lets anything take you from him.
It’s never quiet with Frank—not really. Even when the room is still, when the TV hums low and the world outside your window sleeps, there’s a hum beneath his skin. A storm he doesn’t talk about. A war he never came home from.
But he tries. For you.
He sits on the edge of the bed after midnight, shirtless and bruised, blood crusting the edge of a cut near his collarbone. His hands hang between his knees, and you can see the tension in the curve of his back, in the way his jaw locks like he’s holding in more than pain. You don’t ask what happened. You just move behind him, wrap your arms around his waist, press your face between his shoulder blades.
“You came back,” you whisper.
“Always do,” he mutters, like a promise.
He doesn’t say I love you often. He doesn’t know how. But you hear it when he double-checks the locks at night. When he lifts you off the sidewalk to avoid a puddle. When he keeps a hand on your thigh during long drives, thumb brushing circles that ground him more than he’ll ever admit.
The first time you told him you loved him, he froze. Said nothing. Just stared at you like you’d handed him something fragile he wasn’t sure how to hold.
The next morning, he fixed your coffee exactly how you like it. Brought it to you in bed. Kissed the top of your head with a gentleness that didn’t match his blood-stained knuckles.
That’s the thing about being with Frank—he doesn’t move in words, he moves in action. And when you’re his, you know. No one looks at you twice without him noticing. No one touches you without consequence.
You’ve seen the way people flinch when they hear his name. You’ve watched his eyes go dark when someone crosses a line. But he’s never raised his voice at you. Never raised his hand. Because with you, he’s not The Punisher. He’s just Frank.
Sometimes, when the nightmares win and his demons claw their way to the surface, he’ll wake up shaking, drenched in sweat, reaching for something—someone. And you’ll be there. You’ll press your hand to his chest and whisper, “You’re safe. You’re home.”
And for a man like Frank Castle, that’s everything.
Being with him isn’t easy. But loving him is.
Because once you have his heart, you have every broken, bloodstained piece of him.
And he’ll protect you like it’s the only thing that still matters in this world.
Absolutely yearning for Frank Castle cockwarming head canons. Someone sedate me and throw me into a river for this.
No same, and always. But I don't know why I'm suddenly shy to write some pure smut on the internet but I'm gonna fight through it, for the fans. lol. If you're not into cockwarming, skip it. I'll put it below the cut.
He's so good at it because his size. It has to be said. But the pleasure and comfort is in the pleasant squeeze. The way he fills you so thoroughly. The way you almost feels pinned in place by him. It's like a grounding technique-- drowning out your other senses and just feeling Frank on every surface.
Frank has never done it with anyone else but it was almost instinctual with you. Early in the relationship when he'd finish inside you he'd just have this overwhelming need to stay there. He tried to ignore it but you only whined and mumbled "no stay. just a little bit?" and Frank felt relieved that you felt the same.
He's super careful not to do it two days in a row because he knows it leaves you a bit tender the following day. In fact, all sex is off limits the following day except for Frank eating you out but even then he's slower and gentler and he doesn't use his fingers at all.
And even after immediately finishing cockwarming, he eases out SO slowly, concerned if anything seems too swollen or irritated.
It's such an indulgence to Frank and he let's himself do it waaayyyy less often than he'd really like to. He'd like to be doing it nearly every time you have sex but he also wants to prioritize your aftercare so he lets you lead mostly.
However sometimes, he knows you probably need it even if you don't know it. Like if you're especially anxious and can't seem to relax and he's tried all the usual stuff and it's not quite helping. He's already got you in comfy clothes, you're already in his lap, the lights are low and if you're still anxious he'd get you relaxed with some gentle kissing and touching before easing you to sit on it slowly. You'd wanna squirm and writhe -- to make him feel good but he'd pin your hips in place and say "Just keep still sweetheart," kissing your nose and then running his fingertips up and down your back. It'd take a minute but your muscles would finally start to go lax -- your shoulders easing and your eyes softly closing. "Attagirl, feels nice, yeah doll?" he'd ask as he gently tugged the t-shirt off you and pulled you into his chest, his cock filling you up for hours as he rubbed your back and stroked your hair.
Frank's favorite time to do it immediately after sex. It's that breeding kink in him again. He wants to know you're full of him in every sense, sometimes finishing inside you and keeping himself there, encouraging you to rest on top of him and maybe shifting you to your sides, bringing your leg over his hip. Every so often he'd lace his hand down between you, finding the wet, warm spot where he fills you up and he'd rub soft circles on your clit-- still keeping himself still. You'd murmur, "what about you Frankie?", trying to move your hips and give him friction but he didn't want any of that, sushing you and saying "Nah nah, just wanna feel those pretty walls flutter around me baby. Can you be a good girl and let me feel it?"
The absolute neediest place he's ever cockwarmed you in mid-roadtrip at a truck stop after you were feeling carsick and exhausted. It had been a long day of driving and Frank knew there was still a few hours to go. But after you climbed back into the truck with your snacks and a pout on your face, he tugged the bag out of your lap and tugged you into his, saying "C'mere babydoll, attagirl, relax, few deep breaths for me," as he slowly pressed his thick cock inside you. You felt like someone was deflating the air from you -- your whole body going limp and the gentle, comforting press of him filling you up. You could almost cry at the sensation-- if he wasn't gently jiggling his knee to soothe you a bit and gently tapping your ass now and then.
Summary: Your boss was an ass—you knew it, the office knew it, the entire country knew it. Working for Senator Brown was never easy, but you had managed it for the better part of three years and didn’t want to see your career go up in flames. Unfortunately for you, Bucky was slowly falling in love with you, and Congressman Barnes didn’t think managing it was enough.
Word count: 9k
Warnings: Injury (kinda), hospitals, angst, an abusive boss, protective Bucky!!
a/n: Ahh a Bucky fic that's not an AU (that's also one million words)! Idk how the government works tbh so sorry if things are a little inaccurate there lol. This takes place right before Thunderbolts! Thank you for reading, I love you!! ❤️❤️
Masterlist
~~
“Congressman Barnes,” you greeted, a slight nod of your head the only acknowledgement you could afford. Senator Brown was only a moment away from screaming at you again, and you could only take so much screaming in one day.
Bucky, unfortunately, did not care about being screamed at by Senator Brown. He took your upper arm in a light grip and shot you a confused smile. “What, you avoiding me? Can’t be seen in the halls talking to me?”
A fairer assessment of Bucky’s interruption was that he didn’t know of the wrath Senator Brown could incite upon you. Sure, Bucky knew that Brown was a hardass, and by association, his executive assistant would have to put up with it, but he had no way of knowing just how terrible the man was.
When you met Bucky a few weeks ago, you had been alone in a hotel lobby. The heels accompanying your freshly pressed pantsuit had been killing you, and you needed a moment for your feet to breathe. Bucky, apparently, also needed a moment away from the conference, and you had gotten to talking when he plopped into the overstuffed armchair beside you.
He knew you worked for Senator Brown. You knew he was a Congressman, obviously. You also knew his background and the complexities that came with it. Many people in the political space turned up their noses at him, something you had a similar experience with as you were “only an assistant.” The two of you had joked about it, eventually making your way to the hotel bar and laughing over the amount of hidden toupees currently residing in the ballroom.
In the weeks that followed, you had texted with him, met for coffee twice because he was “in the area”, and had maybe even considered the fact that you were friends with Congressman Barnes. Friends were invaluable to have in D.C., but they were also something to be wary of. Bucky didn’t feel the type to be wary of.
As you stood halfway frozen in the hallway, his comment began to make sense. He was calling back to your initial hotel conversation, making a joke about biases and stuck-up politicians, but this was not the time. Not that he could have known.
Senator Brown barked out your name when he noticed you were no longer beside him, surely trying to get you to jot down some thought banging around in his head. You whipped your head to the side, almost missing the affronted expression on Bucky’s face as he registered the tone that your name was spoken in, and shook your arm from his hold.
“Sorry, Congressman,” you murmured, turning on your heel and making quick strides in Brown’s direction. “I apologize. What can I do for you, Senator?”
Your boss barely hid a scoff. “You can start by being where I need you to be. And write this down—I do not believe that the House takes the proper—”
You scrambled to take out your phone and open the notes app. A rookie mistake; you usually had it open the second his meetings ended, but you had been distracted. By Bucky.
Your heels hurriedly clicking against polished marble, you took a fleeting glance over your shoulder. Bucky remained there, his brow furrowed and his arms crossed over his chest, metal from his hand glinting against the gentle fluorescence of the hall.
Three days later, he brought it up.
You thought you’d found a private spot to scarf down your lunch in your allotted fifteen-minute break, but with a sandwich only half finished and your mouth full, the call of your name reminded you that there is never any privacy for you at this job. The sound of Bucky’s voice softened the blow a bit.
“He always treat you like that?” Bucky asked, swinging his leg over the bench on the other side of the table. He watched as you tried to chew quickly, some of the hardness he’d sat down with melting from his expression.
You covered your mouth with your hand and swallowed hard. “What?” you finally got out, reaching for your water bottle.
Bucky raised a brow. “Brown. Does he always yell at you?”
After a few sips and swallows, you gave up on being able to finish your lunch. You had to plan out your meals very meticulously to finish, and Bucky had already taken up 30 precious seconds.
“Oh,” you began. You swiped a hand through the air. “It’s fine. He just gets a little intense sometimes. It’s just his personality.”
“You’ve been working for him for three years.”
“Right.”
“The guy should treat you better. He could only keep assistants for a few weeks at a time before you.”
“How do you know that?”
Bucky slid your food towards you. “Eat. You looked like you were in a hurry when I got here.”
You eyed him for a moment. With his hair tucked behind his ears, you could see the tenseness of his jaw and the shadow of his beard dusting above his collar. It was no secret that Bucky was alarmingly handsome in a sea of 60-year-old politicians, but you had never gotten the opportunity to see it at work. You were always too busy, and Bucky’s office was three floors down.
“I’m sorry I didn’t text you back,” you said, reaching for the fruit in your bag. “I meant to. I’ve just been working late since the meeting on Monday.”
“It’s alright.” A pause as you continued to eat your food. You had maybe four minutes left. “How late?”
“Oh, um, I’ve been going home around 10. It’s such a pain in the ass to get a taxi at that time, you wouldn’t believe. Uber isn’t much better, and I definitely can’t walk home in these things,” you joked, motioning to the bandaids strapped behind your heels. “It’s not so bad, though. After about a month of late nights, Brown will go on a “vacation,” and I’ll have a few weeks to reign in the chaos during normal business hours.”
You were giggling as you spoke, adding air quotes and sarcasm to try to alleviate the irritated look Bucky was sporting. After a few weeks of being around him, you understood that Bucky was quieter than you, but his silence right now was pressing. Your jokes weren’t getting him to talk, so you switched gears.
Popping a grape in your mouth, you asked, “What are you doing up here, anyway?”
Bucky let out a breath and tapped his hand on the table. “Honestly? I came to check on you.”
“To check on me?”
“After Monday, I wanted to make sure—”
Your phone started going off, the “Senator Brown” contact making your blood run cold. You brought your watch up and let out a gasp that made Bucky jump.
“What?” he rushed, standing from the table as you started to pack your things in a panic. He went to help you, but after two brushes of his hands, he realized he was only in the way.
“My break was over two minutes ago. I have to go right now.”
“Two minutes? What—y/n, that isn’t—”
He was here to check on you. Right. That was really sweet.
Your brain tried to catch up with your panic as you reached over and squeezed his arm gratefully. “I’m really fine, Bucky. It was nice to see you. We should get coffee again.” You were sliding through the double doors and back into the building as you called, “I’ll text you. I promise this time.”
And you did. In the seven minutes of free time you got around 9 pm, you sent him a quick follow-up text. The bubble went right below his text from two days ago, and you felt a small pinch of guilt for not answering him until now.
You: Free Saturday morning?
He answered you almost instantly.
Bucky: Depends. Are you still at work right now?
You frowned at your phone.
You: If I am does that mean you won’t get coffee with me?
Bucky: So you are
You: …maybe
And then, your seven minutes of silence were up. When Brown’s footsteps could be heard by the door, you tucked your phone into your desk and went to work on the stack of papers he assigned you. He so graciously let you know that he was going home now, and you could leave once you were finished.
That was perfect.
It took you an hour and a half, but when you sorted the final paper and checked his schedule for tomorrow for the last time, a sense of relief flooded you. You didn’t even care that it would take another 30 minutes for an Uber to arrive. All you could think about was your shower and your bed and taking these shoes off your feet.
You gathered your belongings and swiped your phone from the desk, clicking to the rideshare app and somewhat dreading the small talk to come. It would be extremely convenient to have a car, but that wasn’t something in the cards for you. Your tiny apartment had barely any parking, and everything else was within walking distance.
As you continued to ponder the pros and cons of taking the bus home, a honk from the curb made you jump. You lowered your phone and squinted into the distance of the now barren road.
“Someone order an Uber?”
Disbelief was your first emotion, and then shock and then confusion. “Buck—Congressman Barnes?” you asked, correcting yourself when the memory of the building at your back resurfaced.
“You’re not getting in my car if you’re calling me that,” Bucky replied, leaning down to peer out the passenger-side window.
“What are you doing here?” you asked him for the second time today.
“I told you, I’m driving for Uber. You called for one?”
A disbelieving laugh fell from your lips. You shook your phone by your face and leaned down towards the window. “Haven’t even ordered it yet. I’m not supposed to get in the car unless they can put in the code verifying my identity.”
“Give me a code, then. Here,” he passed you his phone, the background illuminating a small white cat. “Wait, sorry, I have to unlock it.”
Your next laugh was more of a scoff as he reached through the window to take it back. “Seriously, what are you doing here?”
Bucky paused, looking you up and down for a moment before his jaw ticked to the side in a smile. “I’m taking you home. You live close, it won’t take very long.”
“I can’t ask you to do that.”
“You’re not asking. Now, hurry up and get in. I’ve been in the fire lane for 20 minutes and parking enforcement hates me here.”
You went to argue again, but Bucky only raised a brow and unlocked the doors.
Sliding in the car was somewhat of a mess with your bag and your jacket and the file you had meant to finish at home almost suffocating you. Bucky tried to help, grabbing items and waiting for you to buckle in before placing them by your feet. You were flustered from the transition, trying to adjust your skirt and seatbelt as Bucky reached forward to tuck a strand of hair stuck in your lip gloss behind your ear.
You turned to look at him instantly, but the man only gave you a closed-lip smile and shifted the gear of his car, pulling away from the building of your nightmares. You blinked back towards the dashboard, needing a few more seconds to settle yourself.
“I really didn’t mean to make you feel guilty,” you stressed to Bucky after he flipped the radio on, low music trickling in. “When I told you about staying late, I mean.”
Bucky tsked, knocking his head to the side to shoot you a lingering glance. “You didn’t, alright? This is my own problem. I just didn’t feel comfortable with you trying to find a way home so late.”
“I’ve been doing it for a while and I haven’t died yet,” you attempted to joke.
Not the best joke, it seemed, with Bucky’s fist clutching the steering wheel a hair tighter, the sound of leather meeting your ears. He shook his head. “Where’s Brown? He doesn’t let you take work home?”
“Oh, he does sometimes,” you chipperly replied, trying to sound awake and get Bucky un-pissed off. “He just checks my timesheets when we work overtime, so I have to make sure I stay late enough so that he won’t say anything. I still have this to take care of once I get home.”
You tapped the manila file in your lap and looked over to Bucky as he drove. He was wearing jeans and a pullover crewneck, his hair tied back and casual, and even though you’d seen him outside of work before, he looked different this way. Something about the night and him driving you home made him look different.
Bucky didn’t make a comment about your work or the system you had to avoid criticism from the Senator. Silence lapsed in the car, you lightly drumming your fingers on your thigh as the D.C. night swept past along the car windows.
“I would like to get coffee Saturday,” Bucky finally said. “If the offer still stands.”
“Of course it stands.”
You only briefly caught the half-smile that lit up his face before the light of the streets was lost to a tunnel.
~~
Coffee was relaxed and enjoyable, as it always was with Bucky. He asked a few more questions about your work, a topic he had previously not touched on. He wanted to know about your coworkers, if the interns ever helped you, how much time you got off, and in turn, you asked him about being a Congressman and if he actually enjoyed it.
Both answers left the other person less than satisfied.
“What about you?” Bucky asked, tilting his cup up. “Why have you been an executive assistant for so long?”
You hummed. “I don’t know, really. My dad was in politics, and he would only really accept my work if I was, too. He’s… not around now, but I feel like I have to stay. I’m good at it.”
“I believe it. Could be good at a lot of things, though.”
You shot him a mock glare. “Trying to get rid of me, Congressman?”
Bucky leaned forward, placing a hand on the small table that only separated you a few inches. He answered you earnestly, but a small amount of humor lightened his eyes, made him look less serious. “Now, why would I want to do that?”
Your lips parted to quip something back, but then he was raising his hand again, the heat of his skin lingering at the corner of your mouth. He swiped his thumb there, and you were frozen, a replica of when he brushed your hair back a few nights ago, but the car had been a distraction then. You had been flustered and trying to sort out your belongings, so you didn’t think about it for longer than a few seconds.
“Whipped cream,” he explained, holding you in his gaze for a moment longer than you should have been. Even as the barista from behind the counter was now standing at your table and speaking.
“Hi! Would the two of you like to try our new coffee cake? Free samples since it’s new.”
Bucky was the first to look away, tearing his eyes from yours to smile politely at the barista. You shook from your stupor and quickly reached for a napkin, brushing it against your lips even though nothing remained.
You felt fuzzy, confused. But also nothing was confusing and you were reminded, again, how attractive the Congressman was. How attractive and how definitely off-limits he was.
It would be so taboo for Bucky to be dating an assistant.
“What about you, ma’am?” You blinked several times and looked up to read the small ‘coffee cake’ sign lying next to the treats, the barista’s blinding smile expecting and very retail.
“I’m allergic to cinnamon, but thank you.”
“Allergic to cinnamon?” Bucky asked as the barista left.
“Yeah, anaphylaxis and everything. I carry an epipen with me, but I’ve only had to use it once when I was 10. Did you know that some bakeries add cinnamon to buttercream birthday cakes?” you chuckled, reorienting yourself to the present. “Are you allergic to anything? Or, I guess you probably aren’t. Isn’t that a serum thing?”
“Not allergic to anything, but if I had been, it would’ve been wiped out by the serum. We didn’t really have a lot of food variety in the 30s. Could have been allergic to shellfish—didn’t try that until after.”
You had to pause the cup at your lips. “Oh my god, I forgot you’re like 100 years old.”
Bucky’s expression morphed into an offended wince. “Alright, I wouldn’t say that. I haven’t exactly lived 100 years.”
“I was just thinking the other day how you don’t exactly fit in with the rest of Congress, but you so do! Maybe even on the young side,” you teased.
“Oh yeah?” Bucky egged on, nodding with his brows raised. “You were thinking about me?”
You knocked your head back in a laugh, holding your stomach with your forearm. “How did I forget this?”
“You know what? I’m not driving you home anymore.”
With lingering giggles, you righted yourself in your chair, a smile still clear in your voice. Contrasting his words, Bucky’s smile was just as wide as yours, a slight redness to his cheeks making him look softer. You brought a hand to cover his arm on the table.
“Okay, okay, I’m sorry, Bucky. You aren’t old. I take it back.”
“Yeah, you better,” he taunted, though his arm flipped over and he gave your wrist a soft squeeze as he said it.
~~
Bucky wouldn’t stop touching you.
You didn’t know if he was doing it consciously or if this was something he commonly did with his friends, but he was going to get you in trouble.
Outside of work, it was fine—distracting and disorienting, but fine. A brush of his hand helping you into the car, fixing your bag on your shoulder, a hand on your back when you left the coffee shop; over the past few weeks, it had all begun to feel commonplace.
It could have been frequency that made you more aware of this habit of his, because Bucky had begun picking you up every time you worked late and planned coffee or lunch or even a walk at least once a weekend. So, maybe this was his norm and you were just around him more often—something you enjoyed, but also something that made feelings more difficult.
Because, again, Congressman Barnes could not be dating an assistant. His credibility among the rest of Congress was already being questioned almost daily, and he did not need the court of public opinion breathing down his neck on top of that. It was a fortunate truth that while the internal part of his job was tricky, most of the public favored him.
So, as much as your chest hurt and your stomach flipped whenever you were around him, you settled for friendship. A touchy friendship.
At work, things felt heightened in the worst way possible.
You couldn’t even understand why he was coming to the top floor so often, seemingly lingering there so he could scare the crap out of you when you’d turn a corner. And then it would be a smile and another hand at your back when he was passing you—a hand that was not necessary. Or he would find you at the tail-end of your lunch break and move your hair away from your eyes, distracting you to the point of no return.
It was the worst because you were getting distracted, and when you were distracted, you got yelled at.
Bucky had seen you get yelled at a few times now, each seemingly worse than the last. He kept quiet about it, but you could tell it bothered him. He almost stepped in once—when Brown was irate at the coffee you’d gotten him and chucked it at the wall, you saw Bucky step forward from down the hall. He stopped at the slight shake of your head.
You were used to the Senator throwing things, and as long as it wasn’t in your direction, it was no harm done. At least, that’s what you thought.
“You should go to human resources,” Bucky commented one Sunday, the two of you sitting along a lake by the Capitol building.
You almost snorted. “Right. And what do you think old Mrs. Martha is going to be able to do for me? Brown has been in office for over a decade. If anything, that would just get me fired.”
Bucky shook his head, expression taut. “There’s gotta be something else then. You don’t deserve all of that.”
“If we’re talking about not deserving torment, I think I’m the least of our worries here, Sergeant,” you noted, knocking your shoulder against his in an attempted lightness.
But when you turned to look at him, Bucky was already facing you. “I’m serious, y/n. He’s throwing things at you. I’ve stayed out of it because you told me to, but after today—”
“Bucky, hey,” you calmed. “I know it seems crazy, but I know how to deal with it. I know he won’t actually do anything.”
“Right now, maybe.”
You sighed, searching his eyes and trying to discern when this became such an intense conversation. Trying to figure out when the two of you had discussions like this and not just lax coffee hangouts. Against your better judgment, you placed a hand over his thigh and relented.
“Okay, fine. I’ll work on it, but I’ll be the one working on it, okay? It definitely can’t be you—he would freak out if a representative started ordering him around. Even if you could totally knock him out.”
Bucky shook his head in disbelief, a smile begrudgingly sneaking onto his face. “I can’t believe you’re joking about this.”
“You can definitely believe that.”
“Yeah, I can.” And then you were tugged against his starched, ironed suit, his metal arm holding you close to his chest.
You gasped a little at the initial contact, your heart hammering against your ribs as Bucky simply kept you there. This is dangerous, your brain reminded you, but it was also harmless, if you looked at it the right way.
“You know, I’m not going to die, Bucky. I’ve dealt with this for years.”
“Yeah, you keep joking about that,” he gruffly replied, the words a ghost against the top of your head. You hadn’t realized his lips were that close. “If we could keep the death jokes to a minimum, that would be great.”
You pulled back from him enough to look at his face. “Why? Afraid your only friend will bite it?”
“Hey, I have other friends.”
“I haven’t seen ‘em.”
“Shut up,” he groaned, tugging you back in. “You can meet them as proof. Next weekend.”
“Okay, sure, Bucky,” you sang out, tapping his chest. “But if we need to reschedule this meeting with your 'friends,’ I would understand.”
As Bucky went on to refute your insinuations in a grumpy tone, you tried to pretend that this felt like that—just a friendship.
~~
Approximately four days later, everything went to shit.
Senator Brown was on a tirade, screaming at everyone and everything in his path. When he got like this, the admin staff usually locked the doors to his office and the entire floor if they could, but today, they weren’t ready for how angry he was.
It was a bill, or a speech, or maybe even the press catching wind that he was cheating on his wife—it didn’t matter. He was pissed and you were going to have to answer for it.
You stood in his office with a clear view of the glass wall connecting to the hallway, hands behind your back and fighting off a wince with every curse and insult the Senator threw at you.
“I hired you to take care of this bullshit! Why the hell am I dealing with this when I’m supposed to have an entire staff? This is fucked!”
“You’re too worried about going home early, you can’t even assemble a reply to an email correctly! A fucking email!”
“I should’ve fired you weeks ago. When you started fucking off to wherever you take too long for your lunch break and stopped doing your job. I swear to god, this country has—”
You were only retaining about half of what he said, which was good, considering everything was an attack on you, and your work ethic, and then he even started going in on your clothes and your apartment. It must have been something really bad this time. After he was done yelling, you would check his texts and probably find a couple of mentions of divorce sprinkled in between messages with his lawyers.
Affairs and divorce were always messy for politicians.
“Of course, Senator. I will do better. I apologize,” you offered, unsure what you were apologizing for at the present. It wouldn’t matter; he would just start up again about another topic.
“Damn right you will or I’ll send you out on the streets. Do you know how hard it is to get a job in D.C when a Senator blacklists you?”
Did you ever.
When Bucky had asked you why you stayed, you left out that key bit of information. He was still newer to the field and didn’t need to know that Senator Brown held that over your head each time you even hinted at moving on.
You figured the screaming was almost over. Brown was in his 60s, so he would be getting tired. And it probably would have been over if he hadn’t checked his Apple Watch and read a text that got him fired up once more.
You greatly regretted setting that up for him.
You braced yourself for further yelling as his face began to turn red, but were alarmed as the Senator reached for the wooden pencil case on his desk and threw it. Pens flew, and you knew he wasn’t aiming for you, but the cup hit a vase on a high bookshelf to your right, which then toppled over and shook loose the framed art hanging above your head.
You should have moved, but you spotted Bucky in the hall, and he always distracted you.
The frame shot straight down, smacking you in the head and causing your knees to buckle in surprise. You fell to the ground, feeling dramatic and disoriented as the room silenced and your ears rang. You knew he wouldn’t apologize, but the continued quiet as you pushed yourself up and sat back on your haunches was almost deafening.
The glass door to the office swung open.
“What the hell?” A hand was on your elbow. A colder one felt around the top of your head. It was Bucky, obviously it was Bucky, but you were too afraid to look, keeping your gaze locked on Senator Brown. “Hey, you okay?”
The hand on your head moved down to your jaw, forcing your gaze to Bucky. He searched every inch of your face as you blinked at him, mind blank. “Um, I’m fine.”
Your brows furrowed, trying to connect the chain of events that led to this. You brought your hand up to replace where Bucky had placed his, the action seemingly spurring him into action.
“The hell is wrong with you, huh?” Bucky shouted, rising from the floor. “You think it makes you tough to throw things at her?”
Senator Brown had gone from furious to unsure, probably aware of the physical strength Bucky harbored. But, as was typical with politicians, he would not put anything before his pride. Brown righted his expression and pursed his lips.
“I wasn’t trying to hit her, Congressman. It was a simple accident. You weren’t even in the room to see it happen.”
Bucky narrowed his eyes. “I didn’t need to be. You’re screaming at her when you’re not throwing. What kinda grown man does that?”
“Bucky—” you cautioned, glued to the floor still.
The senator directed his attention towards you, brows raised accusingly. “Oh, so you’ve been gossiping about me, then?”
You shrank back, hand lingering where your head ached, but Bucky stepped in front of you, blocking you from Brown’s line of sight.
“Hey, I’m talking to you,” Bucky seethed, jutting a finger into Brown’s chest.
Brown’s head sharply turned. “That you are, Congressman. But it seems like my assistant here no longer wants her role, so this conversation is moot.”
“Wait, I—”
“Maybe if you spent time picking on someone your own size instead of acting like a coward—”
“Bucky, don’t—”
“A coward? A coward? Who’s the one who cannot speak for himself on the board? Tell me, Barnes, is that part of some unresolved trauma from some nondescript decade?”
“You shut your mouth before I—”
“Congressman Barnes,” you called, authority that didn’t belong to you heavy in your tone. You were two seconds away from losing your job and being blacklisted, neither of which you could handle. Bucky froze, his anger still held in his shoulders. “Thank you for your concern, as I’m sure you were just passing by when you saw what happened, but I can assure you that it was an accident and I am fine.”
Bucky looked over his shoulder with furrowed brows, but took a step back and dropped his hands by his sides when he caught your expression—still disheveled, but resolute in your decision. He needed to leave. You needed to save your career. You could… figure everything else out later. Probably.
You bit into your bottom lip until it hurt.
Bucky looked at the wall behind your head and then tracked his gaze to the forming lump on your crown. “But—”
“I am fine,” you repeated slowly. Having risen from the floor before calling his name, you walked to the door and held it open. “We’re very busy. Please excuse us.”
Bucky licked his lips as he looked to the floor, shaking his head in abject disbelief and following your direction. When he met the entryway, he tilted his head slightly, opening his mouth to say something, but thinking against it. His hand twitched at his side, and then he left, taking long, purposeful strides away from the office.
You took a deep breath, allowed yourself a moment as the door closed, and then you did something purposeful yourself. Even if it killed you to do so.
~~
Bucky’s POV
Bucky was losing his mind.
After leaving Brown’s office, he’d stormed into his own and promptly shut and locked the door. Tugging his tie away from his neck and prying the uncomfortable suit jacket from his shoulders, Bucky then began to pace. He was pissed. He was so beyond pissed.
It would have been so easy for him to knock that Senator out, and he would have deserved it. Bucky had had to watch for weeks as you were berated and screamed at, and then the line was crossed when he saw him throwing things. You hadn’t let him do anything, and then you hadn’t let him do anything again after you’d been hurt.
He watched you flinch and cover your face, and even that hadn’t been enough.
Bucky swiped a hand over his mouth.
When had you started to matter to him so much? That was a stupid question, and apparently, he was full of stupidity today.
He promised that he’d let you take care of it, and then he went in there and almost killed Senator Brown. A replay of you falling to the ground looped in his mind, and actually Bucky didn’t feel stupid at all. All he felt was rage.
“Shit,” he breathed out, knocking his head back and falling back into his office chair.
He’d messed up. He wasn’t sure exactly how, but he knew you were not happy with him. What did “taking care of it” even mean? And why were you so dead set on keeping that awful job? Bucky could think of at least a dozen other jobs in D.C. that would not involve you being verbally and physically abused.
Fuck, he wished he had more pull, but as a Congressman of only a few months, there was little he could do against a Senator. And he had a meeting in five minutes.
Bucky pulled his phone out and sent you a quick text about talking after work, let out the longest sigh of his life, and then readjusted his tie.
That had been three days ago.
You never texted him back. And you left the building far before he could give you a ride home. When he asked your coworkers, they said you were no longer working overtime and left during normal hours.
Fine. That was good, actually. Only, Bucky never saw you.
He frequented all of your normal spots, wandered up to the top floor, and even stopped by the coffeeshop two days in a row, and you were nowhere. Avoiding him, obviously, and while he understood (he didn’t), he mostly wanted to put eyes on you. To make sure you were okay.
Sure, you didn’t have a severe head injury, but it was more than that.
Bucky brought his turmoil to the barbecue Sam was holding that weekend. The one you were supposed to be at.
Nursing his fifth beer that wouldn’t do anything, Bucky leaned back against the fence of Sam’s yard and sulked. He’d talked to a few people when he got there, but sulking was on his agenda for the afternoon.
“What’s up with the stank face?” Sam asked, entering Bucky’s orbit of solitude and despair. “It’s gonna get stuck like that if you keep it up.”
“I don’t have a stank face,” Bucky argued.
“Right, right. Well, right now you have more of a pissed off face, but I guess I bring that out in you.” Sam paused and then smacked Bucky in the shoulder. “Come on, man. What’s going on, seriously? Does it have to do with that girl you were supposed to bring?”
“I don’t want to talk about that.”
“Oh, you don’t? Then it’s that.”
Bucky rolled his eyes, knocking back more of his beer as the sizzle of burgers juxtaposed with his somberness. “Alright, fine. It’s that. But it’s stupid. We weren’t even…”
“Dating?”
“Yeah. That.”
“You told me you went out for coffee and all that. That you would go on long walks at the lake and canoodle at work.”
“Are you going to take this seriously?” Bucky accused. “‘Cause if you’re not, I’m leaving right now. I’ll leave.”
“Okay, okay. I’m sorry,” Sam surrendered, raising his hands. “But really, Buck, that all sounds like dating. Tell me why she didn’t come.”
Bucky clenched his jaw and stared out at the merriment of the barbecue, remembering the scene more vividly than he would have liked. He tried to find an exact moment that would have led to you avoiding him, but he couldn’t pin it down. Maybe it was the entire thing?
“I think she’s mad at me. I kinda went off on her boss and she told me she wanted to take care of it.”
“What do you mean ‘went off’? And isn’t she working under a Senator?”
Bucky puffed out a breath. “Yeah, Senator Brown.” Sam let out a low whistle as Bucky continued. “He yells at her. Throws things. I felt like it crossed a line this week, so I guess I kinda stormed in. She threw me out and’s been avoiding me since. We had talked about it before and she said to stay out of it, but, Sam, the guy’s a dick.”
“And you really like her,” Sam added casually.
“And I really like her,” Bucky confirmed.
Sam paused to contemplate, though Bucky didn’t know what he could possibly offer that Bucky hadn’t already considered. He really, really liked you—more than he figured possible, especially with all of his attempts at dating since his pardon. But then you’d surprised him that night at the hotel, and he’d been hooked.
He hadn’t even had the chance to tell you.
“Well, two things,” Sam began, leaning on the fence next to Bucky. “Sounds like she knows what she’s doing, so you should have trusted her. But—” Sam cut out as Bucky opened his mouth “—it also sounds like Brown’s a major ass with a lot of power. You don’t know what he might have over her, slimy dude like that.”
“What, you mean like blackmail?”
“Maybe, who knows? You just gotta talk to her, man. Work it out.”
Sam clapped Bucky on the shoulder before wading back into the party in the yard. Bucky, feeling somewhat lighter but also still at peril, kicked off the fence and made his own attempts at being sociable.
“As soon as I can actually find her,” he grumbled to himself.
~~
The charity gala had been on your calendar for the past six months, and still, nothing could have prepared you for how much you didn’t want to attend.
You usually enjoyed events like this. You got to dress up and eat nice food, and Brown always got too drunk to remember that his assistant was even in the building. The first hour felt like work, and then the rest of the night was cosplaying as a rich politician.
That was not the case for this gala.
Ever since the ordeal with Bucky, Senator Brown had kept you on a tight leash. Whether that was due to how much he enjoyed intimidating you or his fear that you actually were telling people he was a mean, abusive boss, didn’t matter. All that mattered was that this gala was going to suck and there was nothing you could do about it.
You had apologized profusely, swore up and down that you didn’t know Congressman Barnes, and practically pledged your life to Brown in every way you knew how. You never left the office, never took a lunch break—you were pretty sure your eyes were permanently dry from how long you stared at a screen all day.
Making you attend this gala and not leave his side was another ploy to make you atone for your wrongdoings. Maybe the man knew how much you enjoyed these events and was taking advantage of that.
“Check this,” Senator Brown lazily ordered, draping his coat over your arms. “And meet me back in the dining room. You get to sit right next to me.”
You offered him a tight smile and felt the ache in your shoulders begin to fester. You were more uptight this week than ever, but that had nothing to do with Bucky Barnes. Nothing.
It was just this job and your future in D.C. hanging in the balance.
Obviously.
You meandered over to the coat check, taking longer than you needed to and dragging your feet along the way. Your phone was buzzing incessantly in your bag—most likely some PR fire you’d need to put out before more people realized Brown was cheating on his wife—and you had absolutely no inclination to drag it out.
“Just these two,” you offered, pressing the coats into the attendant's hands and taking the ticket in return.
“Actually, can you add this one to that ticket?”
As if this night couldn’t get any more uncomfortable.
You could feel his chest against your back even before you heard him. He shifted his arms out of his sleeves and placed a hand on your shoulder as he leaned towards the counter. Of course he smelled good. Why wouldn’t he?
You fought the urge to roll your eyes in repressed… something and spun on your heel.
He was just as close as you were expecting and also far too close for comfort. You knocked your head back to catch his gaze, trying to appear unamused and angry.
“Why would you do that?” you asked.
Bucky paused for a moment, searching the planes of your face for a beat too long before replying, “No reason to open another ticket. I’ll just leave when you leave.”
“You mean you’ll leave when Brown leaves, then?”
The muscle in his jaw jumped. “So, nothing's changed.”
This time, you did roll your eyes. You clutched the coat check number in your hand and began to storm off, not in the headspace to have this conversation at this gala. Bucky, however, did not seem to mind.
The hand on your arm was soft but firm as you were tugged into a closet and subsequently shoved into a rack of hanging coats. It was too dim to see beyond your hands out in front of you, but Bucky solved that predicament as he entered your space.
“Did you seriously just throw me into a closet?” you whisper-yelled, all too aware of the staff only feet away.
“I had no choice,” he replied with the same urgency. “You were stomping off. And I didn’t throw you in here.”
“I was not stomping off,” you scoffed.
“You were.”
“Was not!”
“I could hear your heels. You were stomping.”
You groaned, pushing into his chest to try and create distance that wasn’t available. Your back only hit the wall.
“Fine. What do you want?”
Bucky froze for a moment. “I… I didn’t actually think you’d stay in here. Or let me talk, if I’m being honest.
Your jaw fell open, an incredulous laugh slipping out. You’d almost forgotten how endearing he was in just about everything he did. Even as he stood in front of you in a full, three-piece suit, smushing you against a closet wall because he had dragged you in there with no plan, a part of your chest warmed.
Your phone vibrated in your bag, and that warmth turned to ice.
“I don’t have time for this,” you determined, wiggling your way towards the door.
“Wait, hold on. I do have something to say, wait,” Bucky pleaded, metal hand—more gentle than you were sure it was ever used for—encircling your wrist. He tugged you back even closer this time, your face inches from his. “I wanted to say sorry. And… and I want to get it.”
“Get it?” you parroted, trying extremely hard to ignore the dropping feeling in your gut as he stared into your eyes.
“I want to get why you stay. Why you let him treat you like that. I want to know so I can… feel okay backing off.”
All you could get out was, “Why?”
Bucky’s next words were spoken as he stared down at your lips. “I think you know why.”
Breaths began to fail you, each exhale more ragged than the last. You had been expecting this, in a way, and that was why you always made excuses. He couldn’t be with you because he was a Congressman. You were only an assistant. You couldn’t date him because you were too busy. He wouldn’t want to date you, anyway. Senator Brown would never be okay with it.
All of those excuses evaporated within the shared space of the closet, and then you got scared. So, you blurted out what he wanted.
“He won’t let me quit. He won’t let me work anywhere else.”
Bucky blinked, a fog clearing from his heated gaze. His head jutted back an inch, and the hand that had somehow found a home on your jaw paused its ascent into your hair. “Won’t let you?”
“I’d be blacklisted.”
“He can’t do that.”
“He can.”
Bucky opened his mouth to speak again as the air in the closet became breathable and light peeked in from the cracking door. You sprang back from the Congressman, pushing his hand away from your cheek and slamming your back into the wall. It didn’t help much; the fifteen-year-old with the shawl in her hand was already making her own assumptions as you rushed past her and left Bucky to his own devices in the closet.
Amazing.
Just amazing.
You debated moving states, or countries, or entire career paths as you hurried into the dining room of the gala. Not only had you taken too long at the coat check, but you knew you looked completely flushed and out of it. You prayed that Brown was already drinking and wouldn’t catch on.
Thankfully, your prayers were answered.
While he was not happy to see you, his raised brow and side-eye deadly as you sat down, he didn’t say anything. And that was how dinner went—quiet and uncomfortable for you, but otherwise par for the course for Senator Brown.
Bucky was staring at you from across the table. The room was backlit by dull candles and expensive chandeliers, and you could feel his gaze on the side of your face like an unprecedented heat. He often flickered that gaze to Brown, but it would harden, become angry.
There was nothing he could do. There was nothing anyone could do.
You either stuck it out with Brown or tossed your political science degree in the trash can on your way out.
When dinner passed and dessert was served, you eyed the lemon tart mocking you from your plate. Dessert, when your life felt so out of control and confusing, couldn’t hurt, you figured, so you picked up your fork and ignored the knots taking up space in your stomach.
“Yours looks better.” Senator Brown picked up the lip of your plate and slid his in its place. “Here.”
“But—”
“Oh, don’t complain about it. Who complains about chocolate cake?” he peeved, snickering to the men on the other side of the table. He then went on a drunken rant about “good help” and the “youth of today” as you looked down at the cake in front of you.
Was D.C. even worth it?
Bucky was staring at you again. He wasn’t directly across from you, a few centerpieces blocking your view, but you could feel it. To avoid him—and your feelings—you ate the cake. Brown and the men sarcastically cheered as you did, alcohol clear in the air at this point, and you took another bite to get them to find some other novelty.
You took three bites before it started to sink in.
You vaguely registered that Bucky had pushed out from the table, a clink of silverware preceding the motion. It was too late for him, however, because as your own fork clattered down, you could no longer breathe.
Your tongue felt ten times too big in your mouth and your throat was glued shut, air tunneling through any openings it could find. You pushed out from the table and stood. The extra space didn’t do anything. You clawed at your throat until your legs became unsteady and failed from the lack of oxygen.
The table was extremely long, so at some point, you thought you heard Bucky dive over the dinner party rather than continue his trek around to your side. Other sounds filtered past the panic clogging your ears.
“What’s wrong with her?”
“I don’t know!”
“Is she allergic to something? It’s an allergic reaction!”
“Brown, what is she allergic to?”
“How should I know?”
“Well, do something!”
As you were grappling for your purse, a choked whine fell from your lips. It had been kicked somewhere, pushed out of your grasp, and no one at this damn gala was helping you. Several older women had gone to their knees with worried expressions at your eye line, but they weren’t doing anything.
“Move.”
Your head was beginning to spin, and your thoughts were blurring, but you heard Bucky. He came to your side much faster than it felt, moving things around that your blurred vision couldn’t catch. And then, pain. And then relief.
Your gasping breaths were supported by gentle hands on your face, thumbs brushing along your cheekbones. You grappled at Bucky’s wrists and tried to parse out panic from physical symptoms, but there was so much commotion in the room and your head was still so fuzzy.
“You’re okay,” Bucky assured you, voice almost too low to catch. Someone was on the phone with 911 in the back. “You can breathe with me. Come on. Don’t—hey—don’t look at them. Look at me.”
Your chin was pushed forward, and then your forehead connected with his. Ringing persisted in your ears. Your hands were beginning to shake from the epi, your jaw following close behind.
“I got you, okay?”
“F-f-feels—”
“I know,” he hushed. When your breath was somewhat steadier, he tucked your head beneath his chin and began barking out orders. He asked for an ETA on the ambulance, for your jacket, for ten other things you couldn’t register. And then, “You’re a piece of shit, you know that?”
The chaos of the room went silent. Within your shaking hands clutched in Bucky’s suit jacket, your fingers spasmed out of fear.
“Excuse me?” Brown scoffed. You were honestly surprised he was still in the room.
“What, throwing things at her wasn’t enough? Had to try and kill her?”
“B-bucky—”
“Throwing things at her?” you heard from across the room. “Brown, what is Barnes talking about?”
“I have no idea,” Brown spat out. He jutted his hand out towards you on the floor. “He never knows what he’s talking about. We’ve established that.”
“Right,” Bucky deadpanned, pulling you closer to his chest as you gasped for breath. “So what do you call this?”
“An accident, obviously.”
Bucky let out a puff of air through his nose, shaking his head in disbelief. Silence blanketed the room once more, and it was clear that he had given up. His hands were glued to the back of your head and your back, and he didn’t have the time or the drive in him to care about Brown right now.
“I saw you switch the plates.” The quiet voice came from across the table, the young blonde’s face registering in your memory as you peeked out from beyond Bucky’s chest. “She had a card with it, too. It said there was an allergy accommodation.”
Low murmurs fell over the room. Brown, much to your surprise, looked at a loss for words, his expression betrayed as he stared at the woman across the room. It clicked then, where you knew her from. She was on the front cover of every article you were pressured to get taken down, and the contact photo for the main caller in Brown’s phone.
“What? No,” Brown refuted, a nervous chuckle escaping him. “She doesn’t know what she’s talking about, either. She’s barely even a secretary. She’s—”
The eyes around the room made his words trail off. “Barely even a secretary” was certainly a degrading title for his mistress, and everyone in the room knew it. If you were to look at your phone, you’d have seen that the newest story of their relationship had been blowing up all night. You guessed she was fed up with him denying it.
Sirens sounded beyond the doors of the ballroom, breaking up the tension at the wide table. Brown used it as his getaway, throwing his napkin down and muttering something about insolence or idiots or something of the sort. You couldn’t really hear anything over Bucky’s low whisper in your ear, followed by his lips against the side of your head.
~~
After being monitored in the emergency room for approximately six hours, the night shift staff sent you off with a horde of medication to take for the next month and, of course, a new epipen. You trudged out past the waiting room, prepared to wait in the parking lot for an Uber, when a certain man sitting in a chair far too small for him caught your eye.
He was half asleep, his face held in his metal hand as he nodded off and woke up just as quickly. His suit looked stiff and uncomfortable as he twisted his wrists, dragging the sleeves up to his elbows. He’d discarded the jacket somewhere, probably lost to the world now. And then he spotted you, your dress awkwardly draped over your body in your haphazard attempt to re-dress, your hair completely out of place, and your hands filled with paper bags of medication.
He shot out of the chair, holding everything in your hands in one of his, and assessed you himself. His gaze roved the mess you’d become. He should have made a joke about it, maybe teased you for almost dying, but instead, he ran a hand over your head and dragged you against his chest.
“Scared the shit out of me,” he murmured into your hair. He pressed another kiss there, reminding you that the first one hadn’t been your imagination.
“You didn’t have to stay,” you said, clutching his button-up in your hands.
“‘Course I did.” He leaned you back, hand still woven at the base of your hair, not caring that he was in the middle of the ER waiting room. “You okay?”
It only took you a moment to make a decision.
You pressed up, kissing him even though you were in the ER waiting room. Even though you both looked like a mess and you’d almost died and you had no idea if you still had a job. You kissed him and it startled him, the paper bag of medications crunching in his hand, but he kissed you back without hesitation.
It wasn’t a passionate kiss—not like the breathless, wanting kisses you would share late, share tomorrow—but it was confirming something. Bucky held you and had his lips firmly against yours, his brows furrowed in a way you couldn’t see, and he confirmed everything you’d suspected.
You figured you wouldn’t need to work if your boyfriend were a Congressman.
But, as you would soon find out, Senator Brown didn’t have very much time left as a Senator, anyway.
who doesn't love a little morning sex? felt inspired to whip this up. it's short and sweet, and slightly smutty.
"I like my scrambled eggs and bacon, served by someone that I love." - 'give me that simple life', lorez alexandria
Her favourite mornings were the ones where she awoke to the feeling of his gaze already on her. When she couldn't be sure if he'd just woken up or if he'd been watching her for a while. She had asked him once why he did it, and after a long period of silence, he simply murmured - “I'm trying to memorize every inch of you just in case…” he never told her what the just in case was, but she knew.
She turned on her side to view him fully, and decided that she liked him best like this. Alive, and warm, and so strong, next to her. She reached forward to trace a fingertip down the crooked bridge of his nose, and watched him smile into her touch.
“You're something else, you know that?” she asked.
Frank scoffed. “Somethin’ else is right. More rough road than man, most days. Don't know why you stick around, sometimes.”
It hurt her heart to hear him speak that way about himself but she forced a smile regardless.
“I think it’s mostly because you make a mean kimchi fried rice.”
The laughter that rumbled from him was low and warm, the mere sound of it akin to her favourite song.
His brown irises glittered brilliantly in the warm sunlight pouring through their bedroom window, and she noticed that they were a lighter shade of umber than normal; his biggest tell that he was content.
“Your mama ever tell ya it was rude to stare?” He simpered.
“Course she did. But she also had an affinity for devastatingly handsome men, so I think she'd give me a pass.”
They let the silence collect between them before she confessed that she wanted him. She was playing it coy. It was absolutely more of a need than a want, but she was sure he already knew that.
He happily obliged her, shifting her onto her side, and easing himself to the hilt inside of her. He pressed his lips to the nape of her neck, and stayed anchored in her for longer than usual, reveling in the feeling of her all-encompassing warmth. Reveling in the notion that like this, they were two halves of a whole entity.
“Missed this, baby.”
So did she. He could be gone a day, a week, or months on end, and it would never take her long to miss the closeness. They fit together like he was made for her, and on mornings like this, she truly believed that he was.
She reckoned she could live in this moment for the rest of her life; the sharp sting of being fully filled by him, blunted by the repeated brush of his lips against her neck. There was the person she was when Frank wasn't around, and then there was the person she was now - her favourite version of herself. She had no choice but to bloom like a flower under his devotion.
His hand snaked around the front of her body, to the spot just below her belly where it rested while he continued fucking into her.
He gently pressed down against her and whispered, “God, I can feel myself right in here,” The pressure was enough to cause a string of nonsensical curse words to spill from her slack mouth. “You take me so well, sweetheart… feels so damn good.”
She knew then that she wasn't long for this particular world; could tell by the pleasure unraveling deep in her belly like a ball of yarn out of control. She tightrope walked the precipice of her release, knowing Frank would be the one to get her there.
“You're close, sweetheart,” His husky voice as it traveled across her neck and left goosebumps in its wake, caused her to tremble against him. “and I want you to let go when you're ready. Want you to give it all to me, yeah?”
She nodded earnestly, for the only sound she was capable of making was a desperate, mewling whimper.
“Attagirl- that's it, keep going. Breathe through it with me, and ride it out. Feel everything.”
More often than not, his voice and the words that flowed along with it, was the catalyst for her orgasms. This morning was no exception. She felt every inch of his cock as it moved inside of her, and suddenly she stilled against him, arched her back, and came around him with a series of breathless, high-pitched sighs.
“Jesus,” Frank groaned, as he continued fucking her through it. “So beautiful like this, sweetheart.”
She couldn't speak; could only focus on the delicious push-and-pull of him inside of her - so good it bordered on painful - “want you to come for me, Frank.”
He didn't have to be asked twice. He pressed a last scorching kiss to the nape of her neck and stilled against her, allowing the waves of his orgasm to consume him whole. He stayed pressed against her long after he'd finished, and when he did eventually pull away, she felt his loss keenly.
“Is it strange that I only feel completely whole when we're together like that?” She breathed.
Frank waited a beat before kissing the rounded curve of her shoulder.
“No, because I feel the same way.”
While he drifted back into a shallow sleep, she rose for the day, in search of caffeine and some food. She settled on bacon and eggs, queued up her current favourite playlist, and got to work. It didn't take long for the scent of percolating coffee and frying bacon to rouse Frank, and he appeared in the doorway of the kitchen, wordlessly.
“Hello, you.” She turned to beam at him from her stance in front of the stove.
He pushed himself from the doorway to wrap his arms around her.
“Hi, baby.”
She gestured to their small wooden table. “Go sit down, hm? I'll make you a plate.”
He pecked at her cheek and did as he was told.
When she went over to pass him his plate, he caught her wrist in his hand. “I know I don't say it enough, but I wanted you to know that I love you, sweetheart. In case the sky falls on our head.”
She caressed a palm to his cheek and smiled. “Love you too, Frank.”
could we get some fluffy comfort thoughts on how frank helps reader with really bad cramps? ive been dying all day and i feel like his hand would work 100x better than this ancient hot water bottle😔
gah! that was me a couple of days ago, just the worst. hope you feel better soon!!
- he hates seeing you in any kind of discomfort, so he'll try anything to get you to feel even marginally better. midol? you got it, here's a brand new bottle. hot bath? he's running it right now. need an orgasm or two to help the cramps dissipate? he's your guy.
- running low on supplies and it's eleven o'clock at night? you best believe he's high-tailin' it to the nearest cvs to help you out.
- he loves cooking for you (always), but especially when you're on your period. loves sneaking in foods you don't normally eat that are high in nutrients your body may be lacking, loves the look on your face when you take a bite of something particularly delicious.
- and no surprise that the man runs like a furnace, so you're absolutely right about his hands. when the cramps border unbearable, he gets you to lay down with him. he rests his head on your chest and splays an impossibly warm palm right where you need it most. the weight of him - combined with the magic flowing from his hand - is finally enough to put you at ease for the time being.
- in summary, he just really enjoys having someone to take care of again.
What if it's the first time Frank and reader get intimate together and he just... Doesn't fit? Like he tries to put it in and it's just painful despite all the lube they're using. Maybe Reader cries a little bit because the pain is too much for her and she feels like it's her fault somehow? I love your work, keep it up! ❤️
thank you for reading!! glad you're enjoying, my sweet 💙
~
he had waited a month to kiss her for the first time, because he was nothing if not a gentleman.
it had nothing to do with not wanting to; god, he'd wanted to from the moment he sat down in front of her at the Mexican haunt on the lower east side. wanted to from the moment he poured a drop of the unlabeled hot sauce onto her finger and coaxed her into trying it. wanted to from the moment she twisted her face up at the heat, but he played his cards close to his chest because he had to be sure.
and, it didn't take him long to be sure. she'd had him over for dinner one evening a month later, and as he watched her move around her small kitchen with ease, he knew then that he wanted to kiss her; he wasn't sure he'd ever wanted anything more... so he sidled up beside her and asked.
she had laughed at first - a high-pitched breathless one that made his heart stir in the most pleasant of ways and beamed at him.
"course ya can, frank. I've been wondering when you would."
it was awkward at first. no point in pretending it wasn't. his nose got in the way a couple of times (it almost always did), and the smoke alarm went off twice. it didn't help that frank had only been with one other person since maria, so he wasn't exactly practised in the romance department, but the two of them found their rhythm after a while. what struck him the most, was that he found he didn't want to stop. he liked the innate push and pull of her lips, the sharp, quick nip of her teeth at his bottom lip, and then the sweep of her plush tongue to quell the sting of her bite. yeah, frank was a fan.
and while he couldn't get enough of her after that first initial taste, he still waited another month for things to progress further. what he was waiting for really, was for her to tell him that she was ready. he had to hear it from her directly; because as much as he wanted all of her, it had to be on her terms.
"I want to, frank."
she had whispered it so lowly into his ear that he almost missed it.
"if that's what you've been waiting for," she rushed to fill the sudden ticking silence. "I want you."
frank's cock stiffened at her words, and he dropped his forehead to her shoulder, to breathe deeply for a couple of seconds. when he pulled away, it was to press a couple of kisses to her cheek.
"we don't have to. I'm uh... content to lay here and just make out with you until I whither up and kick the bucket."
she laughed at that. "my, you do have a way with words, mister castle." she let the words settle between them before speaking again. "I do want to, frank. It's just been... a little while, so I may need a little coaxing."
frank kissed her once more before standing from his position between her legs. "you wanna help me with this stuff, sweetheart?"
she shook her head slowly, and wedged her bottom lip between her teeth. "nah, the view from down here is just fine."
he smirked, and shucked the t shirt from his torso, dropping it on the floor by his feet. next to go was the belt from his jeans, and his jeans, which pooled around his bare feet. he hooked his thumb in the waistband of his black briefs and slid those down his thighs slowly, reveling at the feeling of his hard dick as it sprang free from it's constrictions.
"my god," she gasped.
frank spit into the palm of his hand and fisted it along the length of his thick cock. "think ya can handle it, sweetheart?"
lip still firmly in place between her teeth, all she could manage was a small moan and nod of her head.
frank met her back at the bed. "your turn," he murmured, before pulling her up.
he reckoned that maybe he liked this part the most; liked taking his time with her. liked discovering where on her body she shivered at the feel of his fingertips, where scars were, where freckles and moles were. there was an intimacy to it that frank didn't know he yearned for until he was knee-deep it it. when she was fully nude, he danced his fingers down the front of her, stopping just shy of the short thatch of hair that grew there, and made him positively feral.
"can I?" he whispered, which sent a shiver down her spine.
she nodded against him. "yes please, frank."
he settled his forehead against hers, parted her, and then slipped two of his fingers into her. his eyes fell shut at the impossibly wet, and warm, sensation of her as her walls involuntarily hugged his fingers. "christ, baby, that's so good."
"want you frank," her voice was a wineglass on the edge of a table.
frank pressed a kiss to the tip of her nose and nodded. "gonna give it to you baby, but I gotta work you up a little first, alright? gonna be a big stretch for you, and I don't want it to hurt."
she nodded against him, and he began to fuck her slowly with his fingers, making sure to curve them at the hilt, so that he managed to hit her g spot each time. she was unravelling quickly, and he wanted at least an orgasm from her under his belt before they went any further.
"how's 'sat feel, baby?" he whispered, before picking up his speed.
she was a loss for words and began to whimper and grind against him for extra friction - it was all of the encouragement he was going to get from her in her current state, so he kept going. he kept going until he felt her walls start to gutter around him like the flame of a candle in the wind. he kept going until her nails left miniscule half-moon crescents in his shoulder blade, kept going until she stilled against him completely and came hard around the thick, calloused fingers buried deeply inside of her.
"that was such a good start, baby," frank murmured and guided her back to the solace of the bed. he settled back between her legs, and gestured to the small bottle of lube he'd pulled out earlier. "will you do the honours?"
she nodded, grabbed the bottle and poured a healthy amount of it onto his hard cock. frank's head fell back, and he groaned at the sudden coolness of the liquid, and of the sensation of her hand as she coated him with it. "attagirl, baby. just like that."
frank never moved far from her forehead, and lined the head of his swollen cock at the entrance of her slick slit. "breathe with me baby, okay? gonna be tight." she nodded against him, widened her thighs, and inhaled deeply. he pushed forward, but to his surprise, her walls remained rigid. he pulled out slightly to tease his head against the swollen bud of her clit, earning her a high, breathy moan, and tried again... to no avail.
"it's not... fitting," she gasped. frank couldn't tell whether the frustration in her voice was a result of surprise, or disappointment.
he pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead. "I'm gonna try once more, baby, but then we gotta stop for a while, okay? cause I genuinely cannot bare the thought of hurtin' you in any way."
she tried to angle her hips in a way that might yield positive results, and even though he managed to go an inch further this time, she just wasn't budging. and the grimace on her face told him everything he needed to know. as frank pulled out of her, he watched a tear cascade down the edge of her eye, and quickly thumbed it away.
"sh, shh. don't cry, baby. it's okay." he fell back onto the space of bed beside her, and pulled her to his chest.
"It's my fault frank," she confessed. "I'm just so... disappointed in myself."
frank placed two fingers under her chin and tilted it up so that they were gazing at each other. "what's this about it being your fault?" she opened her mouth to say something, but he stopped her. "don't ever say that to me, okay? you are perfect just the way you are."
"I've basically been celibate since meeting you, frank. It's been a while for me, there's a reason you don't fit."
frank coaxed her back onto his chest, and sifted his fingers through her hair. "we'll get there together, just gotta be patient. for now, this is enough for me. is it enough for you?"
she waited a while before confirming that it was.
he pressed a kiss to the crown of her head and asked if she was okay. "did I hurt you?"
she traced lazy circles around the broad planes of his toned chest before shaking her head. "no, you didn't hurt me, frank."
he let the dust settle on the silence before murmuring that he wouldn't be going anywhere, anytime soon. that she truly felt like home to him.
