20 ∿ she/her ∿ hufflepuff ∿ full-time english student ∿ aspiring author, posting here for shits and giggles only ∿ mcu enthusiast ∿ recent dcu enthusiast ∿ THIS BLOG IS 18+
Requests °❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･
requests ⮕ currently open 🗳
PLEASE SEE rules for information on my boundaries as well as what/who I write for before you request.
DISCLAIMER: please note I am a full-time college student and also working part-time. I post here as a hobby, nothing more. If it takes me a while to fulfill your request please know it's nothing personal!
Masterlist °❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･
c h a r a c t e r s :
CLARK KENT
FRANK LANGDON
SCOTT MILLER (coming soon!)
MORE COMING SOON (subject to my hyperfixations)
I DO NOT give permission for my work to be copied, re-uploaded, or translated.
me because I am incapable of keeping what could be a very simple, drabble-length request under 5k words and am stuck wanting to bash my head into the wall writing transitions and flushing everything out only to ultimately rush the ending out of sheer frustration
anyway, this is my way of telling you I'm almost finished with a soft-dom smutty clark request LMFAO
frank langdon wanting to go down on mel king so badly that when they finally get back to his place after a night out, they’re kissing against his front door while he’s fumbling with his keys.
they swing into his entryway and mel is panting, sighing, moaning into his mouth. he swears he can hear the blood rush in his ears.
hands are everywhere. on his nape where she’s grasping at his hair. on her ribs as he feels the weight of her tits in his palms.
he starts kissing her neck and making his way down her body. her neck is flushed and her skirt has officially ridden up as her one of her legs hooks around his back. frank can see her panties are soaked and takes a moment to steady himself until he hears a breathy, “more. please.”
his mind goes blank and he feels feral. mel king asked him for more? well, he’s always been an overachiever.
he slowly gets on his knees, her leg now hooked on his shoulder and his thumb gently teasing the dampness as he gets close enough to pull her panties down with his teeth.
looking up at mel, he asks, though it almost feels like he’s pleading, to please let him taste her because it’s all he’s been thinking about since they met.
Pairing - WC: David!Clark Kent x gf!Reader | 3.75k
Summary: Loving Clark Kent means loving Superman too, even when the city steals him away on the nights you wanted him most.
Tags: 18+, MDNI, smuuuut, praise kink, oral (m receiving), kinda cock worship?, deep throat, wet and filthy, saliva as lube, nipple/breast play, tugging on hair, suit stays mostly on, cum swallowing, filthy use of lipstick, lovesick!Clark, needy!reader, established relationship, f!hair mentioned but no style, color, length described, reader wears a dress, pet names (baby, sweetheart, honey/hon)
took all day to write this, frantically with one hand. i'm sorry I don't have it in me to edit. you get whatever my lil brain gives. Thank you @honey-on-your-tongue for talking some sense into me to just write
main masterlist | Mrs. Kent Diaries
You’d been waiting for Clark to come home for two agonizing hours.
Your little black dress miraculously hadn’t wrinkled despite your nervous pacing, dramatic sighs, the way you kept sinking onto the couch only to stand again, too restless, too warm, too annoyed to sit still for more than thirty seconds.
Every slow lap from the couch to the tall windows and back again only made the ache between your thighs grow slicker, more insistent, your body winding itself tighter around his absence.
By the millionth trip to the hallway mirror, you dropped all pretenses and admitted you weren't fixing anything, just needed somewhere to channel all that restless heat.
The earrings caught the low light as you tilted your head, and your mind instantly supplied the filthy image of them swaying and tinkling while Clark’s hands fisted your hair, guiding you as you rode his cock deep and desperate.
Your perfume had warmed against flushed skin, the pulse beneath it fluttering wildly at every elevator groan or passing footstep—imagining his face buried there instead, licking, sucking, nipping marks into your throat while he growled your name.
Even your lipstick, a shade worn with the purpose to make Clark stammer half his sentences and forget all the manners Ma drilled into him, remained exactly where you’d painted it. No matter how many times you licked and pressed your lips together.
You leaned closer to the mirror, pouting, dragging your palms down your waist and over your hips exactly the way you wanted his to: rougher, needier, gripping, squeezing, digging hard enough to leave faint bruises that would heal under his apologetic kisses later. You adjusted one strap, one that hadn't even moved a single inch, imagining his fingers slipping beneath and yanking it down, too.
Pathetic, you thought. Absolutely pathetic. Dressed up and wound this badly for him.
You pictured exactly how he would’ve gone. He’d come through the door giddy and grinning, still windblown from the city, broad shoulders filling the entryway, keys clinking into the bowl. One shoe off, hand still on the doorknob, glasses slipping down his nose as a sweet greeting died in his throat: “Honey, I’m ho—oh gosh,” in that deep, raspy voice.
Or, “Sweetheart," in that strained, drawn-out way that somehow sounded like profanity.
Or your name, whispered as if he’d just found nirvana in the hallway of his own apartment.
His eyes would’ve gone to your face first because he was a good man, but not that good. They would've dropped to your throat. Then your dress, to the inviting plunge of cleavage, the curve of your waist beneath your own restless hands. Then, inevitably, helplessly, back up to your shaded lips that made him so lovesick and stupid.
In two strides, Clark'd pressed you against the wall, hands sliding under your dress to find you already soaked, fingers teasing your clit while he groaned against your lips and you moaned reminders about dinner plans.
Nothing big or expensive.
Just you and him, a candle-lit table, his hand warm at the small of your back, thumb brushing the curve of your hip, fingers pinching the meat of your ass whenever he thought no one was looking. You’d lean into him, swat his chest playfully, tug him down by the collar to kiss the hinge of his jaw, and feel the sharp catch of breath against your cheek. Let your ankle stroke against his inner thigh under the table. Watch him try to keep his voice steady while you playfully smiled at him over your menu, like you hadn’t already decided the night would end with a much sweeter, messier kind of pie for dessert.
But by minute fifty-three, a new scenario had taken over.
A slow turn in the hallway.
A sharp, lifted brow.
Maybe a wounded little, "Oh, baby. You remembered where we live?" if you felt especially cruel enough.
You’d make Clark work for your smile, let him chase you around the apartment with those apologetic, puppy-dog eyes, scolding him to freshen up. Let him put those big hands on your hips, press up behind you, and murmur apologies against your neck until you believed him. Maybe allow him to press a kiss or two to your shoulder, your wrist, the corner of your mouth.
Maybe you’d even let him drop to his knees and eat you out right there against the wall, your fingers in his thick mess of hair, riding his tongue until you came with his name on your lips.
Maybe allow him to do it over and over, until you finally let him off the hook like always.
Because this wasn't the first time, and wouldn't be the last.
It came with the territory of loving Clark Kent, and the heavier territory of loving Superman. Missed reservations, movies paused halfway through, solo showers. Sometimes the whole city seemed to reach for him at the same time you did, and the cruel, noble thing was that you usually stepped back first.
You knew that. You loved that about him. You hated that about him a little tonight.
And because you knew Clark, because you loved him, because you were not interested in building any argument out of a rescue he couldn’t ignore, you hadn't checked the news.
Hadn’t opened your phone to search "Superman". Hadn’t refreshed the Planet’s breaking alerts or texted Lois. Hadn’t doom-scrolled shaky footage of smoke or sirens or blue-and-red blurs cutting through the sky.
You’d left your phone face down next to your purse like that made you mature, responsible, as if ignorance could quiet your wild imagination from filling in every possible reason he wasn’t home yet.
If there was a reason, he would tell you.
If there was blood, he would hide it badly.
If there was guilt, God, it'd be written all over his face.
-
You were still leaning toward the mirror, blotting your lipstick again, when the balcony door exploded inward.
Okay, not literally, but the force of Clark’s landing hit the apartment like a thunderclap. The curtains snapped like a whip. Your lipstick tube jumped clean out of your fingers and struck the floor, rolling beneath the console table as you stifled a yelp.
Then came the frantic scrape of the door, the rush of cold night air, and Clark’s boots hitting concrete, then hardwood, too fast, too heavy, every step like a hammer striking stone.
Your heart lurched into your throat as you spun around, shocked silent.
Clark was already pacing, one hand dragged through his raven hair hard enough to displace the stubborn curl at his forehead. His chest rose and fell like he’d flown across the edges of the vast universe holding his breath. He looked wired. Furious. Worn down to the bone. Like whatever happened out there sunk its claws into his shoulders and followed him home.
Every thought of playfully guilting Clark vanished clean out of your head.
"…Clark? Baby?" you breathed, nose crinkling as a burnt aroma curled around your senses. "What's wrong? Are you—?
At the sound of your voice, he turned so sharply he nearly tripped over his own boots.
It nearly broke your heart, the way his frantic blue eyes settled over you, softening just a touch. The dress. The earrings. The lipstick. The two miserable hours written all over your face. For one suspended second, he looked exactly like the Clark you’d imagined in the hallway, stunned, lovesick, and ruined by the sight of you.
Then guilt struck his features like lightning.
"Sweetheart, I'm so sorry," the words tumbled out in a breathless rush before you could say another thing. "I know I'm late. I know. There was a—a chemical fire and—and the containment team couldn’t get close enough without getting hurt, so I had to—the whole building was about to—Gosh, the entire east wall was ready to buckle, and I tried to be fast, I really did, but if I moved too fast the firefighters would probably turn to mush—and I couldn't do that—-"
He gestured helplessly, pacing again, the apologies and explanations spilling out of him like an avalanche burying any hope of organizing his thoughts.
That’s when you noticed the scorch marks.
His blue suit stretched tight across his shoulders, dark with sweat and smoke. His cape fluttered behind him in a singed, ragged mess, the bottom edge frayed. Black streaks of soot smeared across his chest, across his family crest, across the strong line of his jaw. It was his abdomen that made your stomach twist.
The fabric had been eaten clean through, the edges curled and blackened like something caustic splashed him. Beneath it, his skin was whole. Thank goodness. Smooth and unbroken under the ruin, still Clark, still impossibly untouched in the ways that should have reassured you.
But it didn’t. While the suit was destroyed, your Clark was still shaking.
“—and I knew we had dinner reservations,” he bemoaned, both hands moving now, one pinching the bridge of his nose, the other clenched around something you hadn’t got a good look at yet. “I knew, I swear I knew, and I kept thinking I could still make it if I just got everyone out. Then a second tank ruptured, and I thought, "Good Gosh, are there no other heroes out tonight," then I felt horrible thinking that, so I went back in, and—”
You frowned, worried.
Of course you were.
Always, when it came to your Clark.
But standing there with your pulse in your throat and between your thighs, taking in the ruined suit clinging to him like a second skin, the ash on the same cheekbones you kissed this morning, the heat coming off his body in waves, the raw, breathless guilt in his voice…some low, terrible, needy part of you curled awake and wanted.
Wanted him closer. Wanted your hands on him. Wanted to peel the ruined suit off inch by inch and find out how much of that frantic, superhuman energy he could spend on you.
You bit the inside of your cheek, frowning deeper, looking as grave as Clark felt.
Then his left hand shifted against the moonlight, and you finally saw them: flowers.
A bouquet of deep red roses, crushed almost beyond dignity in his tense fist. The stems were bent. A few petals had scattered across the balcony tiles during his landing, bright as little drops of crimson against the concrete and hardwood.
“Clark," you interrupted, lips slightly parted.
He stopped mid-stride.
You pointed. “Flowers?”
He blinked, looking down at his own hand as if he’d never seen it before.
"Fl—oh. Yeah." He sighed, shoulders sinking. "Bought them just after clocking out. Called ahead, was supposed to drop them off, have the waiter bring them out before the appetizers, or when you sat down. I hadn't decided. I was going to pretend I had no idea what was happening, which sounds so silly saying it aloud— because—because you always know when I’m lying, but I thought maybe if I did it badly enough, it would be charming—"
Endearing, utterly charming, painfully attractive word vomit paired with disheveled hair, ragged breaths, smoke-smudged skin, and the kind of rippling muscles the ruined suit was doing absolutely nothing to hide.
Shit. You wanted him now.
"—I guess we’ll never know, because I’m two hours late and the roses are destroyed and I smell like a poorly managed high school chem lab—"
"Clark, stop!" you called, firmer than you meant to.
The rambling died in his throat.
His eyes lifted to yours, then moved over you slowly this time, not in panic or apology, but with a stunned, helpless heat that landed everywhere his hands desperately wanted to. Your face. Your lips. The line of your throat. The dress hugging your waist, your hips, the soft rise and fall of your breasts as your breathing changed under his attention.
Ah, there he was. Not exactly the fantasy. Arguably better.
Very late, soot-streaked, holding ruined flowers, staring at you like the whole burning city had fallen away and left him with nothing but this apartment, this hallway, and you.
Your thighs pressed together before you could stop them.
"Sweetheart,” he swallowed faintly, drawling it out like a curse.
Swallowing a moan, you asked instead. "Did everyone make it out alive? Safe?"
He nodded, still staring.
"Then it's okay, everything is okay, promise." Clearing your throat, you stepped toward him quickly. "What's important is you are home, too. Alive and safe. What you need is to get out of that suit. It's ruined."
"I can fix it,” he countered, still watching your lips with that dazed expression. "The suit, I mean. Gary can—"
"The Fortress is thousands of miles away."
You stopped right in front of him, close enough to smell the smoke and something metallic and sharp tingle in your nostrils. Close enough to feel the warmth rolling off him, to see the soot caught in the laugh lines and dimples beside his mouth, to watch his unmarked skin shift and tense beneath the torn, ruined fabric every time he breathed. "We can deal with it tomorrow."
Clark glanced down at himself, brows pinched. "Right. Tomorrow. I'm sorry, I should probably—"
"Clark?" you nearly whimpered.
"Yeah? What is it?"
"Shut up."
You rose onto your toes, caught the back of his neck, and pulled him down, snuffing further protests.
For half a second, he held still, too careful, too Clark, one ruined bouquet hanging limply at his side, and the other hand hovered near your shoulder. Then you kissed him harder, one hand sliding into the damp hair at his nape while the other curled into the collar at the front of his suit, and whatever restraint he had left cracked.
Clark groaned against your lips, the sound vibrating through your chest.
His free hand found your waist, still trembling with leftover adrenaline, and yanked you flush against him, no longer gentle. You felt every hard inch of him: the solid wall of his chest, the ridges of his abs through the torn suit, and the thick, unmistakable bulge of his cock already straining against your belly. He tilted his head, lips parting wider, tongue sliding hot and urgent against yours.
The kiss quickly turned hungry, messy, open-mouthed with his apology, with your impatience, with the two hours you’d spent wanting him and the whole ruined night he’d carried home in his chest.
Soot from his jaw smudged your cheek. Your lipstick smeared across his mouth and chin as he chased the connection, sucking on your tongue before nipping your bottom lip hard enough to make your knees buckle and a fresh wetness to flood your panties.
One of his hands slid down to grip your ass, squeezing the flesh and pulling you tighter so you could grind against the rigid length of him.You moaned into his mouth, nipples tightening against his chest, your soaked cunt throbbing with every roll of his hips.
God, you wanted nothing more than for Clark to rip the dress off and fuck you right here, bent over the console table or legs wrapped around his waist with your back pressed against the windows, taking every thick inch until you were dripping down his cock and screaming his name.
You broke the kiss only enough to breathe against his lips, one hand still fisted tight in his hair, tugging just the way you knew made him weak.
“Baby,” you murmured huskily, lips brushing his. “I can help take the suit off.”
Bracing his thighs, you lowered yourself to your knees before he could argue, the movement making your earrings sway and tinkle softly just as you'd imagine.
The position put you at eye level with the scorched gash in his suit. You reached up, fingers hovering over the blakened edges, and began carefully peeling it away from his skin. The material, though thick and clinging stubborn even in pieces, gave way under your persistent hands.
Beneath it, Clark's abdomen was warm. Whole. Trembling when your knuckles grazed along his hip bone.
Above you, Clark made a sharp, strangled groan and immediately looked away, jaw rigid, the ruined bouquet still clutched in his white-knuckled grip as the last thread of his composure.
Pursing your lips to stifle a giggle, you worked the torn section free, exposing more of him: the ladder of his ribs, the hollow of his pelvis, the dark trail of hair that disappeared beneath the waistband. You let your gaze follow that trail hungrily, licking your lips.
Sure, the suit was always tight, but now it was impossible to miss the pronounced ridge of his erection, pressing against the red fabric of his briefs, curving and straining upward, the thick head already leaking.
Oh, your poor, guilty, late, soot-streaked Superman, trying so hard to be polite when his body had very clearly remembered what yours had been aching for the last two painstaking hours.
"Hmm, I know you like what you see," you purred, looking up at him through your lashes, pulse fluttering wildly at your throat.
A choked sound tore from his heaving chest.
"I—you—it's the dress," he stammered, his free hand hovering near your cheek, fingers twitching. You spared him the pain and leaned into his touch, letting him cup your face.
"The dress?" you blinked up, wide-eyed, mock-innocent, drawing your shoulders forward so your cleavage spilled forward.
"And the earrings. Plus, your smile. Your voice. That lipstick," he finally admitted, almost desperate. "And you. Mostly you. Entirely you, actually. You're so beautiful. I couldn’t stop thinking about you. Even during the fire, I kept picturing you waiting for me, and I was late, and the reservations, and the roses, and—"
He swallowed hard, Adam's apple bobbing, abdomen tensing. “The reservations. Can we still—”
“Dinner’s not happening tonight,” you explained gently, glancing at the wallclock with exaggerated sorrow. “The restaurant stopped seating twenty minutes ago. Hell, even fifteen minutes after our reservation lapsed.”
His shoulders sank once more, thumb stroking your cheek with heartbreaking tenderness when you glanced up at him. "Yeah, I figured."
"But," you continued, curling your fingers into the waistband of his suit, tugging it down. "I am hungry."
The sound Clark made when his thick, flushed, slick-at-the-tip cock sprang free was half groan, half profanity prayer.
You wrapped a hand around the base, fingers barely meeting, pumping him a few times before notching the fat head between your parted lips. The sight of him, so hard and leaking in your palm, made your mouth water with primal anticipation.
Leaning in and parting wider, you licked a slow, wet stripe up the underside, tracing every vein from root to tip. He was proportional to everything else about him. Which meant he was a lot, and received a lot of attention.
Clark’s entire body jerked with every drag of your tongue. The hand grasping the flowers eventually let go. Petals scattered as he gripped the back of your neck with that perfect blend of gentleness and desperate strength you’d fantasized about.
"Oh," he begged. "Hon, please."
Drawing a breath, you took him past your plush lips and into your warm mouth.
For a moment, you stayed still to feel the weight of him on your tongue. To savor the taste of salt and skin. You sighed dreamily, eyes rolling back, hollowed your cheeks, and sank down, down, down, until your nose buried into the thatch of dark hair at the base, until the head nudged the back of your throat and you had to pull back just enough, gasping, gagging, drawing more breath.
Your eyes watered, paying no mind to wipe them away. Saliva pooled messily down your chin, over his balls, dripping onto the valley of your breasts. You went right back, messier, wetting, pushing further until your throat fluttered and squeezed around his thickness. Your earrings tinkled with every enthusiastic bob of your head.
“Baby—you're— incredible,” Clark managed, each word bashful and strained between ragged breaths.
The hand cupping your cheek slid down your shoulder with a grunt, thumb tracing your collarbone before tugging the strap of your dress gently until it fell, then the other. The fabric peeled away onto your waist, baring your breasts to the cool air. His broad, callused palm groped one immediately as he groaned.
"Your mouth, the way you take me—so deep—that lipstick—"
You whimpered around his cock at the praise, the high-pitched vibrations making his hips twitch. Lipstick smeared across his shaft in streaks, marking him exactly the way you’d imagined while waiting. You took him to the root again, throat fluttering around his thickness, swallowing deliberately so the tight muscles milked him. Your pulse raced against his cock with every heartbeat.
"Gosh—" His hips bucked involuntarily harsher that time. He immediately stilled, a flush creeping up his neck. “Sorry, sorry, hon, I didn’t mean to—”
Clark’s hand tightened at the back of your neck, the other gripping your shoulder, holding you steady as his thighs trembled beneath your touch, with the willpower not to fuck your face the way he fucked your cunt.
“No—more—sorry's,” you quickly warned when he tried to apologize for another sharper buck, sucking harder in retaliation despite the radiating ache in your cheeks and jaw.
The wet, rhythmic squelching of your mouth working him filled the room. You pulled off just long enough to lap at his slit, tongue swirling through the leaking fluid, then took him whole again.
His hand on the back of your head, then loosened, then tightened again, like he couldn’t decide whether to pull you closer or push you away. He was babbling praises now, sweet praises spilling from his lips between raspy moans.
"You’re so good to me—so darn good—how are you so good at this—your mouth, your tongue—" A guttural sound broke his sentence in half when you swirled your tongue at the base, curving your head. "You look so beautiful like this. W-with that darn lipstick, I said that — alright r-right? I wanted—I want you all night. All day. Every second I was out there. I couldn't stop—"
Through his ramblings, his generous, callused fingers dragged through the thick strings of saliva dripping down your chin and onto your chest, using the messy spit as slick, warm lube to glide over your skin. He spread it across your stiff nipple in slow, meaningful circles, making them glisten.
His palms traded sides, giving attention to the neglected breast, sending sparks straight to your clenching cunt, the perfect counterpoint to the frantic, greedy rhythm of your mouth. The wet heat of your mouth, the cool air on your skin, the rough pad of his thumb made you moan louder and longer than before.
"Yes," Clark hissed. "Yes, jus'—just like that, hon. I love—when you sound like that. I love—when I can feel it. When you—”
You pulled off just long enough to lap at his slit, tongue darting out and swirling, then sank back down, taking every inch until your nose pressed against his pelvis and you swallowed around him.
Clark’s eyes fluttered shut, chest heaving, jaw clenching so tight the muscle jumped beneath his filthy sweat-slicked skin. "I’m—I can’t—Hon, you’re going to make me—I'm gonna—ohh sh—shoot—"
His words dissolved into breathless moans. Low. Broken. The kind of sounds you'd happily spend eternity coaxing from him. You felt him familiar throb against your tongue, thick and pulsing. His hand fisted tighter in your hair, the other gripping your shoulder hard enough to leave faint bruises that would be soothed under his kisses later.
With a broken cry that rattled through his chest, Clark came.
Hot, thick spurts flooded your throat in heavy waves. You swallowed every drop, throat fluttering and milking him while your lipstick left fresh smears along the shaft.
You kept sucking gently long after, lazily nursing him through the oversensitivity until his legs shook and soft, blissful whimpers slipped from his lips.
Only then did you pull off his massive length with a wet pop, thin gleaming strings of saliva and cum connecting your swollen, glossy lips to his still-twitching cock, dripping meassily onto your breasts.
Clark stared down at you like you’d hung the moon, the stars, and made the sun rise every day just for him, blue eyes dazed, tender, overflowing with love. His hands trembled as they cupped your face, thumbs brushing away tears and spit from your cheeks and lipstick-smeared lips as you caught your breath, all while whispering hushed words of praise and affection that made your cunt clench and squirm to once again chase that heat.
Suddenly, he lifted you by the waist, pressing your bare back against the cool window. The glass fogged beneath your heat as he dropped to his knees, rucking your dress high up onto your waist. Your legs draped instinctively over his wide shoulders, heels digging between his shoulder blades.
"I need—" he started, and then stopped, nuzzling against the soaked crotch of your panties, inhaling deeply, lips nipping at your swollen clit through the fabric with silent, pleading permission.
"I know, baby," you cooed, carding your fingers through his thick, messy curls, tugging just right. Your voice was deliciously raspy from how thoroughly you’d taken him. "You’re hungry. I can help with that, too."
The soot-stained suit still hung off him in tatters.
Scattered rose petals littered the floor around you both like crimson confetti.
Early in their shift, Frank finds Mel in the break room on her phone. He asks what she’s so preoccupied with, and she responds that she’s fixing up her profile on a dating app.
Frank, who was only stopping into the lounge for a Red Bull, suddenly sits in the chair across from Mel. He swallows, then clears his throat.
"A, uh, dating app?"
Mel looks up at him. She can't really figure out his expression, but she nods all the same.
"Doctor Santos, um, she said I should start to put myself out there more. So, I'm putting myself out there, I guess."
Of-fucking-course it’s Trinity’s idea, he thinks. So Frank nods, drumming his fingers nervously on the table. "She's not wrong, it's— it’s not a bad idea. How's that going for you?"
“Well,” Mel starts, “apparently dates at the museum are not the most desirable thing—”
“Says who?” Frank looks affronted.
Mel shrugs. “Everyone in the 28-35 age range in Pittsburgh.”
Frank is about to say ‘sounds like a bunch of fucking losers, because I think it’s a great idea for a date’ when Mel leans in, turning her phone around.
“Maybe it’s my pictures? Um, Santos said I should use this one,” she swipes to a photo of her laughing with her hair down. She looks absolutely beautiful— carefree, rosy cheeks. He wonders where she was and what even made her smile like that.
Frank wets his lips, then gives a small shrug. “It’s a— a great photo, Mel. You should definitely use that. You look pretty. Super pretty.”
Mel smiles, wrinkling her nose at the photo, as if she’s seeing something for the first time. “Oh. Thank you, I—”
Dana ducks her head into the lounge and tells Frank he’s needed elsewhere. He almost knocks his chair over from how fast he stands.
For the next few hours, Frank keeps hovering around Mel, especially when she’s talking with Santos. He tries eavesdropping. He also tries not to be so obvious, but Santos is catching on fast.
About midday, a Sheriff's Deputy appears at the hub, asking for Frank Langdon. The Pitt is abuzz by this development while Frank makes his way over. He doesn’t seem nervous, but his neck is slowly reddening.
“You’re Frank Langdon?”
“I am,” he answers. He knows what this is.
The Sheriff’s Deputy confirms Frank’s birthdate, then his address. The address Frank gives, which he also mentions, is a sober living facility. It turns out he and Abby have been separated since before he came back, and per their custody agreement, has been living there as transitional housing. Rent also operates on a sliding scale, which is about all he can afford for the time being between the PHP and recouping rehab debt.
He still has his wedding band on at this point, but sheepishly takes it off when he’s putting the divorce papers away in his locker. When he closes his locker door, Mel is standing there.
“How long have you been keeping this a secret?” She asks, looking absolutely crushed. “Is there anything else you’re keeping a secret— lying about?”
Frank tearfully comes clean about the drug diversion. He tells Mel that he didn’t think he could handle her thinking less of him, especially with how close they’ve gotten. She means so much to him now, and he really was just trying to find the right time, but he knows now that it was wrong of him to withhold this like he did. He was ashamed of himself, and still trying to process it on his own, and felt like advertising his many failures was just too much. He was a coward and she deserved the truth. He’s sorry.
Mel is shocked by this— it overwhelms her, and she even looks like she’s about to cry. She tells him she doesn’t think less of him, but this is just too much right now, and they really need to get back to work. She asks him for space.
Eventually Dana finds Mel in the stairwell— a callback to July— and reminds her again that people have their own reasons for doing things. Mel is a good person. Frank is also a good person. Dana tells Mel that it’s obvious Mel sees that in Frank, too.
Dana stands and turns to Mel. “You know, this is better than what I thought was going on.”
“What’s that?” Mel asks.
“I thought he was steppin’ out on his wife with you, kid.” Dana winks and holds open the door for Mel. “C’mon.”
For the rest of the shift, Frank is basically on the verge of lashing out or crying. Robby is hounding him, almost like he wants to push Frank over the edge. Things come to a head in the trauma bay and it’s Mel who literally steps in front of Frank, pointing angrily at Robby, and tells him to fucking stop. She’s furious, and Doctor Garcia is there, looking like her entire opinion of Mel King has transformed into outright hero-worship.
Robby, stunned, babbles a quick apology and leaves.
Later, in the ambulance bay, Frank is standing there alone. He keeps absentmindedly touching the bare ring finger on his left hand. Mel steps outside. Their eyes meet. They don’t say anything as Mel comes to stand at his side and they stand in silence for a few moments before Frank thanks her and apologizes again.
“I’ve never seen you so angry,” he says, a little reverently.
“Well, I was angry. Much angrier at him than—”
“I’m sorry,” he blurts again.
“It’s okay,” she says, watching his face. “I forgive you. It— it must have been hard. Everything you were going through. All of it. I get why that felt like the best decision. It really wasn’t my business, anyway, I guess.”
They’re quiet again, before Frank clears his throat.
“You know, I was thinking I should keep my mind busy this weekend. Today was a lot. I was gonna swing by Fort Pitt tomorrow afternoon and just wander around all day.”
Mel’s brows knit together.
“If you’re not, uh, busy or anything, Mel, I wouldn’t mind the company.”
“Really?”
Frank rubs at the back of his neck. “Actually, I’m sorry, I— I, uh, I haven’t done this in a while. I would love it if you joined me.”
Mel’s face turns red. “Is— are—”
“I’m asking you on a date, yeah,” Frank laughs, then drags his hands over his face, as if doing so could wipe the goofy smile he has away. He can’t.
“I would love that, Doctor Langdon.”
“Jesus, don’t— Mel, c’mon. Just call me Frank.”
“Okay, sorry, um, Frank,” she laughs, shaking her head.
They both take a step closer, until their arms are brushing.
“So, it’s a date?” He glances to her lips.
“Yes. It’s a date.” Mel smiles. “Frank.”
They laugh, then both briefly look away from each other, suddenly shy.
[ Roll credits with scenes of their extremely cute date. And hand-holding. And a kiss. Because I said so. ]
summary: clark returns home after a two week long mission off planet. what does he bring with him? a new, longer hair style and an undying need to please his girl.
word count: about 3.7k!
CWs: 18+ MDNI! this is literally just porn after the reuniting part at the beginning!, use of pet names, fem!reader x clark kent, oral (f!receiving), hair pulling (clark receiving!), some rough/frantic kisses, a little bit of dry humping, the suit stays ON!, premature ejaculation (bless his heart), two idiots very much in love, established relationship, general fluff and silliness, i think that's about it.
author's note: i saw these new set pics recently and went fucking berserk over the tighter suit and longer hair. god, i can't wait for man of tomorrow. also this is dedicated to @clarkscolumn (surprise!) bc the very first thing we focused on was his longer hair when i sent these pictures to her. i hope you enjoy, i love u forever and ever bestie <3
Everything in your hands clatters to the floor as soon as your eyes land on Clark. In some sort of cosmic joke, you've both just arrived home from work at the same time, just...in very different entrances. He opted for the balcony, while you just closed your front door.
You can't help but internally cringe at the contents of your bag spilling everywhere, but that's something for you to deal with tomorrow morning. When you're seeing Clark for the first time in two weeks, that mess doesn't really make much of an impression in your mind.
"Hey, stranger," Clark excitedly quips. He's already bounding over to you, cape billowing behind him with each quick step he takes in your direction. You match his fastidious pace; how could you not?
"Where have you been?" you breathe while you basically sprint toward him. Your arms extend just the right amount enough for him to crash into you and scoop you up into his hold. Then to spin you around while squeezing you so tightly that you think your spine might snap in half.
You welcome that, though. It's better than being here alone while he's off-planet and you're making yourself sick over whether or not he'll ever come home. You let yourself be engulfed in him, in his crushing hold, in this tight hug, because at least he's here.
"I'm so sorry," he whispers. He presses a kiss onto your temple, gentle and reverent, and you melt into him. Wrap your legs around his waist just to pull him closer to you, to feel the press of his hard, familiar body against yours.
"The mission wasn't supposed to last that long. Everything that could have gone wrong ended up going wrong."
The sigh he pushes out against your temple is full of solace. Maybe a little guilt, as well, judging by the way he tightens his grip on your waist. He buries his face in your hair right after that.
Definitely a not-so-subtle way of inhaling your scent after he'd lost it for two weeks.
You pull back and shake your head.
"Doesn't matter. I'm so happy you're home," you confess through a breathy, relieved laugh.
Your hands, still tingling from the excitement of seeing him after so long, somehow manage to find their way up to his face. You brush your thumbs over the apples of his cheeks while your eyes reorient themselves with his beautiful features. Although he'd been gone for what felt like an eternity, you never forgot what he looked like.
Which proves a problem, because he doesn't look the same as when he left.
Clark leans in to kiss you, but you don't let him. You ignore your body when it screams at you to let him do it. You quickly press your hand over his mouth to hold him back, earning a confused little hum from your boyfriend. When his brow knits together, you bite back a laugh that very desperately wants to burst from your chest.
There's no doubt in your mind that he wants to kiss you even more than you want to kiss him, but that's not happening until you figure out what's new.
"What on Earth are you doing?" he mumbles against your palm.
"Shh. Hang on," you command, eyes still combing over his features. Your hands follow, fingers gently tracing over his soft, warm skin. He's got a little bit of stubble, which was to be expected. Apparently he had access to a mirror to shave with off-planet, though, because it's more of a five o'clock shadow than actual stubble.
You blink a few times. Your fingers trace over the sharp line of his jaw, and the straight, prominent bridge of his nose, and his high-set cheekbones, and his brow, and...anything on him that you can get your hands on.
"M'starting to feel like a lab experiment. Are you high?" he teases, words a little slurred because you're too busy poking and prodding at his cheeks. Laughs at you, too, giving you a glimpse at that beautiful smile you've missed so much. That smile that's the same as it was when he left.
So...his face is the same. What the hell?
"You're different."
His hold on you gets a little more firm. The easygoing, relaxed features you know so well tighten and morph into concern. A furrowed brow instead of a relaxed one. Widened, slightly scared eyes. Tensed shoulders, an even more tense jaw, and his lips quirking downward into a frown.
"Okay, now you're scaring me."
He sets you down in front of him to get a good look at the top of your head, to crane over you like he always does since he's so fucking big.
"Are you sure you're alright, honey? Did you hit your head or something while I was gone?"
He cradles the back of your head with one hand, clearly feeling for a bump or indent or anything that could explain your odd behavior. Then he leans in a little further to get an even closer look.
And that's when it hits you.
When he tilts to the left to look at where his fingers are basically mapping out and exploring your skull, your eyes fall on his hair, and everything starts to fall into place.
On the way that the curls atop of his head are longer. More defined. Water falling over his head and ever-so-slightly adding to that signature curl that always rests on his forehead.
Then your eyes travel down to the back of his head, at the way his hair is longer there, too. Long enough now that it curls at the nape of his neck, or to stick out and curl upward in the case of some of the thicker ones; a subtle difference, but enough to throw you off.
Enough to turn you on, too, because his hair has never been this long. How he managed to grow it this much over two weeks is beyond you; blame it on Kryptonian biology, maybe.
All you know is that you love it.
"It's your hair!" you squeal. "It's longer!"
"Oh, yeah," he says, face melting back into that general, lovey-dovey, gooey ease he usually has when he looks at you. He chuckles and releases your head, opting for reaching down and grabbing your hands instead.
"It's a little overgrown. I was gonna cut it when I got home."
You scoff. Why do men always cut their hair when it finally looks perfect?
"No, don't you dare! I'll break up with you if you do that!"
You get an eye roll from him for that one, but the way he's smiling down at you makes you think he's not all that upset.
"You think it looks good, huh?"
"It's so pretty, Clark," you purr. You must have laid that soft compliment on him much thicker than you thought you did. His cheeks turn pink, and he grins, and he looks down at your intertwined fingers to avoid turning any redder.
You break free of his hold to touch some of those longer curls, but your fingers stall at his suit's collar. It's different. A little shorter, maybe? The gap in the middle at his throat just a little wider? You aren't sure. Either way, you can see more skin. More of that beautiful, golden skin you dream about being pressed against yours at all hours of the day.
You lean back far enough to look at the rest of his suit, which is also slightly different. Still the same bright blue. Still the same gorgeous, flowing cape. But that symbol, the beacon of hope on the front of his chest is a little bigger. And the stretch of the fabric is a little tighter around his biceps. And those ridiculous trunks - the part that genuinely makes you salivate the most despite being so ridiculous - are a little higher up.
Fuck. He looks incredible.
"This...is this a new suit?"
He beams down at you. Steps back to do a quick little spin. You've never had a problem with a show-and-tell moment. Especially when he's showing himself off.
"You like it? It's not technically new, just...upgraded. Had to get Ma to fix the old one 'cause it was super beat up. She made a couple changes along the way."
He braces his hands on his hips and puffs out his chest. Something that should make you laugh, but now that you can see just how well his not-so-new but definitely-new-at-the-same-time suit's clinging to his thighs, you can't speak.
So you swallow when you're done ogling him and your eyes meet again. It was much harder than you wanted it to be. He definitely heard it, and the way he visibly softens and drops his mouth open tells you he's about to ask if you're okay again.
You don't give him the chance to do it, though, because you're too busy pouncing on him. Jumping into his arms and smashing your lips against his. Clark groans at your suddenness, but he doesn't skip a fucking beat. He'd been waiting to kiss you, after all; makes sense that he'd reciprocate it so quickly.
The kiss is immediately hot. It's heavy and obscenely needy on both ends. Your teeth click together in the most deliciously painful way. Your tongues fight for purchase in each others' mouths. Your hands tangle in his thick, longer hair while his hands slide down to your ass, groping it about as roughly as he knows you can handle while he stumbles out of your living room and toward your bedroom instead.
Your dorky giant trips over his own feet a couple times. His cape doesn't really help, either. Gets caught up and tangled in his boots, makes his steps all wobbly before he kicks your bedroom door open and bounds for your bed. And yet, through all that stumbling and near-falling, he manages to keep you steady in his grasp.
The best part about being with Superman? You never have to worry about him dropping you.
Clark doesn't even break the kiss as he kneels on the edge of your bed and bends over to lay you down on it. You're the first one to break it, and it's only so that you can suck in a breath to prevent passing out.
Damn him and his ability to hold his breath for an hour.
"I've thought about this," Clark mutters, leaning down to kiss your jaw and neck about as frantically as possible, "every single second that I was gone."
You laugh and tilt your head back to give him more access to your skin.
"Ditto," is all you can muster as a response. Your head is swimming with lust and a tiny bit of oxygen deprivation, and he doesn't make it any better when he nips at the sensitive spot at the junction where your neck meets your shoulder. His tongue laves over the new sore spot and pulls a moan out of you that you had no idea was nestled in your lungs.
When you unravel your legs from his waist, he settles between them. You have to hold back a whimper as soon as you feel the thick, warm hardness of his cock against your inner left thigh.
You whine, tugging on his hair to get him out of your neck while you tell him, "Kiss me. I haven't seen you in two weeks."
He obliges, but he does it in his own way. A smirk against your hammering pulse at the side of your neck. A few kisses in a trail toward your collarbones. A thin, hot line that he licks up the column of your throat.
"Anything for you, baby," he mumbles just before connecting your lips again. This kiss is slower than the last one, but so much messier. So much deeper. His tongue doesn't even need to slide over your bottom lip and beg for purchase in your mouth - you both went into it open mouthed and burning with need for each other.
You raise your hips to meet the stiff length of his cock. Even through all of your combined layers of clothing, the feeling of his hardness just hardly bumping against your clit is enough to make your walls flutter and clench.
Clark gently rolls his hips against yours, eliciting a moan from both of you. That was some very much-needed friction. It only exacerbates your need. Makes you burn. Makes you tighten your hold on his curls and pull on them again.
He groans and breaks the kiss, but his hips instinctively buck against yours. It takes all of your strength to not come from seeing the thin string of saliva keeping you connected.
Clark lets out a nervous little chuckle.
"This reunion celebration won't last long if you keep pulling my hair like that, honey."
In a playful act of defiance, you twirl some of his thick curls around your fingers and give them another tug. You smirk up at him when his hips buck again.
"You like having your hair pulled that bad, Clark?"
"I like it a normal amount, thank you very much," he sarcastically counters, but his eyes shift away from yours and he buries his face in your neck to attack it with kisses again. He's always been a bad liar.
"So if I do this," you pause to pull on his hair again - a little harder, a little quicker.
"You won't come in your cute trunks?"
Clark literally shudders. His hand falls to your left hip so he can pin you down on the mattress; it was just to get you off of him, to keep you from brushing against his cock again. Prevents him from blowing his load before you even get your hands on him.
"No, I won't." His voice went up about 10 octaves. You laugh at him and kiss his temple just before he can start moving down your chest.
With a flick of his wrist, the buttons on your work blouse are done for. They pop off of you and fling around your room, hitting the walls and clinking down onto the floor all over the place.
"I liked that shirt!" you squeak out. Your feeble little attempt at scolding him bounces right off of him, though.
"I'll buy you another one, honey. Don't worry about it."
Clark spreads your now destroyed shirt open and kneels between your legs so he can get a good look at you. All you can do is push yourself up on your elbows and watch his gaze slowly travel over your bare, heaving chest, your kiss-swollen lips, the soft, pinkish-red marks he'd left on your neck to claim you as his.
But he doesn't speak until he meets your eyes. When his lust for you gets swept aside, and he smiles so big that his dimples pop out. He reaches down to grab your hands. As your fingers intertwine with his, he lowers his voice to a whisper and confesses, "I missed you so much."
Clark's sweet, tender-hearted nature isn't something you're unfamiliar with. He's always got that big heart of his on his sleeve. Always displaying sincerity, and compassion, and kindness because he was raised that way. That's just the way he operates.
And yet there's something so special about when he's directing it at you. Something more genuine, something sweeter and kinder and more compassionate.
Because he loves you. Sure, he loves the people in Metropolis. He cares about them and their well-being.
But at the end of the day, he really, really loves you.
"I love you," he coos while his massive hands give your much smaller ones a tight squeeze.
See?
"I love you," you return without hesitation. You get a flash of that pretty grin from your dorky giant.
Then he leans down to kiss a trail down between your breasts, down your stomach, and toward your waist. He stops there. His hands, big and warm and gentle as ever despite the frantic need threatening to explode out of him, graze over the bottom of the skirt you wore to work. Thankfully, it isn't too tight.
Not like that'd be a problem. He'd just tear it off of you. But, seeing as he already tattered one piece of your clothing today...well, at least you get to salvage the skirt.
Clark pushes your skirt up until it's bunched around your hips. As soon as he gets a glimpse of what he's been missing for 14 long, long days, he lets out a shaky little sigh. His thumb gently glides over the wet patch in the middle of your panties, slow and exploratory and so fucking intoxicating that you're worried you might actually be drunk on him.
"Clark, don't," you cut yourself off with a pathetic whine as he presses down on your clit through your panties. One of your legs jolts and falls over his shoulder, the other still pressed down on the mattress because his big hand's claimed its spot on your thigh.
"Shit, don't tease!"
"I'm not teasing," he mutters. Starts rubbing soft circles on the sensitive little bundle of nerves, making you twitch and claw at the sheets beneath you just to keep it together.
"Just admiring you, sweetheart. Wish you could see how pretty you are when you're making a mess for me like this," he purrs, leaning forward to press a few soft kisses on your thigh. That five o'clock shadow burns your thighs. God, you missed that burn.
As he's marking up your thigh with soft bites that he suckles on to soothe your pain, that thumb slips away from your clit to push your panties to the side.
It all happens so fast. One second, he's torturing you through your panties, the next, he's dipping his head down to suck your clit into his mouth. You gasp and instinctively reach for him, one hand tangling in his hair while the other meets his where it rests on your thigh.
His longer hair is incredible, to say the least. It looks good. Fits him very well. Makes him look more mature even though he's already in his 30s.
Also, though? Fantastic to pull on while he's seated between your thighs and taking you to heaven. It keeps you grounded while he's moving down and dipping his tongue into your cunt. Plus, every time you yank on it, you get rewarded with a moan or grunt from him that shoots deep, gravelly vibrations straight up your core.
A particular gentle shake of his head while he's attempting to get his tongue deeper into you has you seeing stars. His nose gives your clit some much needed attention; enough attention, in fact, for you to whimper his name so loudly that it echoes within your room.
Also enough attention to get you to finish almost immediately.
You come so hard that your eyes might permanently be stuck rolled back in your head. While your body falls apart beneath him, the only thing keeping your soul from leaving it is that tight hold you've still got on his hair. You pull it a little harder as you're cresting over that wave that brings you to paradise, and while you're convulsing and trembling, he's letting out a rather loud moan of his own to match yours.
You come down a few moments later thanks to Clark's muttered sweet nothings and his gentle touches.
"Atta girl," he purrs through a few kisses he's pressing on your inner thighs. You keen. Then you blurt out a command to him, something telling him to get up off the floor so you can really get this party started.
"Um," he murmurs through an awkward laugh, "I think...maybe I'll just stay down here a little longer. If that's alright with you, of course."
That piques your interest. He does love to go down on you, but he's never turned down your begging for him to fuck you. You push yourself up on your elbows and take a good look at him.
At his widened eyes that keep darting away from you. At his bright red cheeks. At the way his chest is heaving much more than you'd expect it to be right now when he hasn't even really done anything.
You let out a weak giggle.
"What the hell are you talking about? You okay, Kent?"
"Yeah," he lies. A literal lie through his teeth. He pushed that little word out at you through a grin.
"Then come up here, weirdo," you tell him. "Sit against the headboard and let me repay you."
He presses his lips into a thin line. Swallows so thickly that you can see his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. But, he's never been anything less than obedient, so he very reluctantly starts the process of doing as you say.
As soon as he pushes himself up from the floor where he was kneeling in front of you, you see what the problem is and why he wanted to stay down there a little longer. It's in the form of a relatively large wet patch on the front of his trunks.
No wonder he moaned so loudly when you yanked on his hair while you came.
It riddles you with guilt when you feel the giggle bubbling up and out of your mouth at his expense, but you couldn't hold it back if you tried.
"Clark, did you-"
"I don't wanna talk about it," he grumbles, cutting you off relatively effectively. You cover your mouth with one hand and gnaw on your bottom lip. That helps you hold in your laugh.
It passes a few seconds later.
You shake your head.
"We don't have to."
As he reaches up to release the latches that secure his cape to his shoulders, you clear your throat.
"So...you definitely like it more than a normal amount when I pull on your hair, huh?"
Clark tosses his head back to let out a loud groan. You fall into a fit of giggles, but he's not having any of it. He huffs and crosses his arms over his chest.
"Enjoy it now, because I'm cutting it in the morning just to spite you."
i present to you, my realistic vs unrealistic kingdon hopes for the pitt season 3.
realistic:
mel and frank have another inside joke
frank laughs at something mel says (she makes a joke and it lands!!) bonus points if he’s the only one who laughs!!
ambulance bay convo after a stressful case for one or both of them
one of frank’s family members comes into the pitt (abby or the kids or both!) and mel either interacts and/or meets them and gets a better sense of his home life
mel facetimes becca and becca asks about dr. langdon
frank shoulder nudges mel in that cute kinda way to encourage her
some kind of indication that mel and frank have interacted outside of work!!
small moment that can be interpreted as frank having marital issues
frank and trinity pulling mel in two different directions and she has to defend them both to one another
someone(s) points out their dynamic duo-ness to them and they’re both like “???” and start looking at each other kinda curiously because isn’t their relationship normal?? (it’s not)
unrealistic:
frank tugs on mel’s braid (I WOULD DIE)
frank and mel arrive to their shift together and there’s implications it’s because they carpooled
mel and frank leave a room (or a makeshift room behind a curtain), both looking disheveled and flushed 😏 and it turns out it’s just from a crazy case, but perlah and princess immediately have things to say!!
kingdon hug!!!!
frabby divorce announcement
close up shot of frank spinning his wedding ring and mel is staring at it and frank’s like “what?” so she pretends she wasn’t looking at it
frank getting jealous as hell over someone hitting on mel. bonus points if it’s trinity or he tells her upfront he doesn’t like it or messes up with some kind of procedure because he’s so distracted 😌
mel meets abby and is visibly distressed about it
mel has her hair down and frank sees it and foams at the mouth and walks into a wall
I’m so serious David Corenswet playing Superman legit feels the same level of once-in-a-lifetime casting as RDJ for iron man. Like he was BORN for that role.
pairing clark kent x f!reader
fandom dc / superman '25
word count 515
warnings mdni / 18+, smut, oral (f receiving), fingering, clark kent is a messy munch
notes literally just wanted to write messy oral with clark cause this is one of my before bed fantasies to get me to sleep
clark rests his hands on your knees as he kneels onto the mattress in front of you, hands sliding up your thighs as his large frame settles between your legs. he doesn’t take his eyes off of you as his head dips lower and you can feel the warmth of his breath as his mouth hovers in front of your slick cunt. he groans at the sight as he runs a finger through your folds, spreading your slick all over your clit, your slit, and the lips of your pussy. your breath hitches and hips shift slightly at the sensation, a pleased smirk on clark’s face as he slips a finger past your slit and watches your hips buck up.
“so pretty and wet f’me.” clark’s voice is gentle, mouth agape as the sight of his finger sliding in and out of your cunt puts him in a slight trance. he takes his bottom lip between his teeth, eyes trained on your cunt as he slips a second finger in, leaning his head forward to flick his tongue against your clit. your fingers immediately tangle in his hair as you whimper and tug, hips squirming as he works to drag your orgasm out of you.
“feels s’good….mmph, fuck! don’t stop!” clark’s fingers curl against your sweet spot and you cry out. you could cum from the sight of clark alone; his eyes closed in concentration and his hair a mess from your fingers tugging and pulling at the strands, lips engulfing your cunt as his tongue flicks against your pussy, your slick coating his chin and his mouth and the tip of his nose, fingers pumping in and out of your cunt as he alternates between paces. your head is spinning and your thighs are tightening around his head.
“baby you taste so good. y’taste so sweet” clark mumbles into your cunt, sucking and slurping at your clit as he replaces his fingers with his tongue, hands gripping your thighs as he holds you in place. he’s moaning as he ruts his lower half into the mattress, needing the friction against his cock as he drowns in your pussy. you’re squirming as heat pools in your lower stomach, whimpering and begging for clark as you get closer and closer to your release. “you close baby? you taste so good when you cum for me.”
“mhmm, m’so close clark…wanna cum for you…” you’re riding his face as you chase your release, coating his face in your juices as you whimper and moan his name. he switches his tongue for his fingers as you let out an almost pornographic whine. he sits up and captures your lips in a messy kiss, tasting yourself all over his tongue and mouth. you start to clench around his fingers and he breaks the kiss long enough to settle back between your legs, licking and sucking on your clit as he laps up your release, curling his fingers as he dragged out the aftershocks of your orgasm.
“that’s my good girl.” clark praises you, pressing a kiss to your inner thigh.
y'all have no idea the sheer horny energy coursing through my veins right now. his longer hair is driving me fuckign crazy. seeing him is like seeing my war husband. i'm feral.
tags — 18+ minors dni | f!reader, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), spooning sex, size difference, pet names (sweetheart & baby), dirty talk, creampie (0.6 wc)
the clock on your bedside table reads 7:14am and clark has you on your side, his body engulfing yours as his chest presses up against your back. with an arm wrapped around your front, clark holds you tight against him—rubbing slow, languid circles on your swollen clit.
a soft, muffled groan tumbles from clark’s lips as you slowly roll your hips back—his cock nestled deep inside your cunt, stretching you open. you desperately try to fight back your need for him, for his cock, knowing you have to get ready for work, but you’re practically begging for more.
his pelvis is snug against your ass—coarse curls beneath his navel brushing against you. you feel all of him, every ridge, every vein, every twitch as he rocks into your cunt. clark moves his hand to grip your thigh, his fingers sinking into the soft flesh as he gently hooks your leg over his thigh, spreading you wider.
the new angle drove him deeper, the head of his cock kissing your cervix with each thrust. the room fills with your breaths mingling together with the filthy, wet sounds of his cock sliding in and out of you.
just as quickly as it left, clarks hand returns to your clit and you instinctively clench around him, trying to pull him deeper as he ruts against you. clark’s breath is warm against the nape of your neck as he lightly bites down on the skin of your shoulder.
every roll of clark’s hips is with a little more tenacity each time, seeking that delicious friction. the pleasure is overwhelming, completely taking over all of your senses. you can’t think of anything else, except for clark, and how he's ruining you for anyone else.
“taking me so well, baby,” he mutters, kissing behind your ear.
you cry out, fingers clawing at the sheets, then at his forearm—your nails leaving crescent indents in his skin. he revels in the soft, needy moans you make with each shallow thrust. you move your hips in counterpoint, chasing the pleasure of his fingers and the fullness of his cock.
“I’ve got you, sweetheart, that's it,” he mumbles, his cock hitting that sweet spot inside you repeatedly.
an embarrassingly loud moan slips from your lips as you cum without warning. your body shudders hard against his—your orgasm crashing through you and taking your breath away. clark gently coaxes you through it, rocking his hips in a slow, gentle rhythm while pressing tender kisses along your shoulder and neck.
clark's hips stutter and his own orgasm catches him off-guard. he buries himself to the hilt, releasing thick, hot ropes of cum deep within your cunt—filling you completely as his cock throbs and pulses inside you.
you clench around him and clark hides his face in your neck with a weak, tired chuckle. his hand squeezes your hip tenderly as he slowly eases himself out of you. your cunt clenches around nothing, missing his cock already. you can feel his release leak from you and slide down your thighs but you pay no mind to it.
“good morning to you too,” clark says through soft pants.
“hmm, good morning indeed,” you hum, turning to face him with a small smile.
