underestimating his size [dcu]
pairing: clark kent x reader
synopsis: you could assume simply by observation that your boyfriend clark kent was big down there— and yet in your faultless underestimation, you physically cannot take him
warnings: smut ahead (they do the deed) - size kink for sure.. sweet!clark is the definition of “big d stand for big demeanour” iykyk. also take a shot every time it says big help
a/n: here u go! I KNOW THEY WANT DAMIAN BUT BLAME DAVID CORENSWET I CANT STOP THINKING ABOUT CLARK KENT
you knew clark kent was big.
it showed— with the way his dress shirt buttons were always at their last whim, threatening to pop at every little movement; with his shoe and coat size (you had playfully tried on his blazer once— it could’ve doubled as a dress); with the way he towered over you when he’d bend down to hear you; with the way you’d sink into his broad chest and disappear behind his arms when he’d hug you (if you got crushed by his enormous biceps you’d pass out happy); with the way his palm was twice the size of yours, and how his hands would engulf your face when he’d cradle it to kiss you— not because you were ‘petite’ or ‘tiny’, but because he was simply huge.
of course, standing at a great height of 6’4 and weighing 240 pounds (that’s over a HUNDRED KILOGRAMS just by the way), clark’s size was guaranteed. justifiable. obviously made sense.
it was hard to bar the thoughts that often followed that train of thought. lying on top of him on the bed of your apartment with his large palm over your stomach, covering almost the entirety of its surface, and the other at your plush thigh— it was hard not to think about other parts of his body. hard not to think about the faint underline of something long and large in between his legs, sometimes guilty for poking against your butt during cuddle sessions.
it was hard not to feel the size of it. and every time the very thought made your throat dry. made you clench around air.
sometimes you’d wonder (like a freak, but you can’t be blamed, just look at your man) about how it would feel to take him: when you’d reach that eventual stage of your relationship, if it would even fit. would it be possible? you had had exes— you were sure none of them were even half clark’s size.
but you revelled in the thought. the thought of having your sweet, farm-boy, gentle giant of a boyfriend force himself into you, stretching you out so bad you wouldn’t remember anything but his name. it’s a little disrespectful to feminism, the things you’d let this man do to you— simply because you know he’d be the biggest gentleman doing them.
but those were all fantasies. clark kent can’t be that big— right?
and so after a long day of work two months into your relationship with clark, the two of you return to your apartment, both exhausted and truthfully needing to blow off some steam. you’re the first to initiate wandering into new territory, leading clark into your bedroom with hands all over his neck and shoulders, puny against their broadness.
on the contrary, his hands are large yet gentle, framing out your entire waist and back with one swipe along your body. he holds you like you’re priceless, effortlessly lifting you onto the bed. you grab his wrist, dragging it down, and so he— getting the message— meticulously moves his fingers to unbutton your pants, mouth still attached to yours, mindlessly making out.
he carefully pushes down your pants with one hand, trying to start slow and cautious, but you impatiently reach down yourself to kick off your underwear. clark lets out a velvety groan against your ear, peppering kisses down your neck, palm hovering over your mound and then in between your legs. you shamelessly part your legs for your boyfriend whose smile you feel against your burning skin.
“enthusiastic?” he whispers, voice deep and mushy against your ear, and you melt. you nod unabashedly, turning your head to chase his face to kiss his pretty dimple. he buries his face in your neck, smile widening.
clark is diligent as his thick fingers slide up and down your soaking slit. he’s tentative at first, hyper-vigilant on your reactions to make sure he’s doing a good job. you whimper, closing your legs around his hand. he presses a kiss to your jaw as his fingers rub circles on your puffy clit, sliding down. “tell me if anything doesn’t feel right,” he whispers, caring as always.
a long, hefty finger tenderly sinks into your cunt. your lips part to release a shaky whine, pulling him close, quivering as you breathe. clark nuzzles his nose against your jaw. “you sound so gosh darn beautiful.”
one finger quickly turns into two, crude sounds of his fingers pumping in and out of your sopping hole polluting your room. and then there were three, your slot clamping in protest, curses clark would never approve of if not in this circumstance flying out from in between your lips.
“i know,” he whispers, unintentionally slightly patronising, but his intention is to be kind. his other hand is holding your thighs apart, thumb caressing the fluffy skin on the inside. “i’m sorry. you’ll need this,” his voice is apologetic and soft.
need this?
in your daze, you don’t process his words at all. instead, you’re a begging mess. “clark, i need you,” you breathe out, gasping in pleasure when his fingers curl deep inside you, hitting just right. “please—”
clark kisses your mouth shut. he continues to pump his chunky digits in and out of your clenching hole for a few moments until you’re fully leaking onto the sheets and pathetically stretched— only then does he pull away as his other hand moves to his pants.
you make the grave mistake of not looking, too busy savouring the way clark’s fingers feel plunging inside you, rocking your hips against his hand as he’s preparing you, remaining blissfully unaware.
only when clark tugs down his pants and boxers in one go and aligns his leaking tip with you do you realise what ‘you’ll need this’ meant. that his fingers weren’t teasing. they were doing you a service.
a gasp rips through your throat. you full on choke when you feel how thick he is against your entrance. you fumble to grip the sheets, using them as anchors to slightly elevate yourself to look down at him.
your jaw drops. your eyes are wide in a mix of alarm and a strange sense of arousal, moving up to the face of a guilty clark.
“clark,” your voice cracks with how dry it’s become, eyes locked on his impossibly girthy, fat, large dick. you shake your head slightly, voice comedically breathless and meek. “clark that’s not going to fit.”
clark’s cheeks heat up. “you took three fingers,” he whispers weakly to comfort you, fingers still gently stimulating your clit by toying with it. his lips are pursed defeatedly, unsure of how to go about this, dimples sinking into his cheeks with embarrassment.
you’re still bewildered. you hesitantly lay back down, contemplating the pros to cons ratio of your hunk of a boyfriend. you hook your arms around his neck: possessive, nervous, and immensely turned on.
clark reaches up with his other hand, cradling your cheek. “i’ll be gentle,” he leans down, pressing a kiss to your ear. “promise,” his voice is a reassuring whisper. of course you trust him, but he’s just so—
when he pushes in just a bit, your mouth drops in a sharp gasp, eyelashes fluttering as your eyes roll back into your head, closing.
“clark—” you can barely breathe let alone hold it together, arms tightening around his neck, keeping him close for support at the big stretch.
“clark, i can’t—” you whine, wheezing for air, your body suddenly too hot, chest too tight, cunt way too strained around the bare tip of clark’s length. it’s just past the leaky red head, and you can feel every damn vein on his length with how thin you’ve been stretched out.
guilt floods your boyfriend’s chest, his eyebrows creasing, bottom lip jutting out in a frown. he pulls out enough so only his red mushroom tip is buried at your opening, which is still torture for your poor hole.
“sweetheart,” he breathes, hand on your cheek, tapping his index finger twice against your burning skin to bring you back from your dazed state.
you blink, eyes barely opening as you meet clark’s. you clench around his tip, cunt paradoxically desperate to be filled. “too big,” you whine.
your complaint isn’t flattery or dirty talk— it’s genuine. clark’s downright unreal, pornographic combination of width and length seems physically impossible to take.
clark instantly feels worse.
his hand moves down, gently prying your legs apart at a comfortable angle to caress your inner thigh.
“sorry,” he breathes, deep voice low and barely constrained, apologising as if it’s his fault. “i’m— i’m sorry. we don’t have to do this,” he exhales as if it hurts, about to pull himself out when you clutch his bicep, shaking your head rapidly, eyebrows crinkled.
“just— just need a minute.” your chest heaves up and down with every deep breath. gosh you really really want him, and need him, and you’re aching, but—
your back arches off the bed, sucking in a deep breath. you close your eyes, hands sticky with sweat, greedily tracing the muscles of his back.
“okay,” you heave out. “i’m ready.”
clark looks even remorseful, a faint crimson painting the tip of his ears. “angel, we don’t—”
your hand firmly clutches his bicep, nails digging into the hard muscle. “clark i want it,” you whisper instead, cutting him off. your hazy eyes open to look at his pretty baby blue ones, and they relax slightly at the sight of your desperate, wretched look. his hand moves up to caress your cheek, thumb rubbing up and down the soft skin— the moment is intimate.
“my sweet girl,” he muses. “i’d never let you get hurt,” he whispers, this time leaning down, pressing a peck to the edge of your mouth.
he slowly, painfully so, pushes more of his length inside. your breath hitches, and the initial stretch from the curve of his tip in comparison to the girth of his length is straight torture. you feel tension build up in your stomach, and you’re concerned you’ll cum just by his head. your lips fall open in a shaky moan.
clark supports his weight with one hand beside your head, nursing your face with kisses while his other hand moves down to angle his length carefully so he pushes in just right, driving another inch inside.
your head pushes back into the pillow, eyes squeezing shut. “fuck,” you curse, your grip on his arm bruising. “fuck clark, i need more—”
clark’s mouth finds yours, kiss sweet and delicate. “language,” he simpers against your lips, aware of how annoying that probably sounded. “i’ll give you what you need, angel. i always do.”
his voice is straight up sensual— deep, low, and articulate, butterflies erupting in your stomach.
you’re making a mess on the sheets already, the ring of your opening stretched around clark’s bulky dick. you can feel each vein when he pushes in halfway, your hole choking his length. he lets out a low grunt. “you feel so perfect,” he whispers.
you can’t take it anymore. “fuck it,” you cry out, arms back around clark’s neck, holding on tight for support. “i mean it, clark. just ruin me—”
who’s clark to deny you when you whine so sweetly?
you cry out in pleasure when clark drives the rest of his length inside you. he isn’t rough or quick, but does it in one smooth careful continuous movement. the feeling is brutally filling, a string of curses and moans leaving your pink lips. you feel numb inside, gummy walls taut against the veiny skin of his dick.
clark groans at the feeling, anchoring himself by placing a hand on your tummy. his eyes widen when he feels the outlined shape of him inside you, over your skin at your abdomen, and his cheeks flush.
“oh gosh,” his voice is breathless. “you were made for me, weren’t you? just perfect.”
you’re too fucked out to argue with that— though no human was made for a size as big as clark’s. it’s one of the rare things that are completely alien about him. good thing you’re great at adapting.
clark lets you adjust with his monster dick inside you, pushed till his neatly trimmed base, thighs against your pelvis. his shaft is curved just a little, fitting perfectly inside you, abusing all the right places. when you squirm and whine for him to stop being so slow and careful, he smiles instead, cheeks dimpling.
“so inconsiderate. what about me?” he whispers, leaning down. “i’m inside you for the first time too, and it feels heavenly.”
you could cum just by the vibrations clark’s hot, sweet, rough voice send through your bones.
with those heat inducing words clark pulls half of himself out, slowly thrusting back inside. his tip hits perfectly against you, and he almost goes feral when he hears the disgruntled moan you let out. chasing those sounds, he begins to form the perfect rhythm and pattern of thrusts, obscene sounds of skin slapping and pathetic whining filling your room. his super-strength is foul for the stamina it gives him, and how focused he is on pleasuring you, pushing inside just right, is enough to make you collapse.
as he speeds up and finds a good, consistent pace of plunges, clark’s gasps become more dark and intense, his shaft twitching and pulsing inside you. he has to grip your hip to ground himself, thick fingers digging into your skin, his exhales sharp at your ear. he’s fairly vocal, but it’s mostly grunts, gasps, groans, your name, mixed with the sweetest praises.
“mm—yes,” his mouth falls open to let out a low, guttural sound at your ear. “you’re taking me so perfectly,” his hips slam against yours. “flawless,” he kisses your cheek, lips parted as he breathes hot air directly against your skin. “gorgeous.”
by the end with the two of you nearing your releases, clark’s thrusts are harder and lazier, the bed creaking in protest and so are you, his thick head pressing repeatedly at the same perfect spot that makes your stomach tighten, bruising it, leaking all over your walls that helplessly clench around his length.
you cum first, because of course— clark’s stamina is inhuman. you tremble, one hand tight on clark’s forearms, nails scratching his skin, the other gripping the sheets so hard they almost rip— your orgasm tears through you, your pussy desperately, uncontrollably tightening so hard around clark’s length he mewls.
you’re dripping from the edges each time clark pulls out to thrust again, thick hot liquid leaking down your thighs. “just a little more,” clark begs, holding your limp body to comfort you. “just— just gonna finish,” he uses your fucked out hole until you clench just right at his tip, gasping as he spurts out right inside you, filling your gummy walls. he pulls out as he does so some filthy white liquid decorates your pink, puffy, tired hole and clit— clark stares for a good minute, mesmerised by how enticing you look, pulsing around nothing, all swollen.
clark needs a minute to regain his own self first, and he’s kissing you more because he needs it, your lips barely puckering in response, exhausted. you’re on the verge of passing out when clark makes himself decent, rushing to the bathroom and drawing you a warm bath. he helps wash and clean you, and you’re almost limp in his arms the entire time, his super strength coming in handy. he dresses you in one big t-shirt of his, laying you down on your bed.
he fixes himself up next before excitedly crawling into bed with you, immediately wrapping his arms around you.
he squeezes you like a kid with a teddy bear, pulling your back flush to his chest. “mmm,” he hums in satisfaction, kissing your cheek from behind with a large grin. “that was perfect. you’re perfect.”
you smile, just a bit, because good for fucking him. you’re warm and clean thanks to him (still aching and sore), but downright annoyed at how perfect your boyfriend is. you groan as you turn around to face him to taunt, but seeing clark’s bright smile, adorable dimples, and scrunched nose makes your heart race.
you want to kiss him, but you’re honestly too tired to even move that much. luckily clark gets the hint, or is desperate himself, moving down and pressing more than three sweet kisses to your lips in succession.
“thank you,” he breathes against your mouth mid-kisses, voice suddenly much quieter. more intimate. “you were so good for me,” he praises, arm rubbing up and down your back. “i really appreciated that. how well you took me.”
your cheeks heat up and you stare at your boyfriend in awe because there’s no way he’s real. there’s no way he’s thanking you when he’s the one who made you see stars living out your sick fantasy.
you bury your crimson face in his chest, grumbling. “god, you can’t be real.”
clark grins wider, hand coming up to gently pat the back of your head. you bask in his scent, cozy and content despite the burn in between your legs. there’s a price to pay for such extensive pleasure.
“i miscalculated bad though,” you mumble against his shirt. “you were way bigger than i thought. and i thought big.”
clark’s smile is sheepish.
“you’ll get used to it.”