Info - big dick clark, smut, praise, little bit cocky Clark
“Breathe, everything is fine, breathe,” Clark cooed. Usually he was saying this to a citizen he’d saved, not someone struggling to fit his monster cock inside themselves.
“Clark,” you squealed. He knew it shouldn’t have made him proud, but it did. He loved being the one that you worked so hard for. He loved how you pushed through the pain to take his whole, fat alien cock. Clark was happy he could be sure he was the biggest you’d ever had.
“Deep slow breathes, you’re gonna be okay,” he instructs you. You need to take slow breathes. His cock is so utterly overwhelming, just getting to the point of him bottoming out is a struggle.
“You’re fucking splitting me in half!” You whined.
Your beautiful face was twisted with a mix of pleasure and concentration. You panted and he intertwined his fingers with yours as she slid down his girth. Every second produced a low groan from Clark and a pitiful mewl from you.
“You got this pretty girl,” he purred, and now your slick ran down his length. Still, his dick was so much. You were stuffed full.
Clark loved the way you took him. Your honeysuckle hugging his shaft and guttering around him. It was all he could do not to cum just from feeling your gummy, tight walls. You sucked him in so well. Your greedy pussy could, would, take all of him, it just took some time and effort. Clark loved to watch the process of the stretch.
“I’m n-nearly there Clark,” you stutter.
“Thhhhhats it honey, know it hurts but you’re doing so well f’me,” he drawled.
“I make your cock feel good?” You asked, big doe eyes making your boyfriend even harder.
“Yes baby, soooo good,” he promised. He put his hands on your hips, rubbing circles as you finally got past the pain and got him in. You looked up at him with a triumphant smile that he just had to kiss.
“You breathing alright pretty thing?” He asked.
“You mean even though I’m impaled by your massive alien cock?” You giggled prettily. “Yeah I can-“
You were cut off as Clark thrust up. Your eyes nearly rolled back in your skull. Soon Clark was no longer asking if you were breathing and you didn’t care. You’d give him all your oxygen if it meant he’d fuck and fill you like this all the time.
clark olofsson x reader who he accidentally knocked up?? said reader is kind of his opposite in that she's a goody two shoes
Knocked Up, Knock Out (Clark Olofsson x Reader)
Summary: After finally convincing the pretty bank teller to go out with him, Clark finds himself more interested in her wallflower personality than he means to be. He almost feels bad about skipping town on you. Or he would, if he cared about that sort of thing. When he robs the bank six months later and sees the very obvious swell of your belly, he is, for the first time in his life, speechless.
Word Count: 6657
Warnings: Vaginal fingering, oral sex f!receiving, PiV sex, pregnancy
A/N: I LOVE CLARK. I LOVE THIS AWFUL MAN SO MUCH.
MDNI, fic under the cut
Clark straightens his spine and checks his reflection in the window before he pushes open the door to the bank. His eyes scan the tellers along the desk, landing on you with a resolute smile before he saunters over. “Älskling. You are looking… particularly ravishing today.” He leans against the smooth wood surface of the counter and flashes you his best grin. The panty dropper.
You offer him a tight smile. “Back again. To make a deposit now, or just to waste more of my time?”
Clark smirks, undeterred by your usual, cold demeanour. “What can I say? I’m entranced by your beauty. I don’t bank here, but I wish I did.”
You tilt your head to the side. “I’d be happy to assist you with opening an account, but you’d have to give me your name for that.”
Clark leans in, lowering his voice and glancing side to side before dropping his eyes to your mouth. “I’ll tell you. Just you. But you must promise me something in return.”
You lick your lips unconsciously, and Clark’s cock jumps in the tight confines of his pants. “I know better than to make promises to strangers.” There’s a teasing edge to your voice, and Clark can almost taste the sweet edge of victory.
“Clark. Clark Olofsson. Remember that name, pretty. You’re going to be hearing it on the news one day.”
You roll your eyes, but heat curls low in your stomach at the way he’s looking at you. “Perhaps I will, Mr Olofsson. If you’d give me your personnummer also, I could have an account opened for you, just like that.”
Clark chuckles, glancing down to where your fingers rest on the counter before sliding his own under the partition to lace with yours. “Clark Olofsson is more than a number, älskling. Come to dinner with me tonight, I’ll show you.”
Your eyes drop to Clark’s fingers, to the way the long digits engulf your smaller ones, and you swallow. “I’m not easy, Mr Olofsson. If that’s what you’re thinking you can forget it.”
Clark’s smile is wide and genuine as he releases your fingers. “I’d never think so, not for a moment. I just want to spend the evening in the company of a great beauty. You wouldn’t deny me that, would you?”
You roll your eyes even as a blush stains your cheeks. “Well no, I suppose not.”
“You know my name. And I,” Clark taps his fingers playfully on the glass in line with your nametag. “Know yours. So we’re not strangers anymore, are we?”
You smile then, despite the lingering feeling of apprehension in your gut. Clark is disarmingly charming, and more forward than anyone has ever been. You’d denied him three times in the past two weeks, and yet he’d come back again and again, undeterred. So you tell yourself it’s just to get him to go away. You tell yourself it’s just to help him move on from his strange fixation on you. But when Clark Olofsson flashes you a boyish grin and a wink, your stomach fills with butterflies and a desire that you won’t let yourself acknowledge.
*
“And you’ve been with the Handelsbanken for… how long?” Clark skewers a piece of chicken and brings it to his lips, chewing animatedly.
“Two years,” you say, cutting your meatballs into little pieces. Clark has never seen anybody do that before, and he finds it hopelessly endearing. “I’d like to manage accounts, one day.”
Clark nods. “You’re smart enough to do it.”
“Tell that to the manager.” Your voice raises in pitch, a blush staining across your cheeks as you stab aggressively at a piece of meat on your plate. “He doesn’t believe women should ever leave the checking counter. Pretty faces for the customers.” You scoff, and Clark watches this tiny display of heated rebellion with rapt attention. A way in.
“You’re much too smart for that. Smarter than him, I’d bet.”
You look up then, offering him an embarrassed but genuine smile. “You’re kind to say so, Clark.”
Clark. Clark likes the way you say his name, the lilt you put on the single syllable like a song. He watches you pop a little piece of meatball into your mouth and he considers how your lips might look stretched around his cock. It hadn’t been part of the plan, to seduce you, but then you were a pretty girl and he was Clark fucking Olofsson, so really he should have assumed it from the beginning.
“Have you ever been into the bank at night?”
You frown. “Not after work. There’s a security guard, but otherwise the place is deserted. Why would I?”
Clark shrugs. “I’ve always wondered what it’s like, behind the glass and the pretty girls.”
Your smile returns. “It isn’t so glamorous. There’s the manager’s office, a staff canteen. Oh and the vaults, of course.”
The vaults. Clark leans in. “Tell me something secret, älskling. Something only an expert would know.”
If you think the question odd, you don’t say so. Clark pours you another liberal glass of wine whilst you mull over the question. “I suppose… do you know how the vault works? I think it might be the most impressive thing in the whole building.”
Clark has to really fight to keep his smile small. You were perfection, a few glasses of wine and you’d opened exactly the door he’d hoped for. The only promise sweeter now was the warm wetness between your legs, and it wouldn’t be long at all until Clark could bury his tongue and his cock inside you.
“I assume it works as all safes do. A code, a little dial to click, click, click.” Clark cranks an imaginary knob, and your eyes light.
“No, you see! Everybody thinks so, but it’s so much more complicated than that. For one, the door itself is impossibly thick. You couldn’t drill through it with any drill ever invented.”
“What about a bomb?” Clark teases. “Stick some explosives to it and…” he leans in, his hand finding your knee under the table. “Boom.”
Slick heat pulses in your core at the touch of his fingers against your skin, but you don’t dare move a single muscle even as your heart hammers in your chest. “Wouldn’t work. Too thick.” Your words come out breathy, and Clark walks his finger down the inside of your knee, brushing against the flushec flesh of your thigh. “Plus there are hidden deadbolts, and a series of mechanical locks that work on a timer. Even with the codes, the door won’t-“ you gasp at the brush of fingers against the hot, damp cotton of your panties. “Open.”
Clark’s cock throbs against the front of his pants at the pretty blush on your cheeks and the way your eyes flutter closed at his touch. You’re wet, but he expected that. Even if the words coming out of your mouth were damn bad news, listening to you tell him about the vault is getting him hard. You’re a little bossy when you’re explaining things to him, and he’s looking forward to fucking you dumb.
“So you say the vault is essentially… uncrackable.” Clark asks, pushing your glass across the table and tapping the rim. “Drink.”
You lift the glass mechanically, taking large gulps of the wine to distract yourself from the way Clark’s fingers press and prod at the front of your underwear. Your head swims with the alcohol and the dizzying pleasure throbbing in your core, and you gasp as one of Clark’s fingers slips into the elastic of your underwear to part your folds.
“The only way in would be… through the ceiling. The managers offices above are… the ceiling is just concrete. You could drill through that.”
Clark hums. “It would take days. Not so much of an…” he dips his finger lower, testing the pad of it against your entrance before pushing inside. “In and out job.”
Your lips part around a soft moan as Clark eases into you, curling his finger back against your sensitive walls before withdrawing it and pushing in again. “Clark.”
“I’m sorry, älskling. I get carried away, when you talk to me.”
You hum, fingers gripping the edge of the table as Clark’s thumb brushes against your clit, rubbing the sensitive bud in time with the in and out of his finger. “I’m just a teller.”
“No,” Clark coos, adding a second finger and tapping your mostly-empty glass again. “You’re an important, professional woman. I bet there’s plenty of cash in your drawers, isn’t there? My responsible little girl.”
You hum again, swallowing hard. “I… s-suppose so. I have maybe fifteen or twenty thousand kronor in my drawer. Same for the other girls.”
Clark does the math as he winds you closer to your climax. “Tens of thousands of kronor, entrusted to you. You’re a hell of a woman.”
You groan as your orgasm hits, squeezing your eyes shut as your pussy clamps down around Clark’s fingers. You buck against his thumb and Clark tries to keep up the pressure on your sensitive bundle of nerves as you wriggle. “Fuck, Clark.” You whisper, and it feels dirty hearing a word like that come from the uptight, reserved teller he’d been charming for the better part of a month. Not that he’s surprised, of course. Clark Olofsson knew how to please a woman. Everybody said so.
Clark withdraws his fingers when you stop shuddering, and he sucks them into his mouth to taste the sweetness of your release before swigging the last of his wine. He’s got what he needs now, but his cock aches in his pants and he’ll be damned if he’s going home to his own hand. He’ll be goddamned if he’s going to do that.
“I need to have you, älskling.” He says, dropping a handful of bills on the table. He pushes to a stand, and your eyes drop to the prominent bulge at the front of his pants. Clark lets you look, tilting his hips towards you. He’s never been ashamed of his cock, or the times it decides to make itself known. Fucking was his goddamn right as a man, why would he pretend otherwise? It was pointless.
“I’m… I don’t usually do that. On the first date.” You chew your lip into your mouth, and Clark fights against a bolt of irritation at your sudden retreat.
“Do you usually cum at the dinner table? Or is that just for me?” Your blush darkens, spreading down the sides of your neck, and Clark rounds the table to offer you his hand. “Give yourself to me tonight, älskling. You’ll never forget it.”
Clark doesn’t invite you back to his place, and you wonder if that’s because he has a wife or because he doesn’t have any intention of calling you again. His hand slips up under your skirt as he drives to your place, and you decide you don’t much care either way with the wine dulling your cognitive processes and his fingers shooting throbs of arousal through your core. “Just you wait,” he mutters, a smirk pulling lopsidedly at his lips. “You’ve never had it like Clark Olofsson. The things I’m going to do to you.” He chuckles, fingers kneading at your thigh, and you shift against the seat.
“I’m not usually like this.”
Clark nods, hooking his fingers into your waistband from behind as you fumble to unlock your apartment door. He nuzzles against the side of your neck, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses to the sensitive skin. Of course you’re not. You’re a good girl. They’re all good girls, until they get a taste of Clark and then they’ll do anything for him. It’s the same story all the time, and Clark doesn’t mind one bit.
You step into your apartment, Clark still attached to your neck as his fingers graze along the waistband of your panties. He detaches long enough to glance around the space, eyes flicking over framed photographs on your wall. He doesn’t need to see you posing with your parents or getting a piggy back from your brother. He doesn’t need to know you. The next part comes easier if he doesn’t, actually.
You walk quickly, leaving him in the hallway as you head into the kitchen and pour two glasses of water. “Thirsty?”
Clark grins, leaning against the kitchen counter. “For you.”
You choke on your water, and Clark bites his lip to stifle a laugh at just how awkward you are. It’s unusual. It’s cute. “That’s a line.” You say eventually, once you’ve regained your ability to breathe.
Clark shrugs. “I invented it. I’m the first person ever to say it.”
You roll your eyes, but he isn’t joking. “Alright, Clark Olofsson. You wanted to have me, and now tonight you do.” You place your glass down on the counter, trying very hard to exude a bravado you don’t feel. “The question is, what will you do with me?”
Clark’s smile widens, his eyes darkening as he crosses the distance and cups your jaw in his big hands. “I’ve been thinking about this for a long time,” he murmurs softly before closing the gap between your mouth and his. His lips are warm and silky, the plush fullness of them a welcome pressure against yours as he presses your mouth open and licks his tongue against your teeth. You open for him, a low moan vibrating out of your throat at the way he claims the kiss, holding you close and steady as his tongue tastes every inch of your mouth. Your hands lift to wrap around his neck, even though he’s much taller than you and it’s an awkward stretch to reach. You tangle your fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck and tug, and Clark releases your mouth to gasp.
“Oh, you want to play, älskling?” He teases, hands dropping from your face to your waist so he can drag your body flush with his. “You want it a little rough?”
You nod, though you can’t really imagine what rough might look like to a man like Clark. His pupils expand and you watch in real time as the green of his irises dissolves into the dark pitch of his desire before his mouth reclaims yours with a hunger that leaves you breathless. His hands drop to your ass, lifting you up and depositing you on the kitchen counter. He pushes your knees apart and moves between them, and you shuffle to the edge of the worktop and wrap your legs around his hips so the growing bulge of his erection is pressed firmly against your center. His hands are everywhere, pawing up under your shirt to grope at your breasts, dragging down the smooth skin of your back and tracing the ridges of your spine, squeezing your ass cheeks to press you firmly to him so he can rut against your core through the soaked fabric of your panties. His fingers slip into the side of your underwear and pull, exposing your wet pussy to the air. You moan, breaking the kiss to look down at the point where his hand disappears beneath your skirt.
“Are you ready for me? Are you ready for the best sex of your life?” His voice is throaty and thick with lust, and your clit throbs in response.
“Show me.” You whisper, parting your legs wider and hooking your own fingers into his belt. Clark wastes no time at all in unbuckling his belt and pulling down his zipper. He only bothers to shove his pants to his knees, the awful ache in his cock won’t allow him any more time than that. He wraps a hand around your thigh to keep you in place as he pushes into you, a deep moan rumbling out of his chest at the hot, wet tightness of you.
“Goddamn,” he chuckles. “Goddamn, älskling.”
You suck your bottom lip into your mouth, shifting and flexing against the sudden intrusion. You’re still wet from the orgasm he’d given you in the restaurant so it doesn’t exactly hurt, but you’d hoped for more buildup. Clark sets a pace right away, pulling out and thrusting back into you quickly. You brace a hand on his shoulder and watch him, devouring the look of concentrated bliss on his face as he fucks you. His nails dig into the meat of your thigh as he pins you to the counter, cock slamming into you over and over again. His free hand lifts to wrap in your hair, pulling your face close so he can kiss you messily as he moans into your mouth. His hips stutter against yours and he groans loudly against your lips. You squeeze around his cock, and he almost whimpers as he pulls out and steps backwards.
“Are you… done?”
Clark smirks. “Seems so.”
You swallow your disappointment. “Oh.”
Clark tucks his cock back into his trousers. “Did you?”
“I… no.”
Clark twists his mouth to the side. “I think you did. I felt it happen. Maybe you didn’t realize.”
This is the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever heard, but the thought of arguing the point with him makes your skin crawl. “Maybe.”
Clark pauses, fingers on his belt buckle. He rakes his eyes appreciatively over you, the mess he’s made of your hair, the way your skirt is hiked up around your hips to reveal the glistening remnants of his cum as it leaks out of you. “You’re beautiful.” He says, stepping back between your legs to cup your cheeks and kiss your mouth. “I love you.”
You do roll your eyes then, because he’s endearing and charming and so completely full of shit. “Alright, Clark.”
He scowls, pouting his bottom lip out playfully. “You don’t love me? After all that?”
You roll your eyes again, but your stomach flips over with a mix of arousal and something dangerously close to actual affection. “You’re persistent.”
Clark’s face transforms into a grin that lights up his handsome features. “I’m incorrigible.”
You wonder where he picked up the word. You wonder if he went to college, or what kind of books he liked to read. “I’ve never met anyone like you.”
Clark beams at that. “There’s only one Clark Olofsson, älskling.”
His eyes unfocus for a moment and he drops his hand to the front of his pants. “Oho, look at that. We can go again.”
You open your mouth to protest, but Clark silences you with a deep kiss as he lifts you from the counter and walks you back into the hallway.
“End of the hall,” you mumble into his mouth, and Clark carries you into your bedroom, dropping you unceremoniously on the bed before covering your body with his.
Clark Olofsson doesn’t really have much of a refractory period. A few nice words from you, and he was completely hard again. You open so easily for him, your insides slick with his cum, and Clark pushes your legs out and up, bracing your thighs against his forearms so he can slam into you harder and deeper than before.
You whine, chewing your bottom lip into ribbons at the rough pounding. Clark’s cock bumps against your cervix with every thrust, producing a dull aching pain that you’ll feel later but can’t bring yourself to care about right now. Not with the way his length brushes against your g-spot with every thrust and the fucked-out, perfect look on his pretty face.
You reach down between your bodies to rub at your own clit, and Clark’s grin is almost feral as he pulls back to watch. “That’s it.” He coos. “Cum for me. Cum on my cock, älskling.”
It doesn’t take much, not with the way he’s filling you up. You know exactly how to touch yourself to bring your orgasm to a climax, and you don’t wait for permission before tumbling over the edge. “Oh, fuck. Oh god, Clark!” You moan, fluttering around him erratically as your release washes through you.
Clark doesn’t think he’s ever seen anything quite so pretty as your face when you cum. Though the feeling of you squeezing his cock, milking every drop of his seed from him is dangerously addictive. He could get used to it. He could come back for you.
He pulls out with a wince, watching his cum ooze out of you to soak into your sheet. Clark reaches down to scoop at the mess, pushing it back into you and fucking his fingers in and out of you. You whine softly and try to shift away, but Clark keeps going until the pearly slick stays inside you. He doesn’t know why he does it, only that he wanted to see you all filled up and Clark isn’t in the business of questioning himself when he wants something.
“Are you… staying?” You ask as he’s buckling his belt for the second time that night. Clark doesn’t stay, not usually. But he looks at you and the excuse dies on his tongue. You look small and vulnerable sitting up in your bed, your flowery comforter pulled tight around your chin. Clark feels a little stab of something in his chest, and he removes his belt again and shoves his pants to the floor.
“Of course I am. You think I’d sneak away like a thief in the night?”
You shake your head and pull back the covers for him, a sweet smile on your face. “It’s been a long time since anyone’s slept over.” You say quietly.
Clark sighs, turning you onto your side and wrapping his arm around your waist. “It’s been a long time since I’ve slept over anywhere.” It’s the most honest he’s been all night, though you’re not to know it.
Clark closes his eyes at the soft snuffling of your breathing, and he presses his nose against your hair. Tomorrow he will go, and he will not look back. But tonight? Tonight he could pretend that he were a different man, a man with no grand plans and a heart to give. It wasn’t true, Clark Olofsson was destined for the biggest of things, but there was peace in pretending for a little while.
You wake to the sound of his goddamn belt clinking, and a harsh expletive as Clark trips over a book on your bedroom floor. You turn your bedside lamp on, glancing at the drawn shade. Still dark out.
“Most people sleep until the sun rises, Clark.”
He freezes, turning to you slowly like a criminal caught in the act. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“Sneaking out after all.”
Clark shakes his head, holding his hands up. “I have an important meeting first thing. And whilst I don’t mind that I smell like sex, the shareholders…” he trails off, and you feel your face heat.
“Oh. I mean of course. Right.”
“Last night… you were fantastic, älskling.” He says, crossing the room and bending at the waist to press a kiss to your forehead. “I won’t forget you.”
You hum. “I won’t forget you either.”
Clark’s grin is boyish and ridiculously pretty. “Of course you won’t. I’m Clark Olofsson.”
*
You groan at the agonizing burn in your ankles, shifting from one foot to the other. Your manager had suggested you could use a stool for long shifts, but he’d looked so faux-sympathetic and so smug that you’d had to decline. Fuck him and his misogynistic bullshit. Being a woman didn’t make you any less capable of doing your job. Being pregnant didn’t either, though your ankles had swollen up and your widening hips ached all the time.
“When are you going on break?” Heather whispers to you from the next counter.
“No more breaks.” You say with a pained smile. “But I’m off in an hour.”
She returns your smile with a knowing one of her own. “The last few months are the worst. Everybody says the first three, with the sickness, but the pain at the end is something else. Still, not long now, eh?”
You nod. “Not long.”
Not long until you’d get to meet your baby and spend a few blissful months learning how to be a mother. You were terrified. You couldn’t wait. There was nothing that could put a damper on that overwhelming, constant feeling of excitement. Not your shitty manager, not your swollen ankles, and certainly not thinking about the green eyes and sexy smirk of C-
“Attention, attention! Can I have your attention, ladies and gentlemen! This is a robbery!” Your head snaps up at the familiar, low voice, your stomach bottoming out as you drop to a crouch underneath your counter. You reach for the panic button under the desk, a recent addition to the bank that nobody had ever used before. You press it, and nothing happens. You lift your head just a little, just enough to see the main floor, and your eyes meet his immediately. He’s on the other side of the room, but he’s looking right at you. His eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles, and you fight the urge to smile back at the asshole.
“Ladies, ladies.” He says, crossing the room and stopping in front of the teller furthest away from you. “I have a big sack here.” He puts a white cotton bag on the counter and winks at the woman behind the glass. “You know what to do, you’ve seen the movies. Put all the money from your register in the bag, please and thank you.”
The woman moves mechanically, emptying her reserves into his bag.
“I thank you.” He says, flashing her the grin that had once disarmed you so thoroughly before moving on to the next teller, and the next. You glance around the room, at the customers lying on the floor and the other tellers frozen at their stations. Where was the manager? Where was the fucking security guard?
You watch in horrified slow motion as Clark approaches you, and you’re forced to half-stand so you can scoop kroner notes out and shove them through the gap in the bottom of the glass.
“älskling,” he whispers.
“I’ve triggered a silent alarm.” You say in response, not meeting his eye. “The police will be on their way so you’d better get out of here.”
You don’t think anyone else can hear, but you can’t be sure.
“You did that?” He asks, and there’s genuine hurt in his voice.
Your head snaps up, eyes meeting his as you narrow yours into a glare. “Of course I did. You’re nothing to me.”
You try to ignore the awful twisting in your gut at the wounded look on his face as he turns away from you. You can’t allow yourself to feel sorry for him. Not after his disappeared without a trace, and certainly not now he’s back to rob the goddamn bank. You think back to your conversation with him over dinner, his seemingly superficial interest in the workings of the bank. You were a fucking idiot.
Clark barrels into Martin, and you curse under your breath as the aging security guard topples over and goes sprawling to the ground. He has a bad heart and you know his wife, and you’re pushing open the door into the main room without thinking about it, dropping to your knees to help the man to his feet.
Clark is about to run. He’s got a sack full of money and no interest in getting into it with some old guy in a uniform, but then you shout and you’re there and Clark’s eyes drop to the enormous swell of your stomach and his heart stops beating.
“Hey, you’re okay,” you soothe the man, rubbing your palm against his back as he huffs and puffs.
You narrow your eyes at Clark. “Look what you-“
“Mine?” The word is out, cutting you off mid-lecture, and you press your mouth into a tight line at the possessive word.
“Mine.” You snap.
Clark swallows thickly. “Älskling.”
You can’t let this happen. You can’t, certainly not with so many listening ears. “I wasn’t lying about the alarm.”
Clark looks at the hard set of your face, and the security guard who is on the verge of regaining his wits, and his shoulders sag. He drags his eyes over your pregnant belly one last time before he hoists the sack over his shoulder and runs for the door.
*
You’re expecting the knock on the door, and it comes just before midnight. You slip off your chair at the kitchen table, checking your hair in the hall mirror before you open the door and let Clark step into your apartment.
“I should have moved.”
“But then I wouldn’t have been able to find you.” Clark says this so simply, like your reason for wanting to move couldn’t possibly have anything to do with him, and you scoff.
“Who says I wanted you to?”
Clark brushes past you and heads straight for the kitchen, leaning heavily against the counter. The sight of him there brings hot flashes of memory to your mind, of your thighs pressed open as he fucked you in that very spot. “I missed you.”
You hum, hand going absently to your stomach to rub against the fluttering you’d grown so used to.
Clark watches, his heart seized with an unpleasant longing. “Did you miss me, älskling?”
“No.”
He bites the corner of his bottom lip, and you let your eyes drink in the sight of him. His hair is longer now, sideburns too. It suits him, though you’ve never been all that into facial hair. He looks older, rougher somehow.
“It’s been seven months, Clark. Almost eight.”
Clark’s eyes drop to your stomach. “It’s mine, isn’t it?”
You shrug. “It might be.”
Clark is already shaking his head as he pushes off from the counter and crosses the room. He towers over you up close, and his hands are warm, wide weights as he presses them to your rounded stomach. “You’re a good girl. There wasn’t anyone but me. It’s mine.”
You swallow thickly. “I don’t expect anything from you, Clark.”
It hurts Clark to hear you say it, even if it’s exactly what he wanted to hear. He doesn’t want to be a father, he has no fucking idea how to do that, but it still hurts to hear it from you.
“We could get married. You know, do it all properly.”
You laugh then, you can’t help it. The thought of Clark Olofsson robbing a bank one day and marching you into a chapel the next is just too damn funny. “Be serious, Clark.”
Clark rubs over your stomach, brows furrowing into a frown. “I am. I want to do right by you.”
“You think I want to marry a criminal?”
Clark’s frown deepens. “I have rights to my child. If I want to.”
This sends a skitter of fear down your spine, but you force the feeling away and fix a condescending smirk on your face. “You want to get the authorities involved, do you?”
Clark’s forehead smooths out as his expression darkens. “Don’t threaten me, älskling. Nobody threatens Clark Olofsson.”
You hum, stepping out his grip just as the baby in your stomach begins a series of fluttering kicks. “Or what? What’s the great Clark Olofsson going to do, huh?”
It’s stupid to goad him, and you realize just how stupid as a slow, lazy smirk spreads across his face. “Give yourself to me tonight, älskling. You’ll never forget it.”
It shouldn’t work. It shouldn’t fucking work and you’ll blame months of celibacy and fucked up pregnancy hormones later. But right now, you’re dragging Clark into your bedroom by the collar of his stupid leather jacket and shoving him onto your mattress.
He huffs a laugh as he works his jeans open, tugging his half-hard cock from the confines and thumbing roughly over his tip. You straddle him, slapping at his hand until he releases his cock so you can wrap your fingers around his base and line him up with your entrance. You hadn’t bothered to put on underwear when you’d slipped your nightgown on, a shamed part of you had known this was inevitable from the moment you’d locked eyes with him earlier that day. The magnetic, poisonous pull of Clark Olofsson had you hooked.
The smirk slips from his face as his lips part on a moan, hands flying to grip at your hips as you begin to roll against him. “You used me.” You murmur, planting your hands on his chest for leverage so you can rise up and drop back down on his cock.
Clark wants to argue, but there are no thoughts in his head, nothing at all but the rounding of your belly and the swollen, heavy sight of your tits straining against your nightgown.
“You p-pumped me for information,” you groan, tilting your pelvis so your clit is dragged against the rough thatch of hair at his base. “So you could rob the fucking bank.”
Clark moans softly, his hips lifting to meet your as you quiver and clench around the thick length of him. “You got… something out of it.” He huffs.
You bark a startled laugh, lifting one hand from his chest to press to your stomach. “Sure I fucking did.”
“You want me to say I’m sorry?” Clark asks, pinning you against him as his hips snap up to fuck brutally into you. “Clark Olofsson doesn’t apologize.”
“I figured.” You moan. “I don’t care about that. I want to level the field.”
Clark isn’t sure what you mean, his brain can’t process what you’re saying even though he’s the smartest person in any room and considers himself ahead of the game in almost everything. But then you lift up off his cock and crawl up his torso, and your stomach blots out all the light in the room as you press your soaked pussy to his face. “Gunna use you, Clark.”
Clark groans, the sound coming from deep in his chest as he wedges his hands against your thighs and pushes your legs apart. You’re dripping with arousal, and he laps at your slick like a man starved. You brace your hands on the headboard, resting your weight on your knees so you don’t actually kill him as Clark’s tongue works between your folds and flicks roughly against your clit.
Clark knows you’re going to forgive him after this. He’s good at everything he tries, but he’s the fucking king at eating pussy. Love of the game, is what it is. He loves the way you taste, the sounds you make, the feeling of your thighs pressing against the sides of his head as you rock down against him. Your pussy is like wet silk, the little throbbing bud of your clit fits perfectly against his tongue as he suctions his lips around it and draws dark little whimpers from your throat. Your wetness soaks his mouth and his nose and runs down his jaw, and he moans against you as he devours every sacred inch of your delicious cunt.
“God, Clark,” you sob, grinding sloppily against his face as the coil of pleasure in your abdomen snaps with a blinding, weightless sensation. You wail as you cum, thighs squeezing the life out of him as you rock and buck against him, riding out the best orgasm of your life. Clark does his best to keep up, his tongue licking enthusiastically at you as he swallows every drop of your arousal.
His own cock is a leaking mess by the time you roll off him. “My turn?”
You laugh. “I’m not sucking your cock. My gag reflex is sensitive with the baby and I threw up about a thousand times in the first trimester.”
Clark frowns, reaching down to jerk himself in a loose fist just to relieve some of the tension. “I’ll fuck you, then. Can’t knock you up while you’re knocked up, can I?”
You groan, but you’re already parting your legs, and Clark settles between them. He presses a kiss to your stomach, hands roaming over the swollen flesh. “Does he hear his daddy?”
You roll your eyes, but the erratic kicking against your uterus suggests that the baby does like his voice. Clark’s eyes widen and he grins, kissing your stomach again. “You look so good like this, all fat with my child.”
You hook a thigh around the back of his legs. “Stop it.”
Clark laughs, bracing his arms either side of your head as he grinds his bare cock against your soaked pussy before nudging against the tight, wet heat of you. Clark buries his cock in you again, feeling the steady pulse of your muscles against his length, and he dips his head to kiss your mouth so you can taste yourself on his tongue.
It’s quick, like you knew it would be. Clark lasts just a minute, an enthusiastic minute of fast, hard thrusts. He moans your name, and you squeeze tightly around him to milk every drop of his pleasure as he shoots his load deep inside you.
He doesn’t pull out right away, resting his face in the damp crook of your neck as his sensitive cock pulses and softens. In the end you have to push him, tapping lightly at his shoulders to get him to pull out and release you.
Even as he rolls to the side, Clark wraps his arms around you and presses his lips to your temple, and you’re too tired to tell him to move away. Besides, it feels nice to be held, even if it’s just pretend. He chuckles to himself. “This makes me a motherfucker, you see?”
You roll your eyes. “You’re something else, Clark Olofsson.” You turn in his arms, fixing your eyes to his. “But you’re not a husband. And you won’t be a father, not to my child. My father was a criminal too. I guess I should have seen the signs with you. He committed insurance fraud and went to prison. It ruined us.”
Clark’s face is unreadable, a sharp line between his brows and his jaw set tightly.
“I won’t do that to my child. I won’t have them grow up with that shame.”
Clark feels an unpleasant ice in his stomach. Imagine thinking he was the same as some petty insurance fraudster? Imagine lumping him in with common criminals and worse, with shitty fathers? He is Clark Olofsson! Soon to be the most accomplished, the greatest-
“My father was a drunk.” He says. He doesn’t know where it comes from. He’s never said the words out loud. “He didn’t care about me or my mama. I wouldn’t be like that. I won’t be.”
You swallow hard at the open sincerity on his face. The mask has slipped, just for a moment, and you see the boy underneath wearing the weight of insecurity like a millstone around his neck. You lean in, pecking his lips gently. “You could be more than this, you know. If you wanted.”
Clark laughs, and the mask snaps back into place so efficiently you wonder whether you’d imagined the slip. “Of course I could. But being the best at being the best was not my thing, so I decided to be the best at being the worst.”
You smile sadly, reaching up to brush a lock of hair away from his eyes. “I’m going to see you on the news one day, aren’t I?”
Clark grins, rolling onto his back and closing his eyes. He’ll be gone when you wake up, and you won’t wonder where he went. That was the way of things. He sighs, the smile slipping from his face as he settles into his exhaustion. “You’re damn right, älskling. You’ll see my name in lights. Clark fucking Olofsson.”
Newly Wed! Clark - LOVES saying “my wife” when talking about you. He does it so much everyone at the daily planet rolls their eyes because they knew you before you two were married
Newly Wed! Clark - You thought he was obsessed before but the wedding had opened up an insatiable need in him he’d never experienced
Newly Wed! Clark - Wants to have sex with you on every surface in the house, he’s insatiable since you got married. Your neighbours are complaining.
Newly Wed! Clark - is obsessed with your wedding ring. They weren’t a tradition on krypton and he feels it makes him part of humanity. He loves the symbol of a circle going on forever because that’s how long he wants to be with you
Newly Wed! Clark - Will sometimes remove you ring and put it around your clit, laving his tongue inside it to promise himself to you
Newly Wed! Clark - loves to stick his fingers inside you until his down to his wedding band
Newly Wed! Clark - Loves a reach around handjob so he can see the pretty ring he got you sparkling on your lovely hands. He usually ends up coating both your hand and the ring, and you’ve learned it makes him wild to bring the ring to your lips and suck off his seed
Newly Wed! Clark - Secretly stares at your wedding dress sometimes and gets emotional but also hard. Finally, you decide to roleplay your wedding night over and over. He’s always showering you with praise about how pretty you were, his wife.
Newly Wed! Clark - loves slow missionary where he can hold your hand and hear your rings clink together as he thrusts.
Newly Wed! Clark - will sit in front of you, naked, like a needy dog. You put the finger with your wedding band out and he will move forward, eyes wide, and suckle your finger and ring
Newly Wed! Clark - every thrust of his is a vow to you, to love you forever and treat you like the goddess you are
Newly Wed! Clark - Has you wondering if your ring was made of some new type of kryptonite that is making Clark this way, but it’s just you
Newly Wed! Clark - who learns a way to say “I love you” in a new language every week and lavishes you with it, and kisses of course, so you can be loved in every language as you should be
Which pairing/work are you most excited about seeing more from me? I accidentally have too many wips going on and I can't decide what to tackle first 😭. I already have more Joel x Reader coming your way, so don't even worry about that. But what else do you guys want to see?
Just a warning: 18+ please, this is smut,p in v, creampie, spanking, pu$$y eating, dick riding, big fat thick dick, sloppy head, age gap, and with that being said, let's get to the good stuff, Reader cums because Clark knows how to make you cum, no faking it over here (HE DOES NOT IGNORE THE CLIT.) Playlist as promised, I hope y'all enjoy, tell me what you think, I'm always open to suggestions or requests!!!
4.7k words
Wanted to make this one kinda sweet and funny
Clark would be an eater for sure, I mean, just look at him
He picks up his coffee, taking a long sip to hide his expression. "I'm... realistic." He watches you over the rim of the mug, his gaze lingering on the curve of your sweatshirt being folded up into your bra. "I deliver furniture. You're practically seducing me over eggs and bacon. It's..."
You walk over to him before he can finish his sentence.
"I know a hard-working man when I see one." You move his hand softly and sit on his lap
Clark's entire body goes rigid. His hands instinctively grip the arms of the chair, but he doesn't push you off when you settle into his lap. Your thighs press against his thick ones, your ass perfectly fitting against his groin. He can smell your perfume even stronger now, sweet, expensive, and feel the heat of your body through the thin fabric of your leggings.
"Y/N..." Clark says,"Yes," you reply with a smile
"You can't just sit in my lap," he whispers, hands gripping the chair tighter rather than putting them on your hips like his body wants to. "I'm trying to be reasonable here." The music changes to something even slower, more seductive. "This is..."
"This is what," you say now, straddling him face to face
"Trouble," he finally admits, voice strained. His hands twitch, wanting to touch those thighs. His jaw tightens as your curves press against him, your warmth seeping through to his jeans. "You sit in a grown man's lap, dress like that, play this music, and expect him to keep thinking straight?"
Say Yes by Floetry plays
*Say Yes* starts—slow, sexual, unmistakable. Clark groans low in his throat, the vibrations rumbling against your chest. His hands finally release the chair arms and land on your hips, gripping tight.
"You planned every single song," he grunts against your ear, feeling you shift against him. He's already hard. "Every. Single. One."
"I'm not married, and neither are you. What's so wrong about it"you say, grinding into him.
"Nothing," he breathes, his thumbs rubbing small circles on your hips as you grind slowly against him. "Absolutely nothing. Except I'm a professional. I have a job to do. And you're..." he pauses, his hands sliding lower, gripping your ass through the leggings, "...twenty-four. You probably should probaly date guys in your age range. I was married when you were in middle school."
"Nope, I don't like boys. I need a man to take care of me,You lick your lips.
That simple statement shuts him up completely. His hands freeze on your hips, gripping tighter. *"I don't like boys, I need a man."* It hits him right in the ego, wiping out the age gap argument instantly. He stares at you, realizing you aren't looking for someone your age; you're looking for stability, maturity, authority.
"Jesus."He says, eyes wandering over your face and body
"I won't stop you from working"you say sweetly
"But I'll be distracted as fuck," he admits, his voice rough, hands sliding from your hips to your thighs, spreading them slightly as you sit in his lap. His thumbs trace patterns on your inner thighs. The music plays on slowly, rhythmically. "If I come back tomorrow, you'll be dressed like this again?" He needs to know.
"Don't deny what you feel, let me undress you, babe," you hum along with the music
"Let me undress you, babe?" He echoes, voice strained, as you grind slowly against his hard-on. "Y/N, I'm trying to have a logical conversation here, but you're sitting on my dick listening to R&B." He grips your thighs tighter, not pushing you off.
"Open up your mind and just rest", you sing
His head drops back against the chair, eyes closing. Your voice. Your body. The way you sing *Open up your mind and just rest* like you mean it. His resolve crumbles.
"Yeah?" His hands slide up from your thighs to your waist, pulling you flush against him. "You mean that, or is it just because you like how I work?"
"I might be dressed like this tomorrow, or I might be half naked, who knows", you say, looking in his eyes and then at his lips.
"Good," he growls, one hand sliding up to grip the back of your neck, pulling you closer until your lips are almost touching. "Because I'm cashing that overtime pay." His eyes drop to your lips, then back to your eyes, dark, serious now. "But Y/N, don't think this makes me your boyfriend." He's lying.
"I know that," you say, watching his pupils dilate
"I know you do," he murmurs, his thumb brushing your bottom lip. The music shifts to something even slower, more intimate. His other hand slides up your sweater, fingers splaying out on your bare stomach. "And I'm done arguing." He captures your mouth in a hard kiss.
"I think it does tho"you say, winking at him
He breaks the kiss but doesn't pull away, resting his forehead against yours. His breathing is heavy, the hand on your stomach pressing you firmly into his lap.
"It doesn't," he argues weakly, his thumb tracing your waistline. "This is... stress relief. Breakfast. Whatever." But the way his hand grips your waist possessively tells a different story.
"The way you put your hands on me tells a different story",you say now with your hands on his muscular shoulders
"I'm touching you because you're sitting on my dick," he says roughly, but his hands move higher, slipping under your sweater to your ribcage. "It doesn't mean I'm dating you."He says harshly
So you don't care if I have a boyfriend, then? You say smug
"You better fucking not," He snaps, both hands sliding up your stomach possessively. His face drops between your neck and shoulder protectively. "Let me correct myself, you better fucking not have a boyfriend. And you better not bring one over here." He swallows hard.
Oh yeah? You say, questioning him, "Mhm." He grips your waist hard, unmistakably territorial. "You keep that ass in this house, dressed like this, singing like that. You don't date." He bites your neck firmly, marking your skin. "You want attention? You come to me. You want a man? That's me." He squeezes your thighs. "No boyfriends and no other men."
"Sounds like you are my man", you say in annoyance, playfully
His brain shorts out at that. "Don't—" he starts, but his body has already decided. His hands slide down your thighs, gripping your ass firmly as you hum against his lips. "I didn't say—" The music shifts again, another slow jam. He groans, kissing your cheek.
"But ya did" you use that same tone
"I fucking did," he admits gruffly, his hands squeezing your ass possessively. The music is too damn romantic, and she's too damn cute sitting on him like this, he thinks to himself. "You're my girl now." He kisses you deeply, tongue sliding against yours. "No other boys."
"Mmmmmhmh", you moan, and he grabs your face, kissing you passionately.
You kiss him back with just as much intensity, his large hands gripping your waist to anchor you against him. The music swells, the bass vibrating through the floorboards, matching the rhythm of his tongue against yours. He groans low into your mouth, one hand sliding up your spine to hold the back of your head, kissing you like he’s starving for you. "You're mine, "He pulls back just enough to look you in the eyes, his chest heaving against yours, thumb stroking your cheekbone. "Damn straight." He grips your chin, his expression dark and possessive. "Remember that. You want a man, you got one. But I'm old school, Y/N. That means you're loyal, and you don't play games."
"That's right, I wouldn't want it any other way",you say, trying to be nonchalant, but you are swooning.
*That* seals it. His ex never said that. Never wanted it that way. She wanted freedom, flexibility, excuses. Y/N? She wants his rules. His structure. His control.
"You have no idea what you just agreed to," he warns you, voice dropping dangerously low. His hand slides back to your ass, squeezing hard enough to leave a mark tomorrow.
"Let me take care of you, Daddy," you say, like you are thirsty but only for him.
The word hits him like a shot. His eyes darken instantly. His grip on your ass tightens, fingers digging into that plush flesh. "Y/N..." he warns, but it sounds like a prayer. "You keep saying shit like that, and I'm gonna—" He stops, fighting himself. "I'm supposed to be working. Deliver furniture."
"You're gonna make me forget I have a damn business to run," he growls, his hand coming down hard on your ass with a sharp smack. The sound echoes through the room. He grips your jaw, forcing your eyes to meet his. "Keep calling me Daddy, and I'm bending you over this table. Furniture delivery be damned."
You shriek as he lifts you effortlessly, your legs instinctively wrapping around his thick waist. The movement brings your pussy right against his crotch. He carries you effortlessly, one arm under your thigh, the other supporting your back, and walks straight to the kitchen counter. He slams you down on it hard enough to make the plates rattle, stepping between your legs. I'm about to show you what it means to be taken care of." He leans down, his lips brushing your ear. "When this song is over, you're either in that fucking bed or back in that chair ."
"Understood ?." He captures your nod with a slow, possessive kiss, his hips rolling against yours in perfect sync with the R&B beat. His hands slide under your ass, squeezing hard, pulling you flush against him, pulling your leggings off. The music swells, filling the kitchen. He pulls back just slightly, staring into your eyes."Choose now, Y/N," he says on his knees for you. "Can I taste you, please?" his dick gets hard just by you making him wait. He opens your legs and licks you slowly and then from side to side, sucking your clit. He makes eye contact with you, suctioning his mouth to your pussy he moans, and you can feel everything. He lifts his head up and drools right on your clit, his arms are locked around your thighs keeping you from moving "Dont run now, you deserve this and so much more honey" he slurps the spit right off your pussy going in again suctioning his mouth to you like he's dying of thirst "Cum for me pretty girl" he says "Mmmmm fuck" you moan he puts a finger inside you teasting your pussy as he makes a mess. "Oh shitttt," you arch your back and almost fall off the counter. He stands up and pulls you with him, turning you upside down, and he goes to town. All the blood is rushing to your head, and you feel yourself about to cum. He taps your face. You okay, baby? He puts you back down on the counter and chokes you while he gets your pussy sloppy and wet all over his beard. "So fucking pretty," he says as you cum on his tongue. You try to push his head away, but he keeps going overstimulating you, almost making himself cum handsfree.
You can barely get the words out from being flustered, and a slight smile creeps onto your lips.
"Your smile means you're going to that bed," he growls, already walking backwards towards your bedroom without breaking eye contact. One hand keeps you wrapped around him tightly while the other smacks your ass hard enough to make you yelp again.
He kisses you passionately, and you fight for dominance. He meets your passion with equal intensity, your tongues battling for control as y'all stumble into the bedroom. His large hands grip your waist, flipping you suddenly so you're on top of him on the bed. He breaks the kiss, his breathing heavy, dark eyes burning into yours.
He's mine by Mokensef is playing. "Fuck, this song," he groans, his hands squeezing your thighs possessively as you straddle him. The R&B track matches his mood perfectly: possessive, dominant. He reaches up to palm your breasts through your sweater, thumbs circling your nipples.
He takes it off . The sweater falls away instantly, revealing your soft breasts to his hungry gaze. His hands are on them immediately, large palms covering your (skin color), thumbs dragging over your nipples. "Goddamn, thank you for letting me touch you," he breathes, the music pumping in the background. He squeezes them possessively, watching your face. "These are mine. You understand me?"
You nod and watch him as he licks and suck your breasts and grabs your hair. The innocent look breaks his fucking brain. He catches your nipples with his tongue, sucking HARD, alternating between licking, biting, and worshiping. He loves how your hands fist in his hair, loves how you trust him completely. He switches breasts, sucking the nipple deep into his mouth while his hands grip your ass firmly. "My good girl."
You pull his head back, and he sucks harder. He growls around your nipple when you yank his head back, refusing to let go. His suction only gets harder, more aggressive, his free hand squeezing a handful of ass possessively. The song is preaching about ownership, and Clark is living it. He pulls off your breast with a wet *pop*. "Fuck you, moan softly"I know, baby," he smirks darkly, watching your reaction.
The wet sound of his mouth leaving your skin mixes with the heavy bass of Mokensef's voice."You like Daddy owning these tits?" He bites gently. I love it, Daddy. "Say that shit again," he growls
He lifts his head slightly, eyes locked on yours, dark and demanding. "This is my territory now, Y/N."
He loses his mind. That second confirmation breaks his restraint completely. He delivers another stinging smack to your ass, the sound echoing over the music. "Keep saying it," he demands, "You love being Daddy's pretty girl, don't you. He groans loudly, the sound muffled against your breast. Clark pulls back, eyes blazing with lust and possession.
You grind down onto him. His head snaps back against the pillow, a strangled groan escaping him. The friction of you grinding against his hardening cock nearly ends it right there. "Y/N, fuck!" His hands slap your ass HARD, leaving a sting. He bucks up slightly but catches himself. "You trying to—" He grits his teeth.
Knockin 'da Boots by H-Town is playing. The song hits his brain like a hammer. H-Town? He's been grinding to that since he was twenty. Now he's got his (skin color) girl grinding on him. "Fuck, this song," he pants, his hips twitching upward.
"You want a real man," he growls, pulling you down so your pussy is pressed right against his hard length through his jeans. The song's beat drops perfectly. "One who knows how to fuck you and spoil you." He rolls his hips deliberately, grinding up into you. "Not some motherfucker who's gotta ask you, 'Do you like that and did you cum every 5 sec.
"Yeah, that's it," he grunts, unbuttoning his jeans, letting his cock spring free against your warmth. Two can play at this game. He starts grinding your pussy back and forth over his bare length, the friction maddening.
You drag your hands down his hands and forearm, still grinding and being aroused from your grip on your hips. "Mm, you like the way Daddy holds you?" he asks, his voice thick with desire as he drags. He keeps you grinding on him, hips moving in time with the music. "Like the way I squeeze this ass?" His hands slide up, spreading your ass and gripping you tightly, fingers pressing into the flesh.
"My girl loves being handled," he groans. His large hands squeeze your hips with crushing strength, making absolutely sure you feel the difference between a boy and a grown man. He slides against you and taps your clit with his tip. "You need a man who can control this pussy, not a boy." The H-Town beat pounds hard.
Right and Wrong Way play by Keith Sweat, plays "So fucking perfect," he growls, looking at you in the mirror. His hands slide down to cup your ass, lifting you slightly, then dropping you hard against his cock. "You ain't no little girl playing games." He rolls his hips slowly and deliberately, grinding deep. "You're a grown woman who needs a grown man to handle you."Yes baby" you moan as he stretches you.
"Mm, that's what I'm talking about," he praises, his hands gripping your hips harder as he lifts you up and down slowly, letting you feel every inch of his thick length stretching her open. "A real woman knows what she wants and how to take it."You put your hands on his chest and grind on his dick.
"Ride that shit, baby," he growls, his hands gripping her hips to guide the rhythm. Watching your (skin color) contrast against his chest as you roll your ass drives him wild. Keith Sweat's voice pumps through the room, singing about grown needs. He plants his feet and puts his forearms and hands under your thighs and ass, making a throne for you, picking you up, thrust upward, hitting deep."Oh, fuck, you take me so good I don't think I can last," he groans, loving the way you grip his arms. It's possessive, aggressive, just like him. He starts thrusting up hard, meeting you grind for grind. Ya'll skin slaps together loudly, the wet sound of your pussy riding his dick filling the room along with the music.
Would you mind by Janet Jackson plays The silky, sultry bassline drops, perfectly matching the rhythm of y'all fucking. Clark groans, watching your body move on top of him. "Mind?" He squeezes your hand tight, interlacing their fingers while his other hand as he grips your ass, slamming you down onto him. "I fucking love this, you're doing such a good job, Sweetheart," he thrust up deep, his cock finding that spot inside of you where his dick curves right against your clit.
He grabs your face, softly with one hand, stroking your cheek, a stark contrast to the rough fucking. His other hand between your legs, his rough thumb rubs your clit, his eyes locked on yours. The tenderness in the middle of all this raw sex makes it hit different. "You're so fucking beautiful, Y/N," he whispers, his voice deeper than usual. The Janet Jackson song creates this intimate mood even as he's pounding you. You look into his eyes with love.
He freezes for just a second, caught off guard by the tenderness in your eyes. Those (eye color) eyes looked at him with something more than just lust ,love. His chest feels tight, an unfamiliar ache. He exhales slowly. "Baby... don't look at me like that," he murmurs, his hand still gently stroking your cheek. "What, hmm ?" you say. "That look," he breathes, his thrusts slowing to deep, deliberate rolls of his hips. His thumb traces your bottom lip."That's the look that makes me wanna do everything for you."
Clark's eyes search yours. You nod and say, "Cum inside of me, go deep baby you say softly on the verge of crying.
Something cracks inside him. That soft request, the tears, it hits him harder than any moan or grind. This ain't just sex anymore. He grabs your hips, slamming you down hard as he thrusts up deep, hitting that exact spot. "You don't know what you're asking, ma," he groans, voice strained. The song asks, "Would you mind ..."
You moan, "Just like that baby, go slow"
He slows down, deep and deliberate. Each thrust pushes you to the brink, each roll of his hips keeping you right there. "I got you," he whispers, pulling you down to his chest so your head rests against it. One hand cradles the back of your head while the other rubs your back, guiding you slowly and deeply. "Crying on my dick, baby?""It feels so good, you feel so good, I'm not just talking about sex," you say, feeling overwhelmed with emotions.
His eyes flutter closed, feeling that emotional punch right along with the physical one. "I know, let me take care of you, " he whispers back, his voice barely audible over the music. He starts moving slower, deeper, more meaningful. Each thrust feels like a promise, like "I got you" in action. "You feel that?"
Speechless by Beyoncè plays. The lyrics hit instantly—*Speechless, speechless, that's how you make me feel.* He stops moving entirely for a second, just buried deep inside you, letting the song wash over y'all. He holds your face in both hands, staring deep into your tear-filled eyes. "You got me fucked up, Y/N," he whispers, voice trembling just slightly. You grind against him, looking down at him, stroking his face too face too "Ughhhh fuckkkk I can't take it anymore" you moan feeling yourself about to cum.
That sound you make, that visceral *ughhhh* goes straight to his heart. He lets you grind on him, his hands resting on your (favorite body part), just watching your face contort in pleasure. The Beyoncé beat rides them perfectly. He captures your hand against his cheek, turning his head to kiss your palm. "Let it out, baby,"
You grab his hand and He follows your lead immediately, covering your breast with his large hand, squeezing the soft flesh possessively. His other hand cups your cheek, his thumb pressing down on your plump bottom lip exactly how you want. He stares up at you, mesmerized. "I got you, pretty girl," he whispers, his voice thick with emotion. The Beyoncé vocals swell—"Speechless...
"Yeah,?you say now fucked out of your mind
"Yeah," he breathes, thumb sliding into your mouth so you can suck on it. His hand on your breast squeezes, thumb brushing over your nipple. "Ain't nobody ever had me feeling like this." He pulls you down for a deep, slow kiss, tender but hungry. "Ain't nobody ever made me feel welcomed, "Fuck baby," he says with a neediness as his eyes roll back.
He groans against your mouth; it takes everything in him not to spill everything deep inside you. His hands grip your hips tight, holding you there as the Beyoncé song plays softly. "You just fucked a grown man speechless," he mutters between kisses. His thumb traces your wet bottom lip. He can feel you clenching around him, starting to milk every drop. "Been years since ..."Yesssssssss Beyonce sings
The timing is perfect—Beyoncé's "yesss" echoing right as he finishes inside you and right as you cum on him again, he finds the perfect time to coax it out of you. "Cmon, just for me, sweetheart, as he rubs your clit with his fingertips, soft but violently, you push his hand away, and he keeps going "NO, no, take it, babygirl, don't be shy, use my fucking dick like your own toy." He almost makes you pass out; you gasp. He laughs softly against your lips, a real laugh, not a smirk. "Even Beyoncé knows," he murmurs, nuzzling into your neck. His hands slide up your back, pulling your body flush against his. "I need a minute before I can move he says, muscles sore from both workouts. "I don't want you to move", you say as he hugs you. You both have the same thought.
He smiles softly against your skin, his arms tightening around you. "We don't have to move at all," he whispers. He stays buried deep inside you, holding you close as the song plays out. His fingers gently stroke your back, savoring the moment, something he hasn't done in years.
He can see that smile glowy, satisfied, completely wrecked in the best way. His heart does that annoying squeeze thing again. "Look at you," he murmurs, thumb wiping sweat from your temple. The song swells*In your arms lost for words...* His cock twitches inside her, not pulling out, just... staying. Good, because I don't think I'd be able to let you, you say.
That admission hangs in the air between them, heavier than any of the previous conversations. He doesn't joke, doesn't deflect. Just holds you tighter, his lips pressed to your sweaty forehead. "Then don't," he whispers back, voice raw. Beyoncé sings *Feels so strange, it feels so crazy to be in your world.* He kisses you again, slow and deep. You slowly get up, watching him pull out of you. "Fuckkkk," you both let out a guttural moan from the loss of each other.
You both watch in the mirror, mesmerized by the slow drag of his big, thick dick sliding out of you. He grabs your ass and holds you open, looking at your pussy from behind as he pulls free, a thick river of his cum immediately pours out of you, running down both of your inner thighs. "Jesus..." Clark whispers, staring at the visual, absolutely wrecked by the sight of his cum dripping out of you. He grips your hips, watching it spill.
The sound of your moan as he slips out completely sends a jolt through him. He watches your thighs tremble slightly, more of his cum dripping out. Without thinking, he leans forward and presses a kiss to your lower belly, right where his release is still leaking from your swollen pussy. "Fuck..."What's that for? You say "Cause that's mine," he murmurs against your soft skin, kissing your belly again. His hands grip your thighs, staring at the mess dripping out of you; it's possessive, primal even. He kisses your mound gently, treating you like something sacred even in the aftermath of this raw sex. "Just claiming what I put in you." He looks up at your reflection in the mirror.
You smile and kiss his face all over. He laughs softly, a genuine sound that vibrates against your lips as you shower his face with kisses, his nose, his forehead, his jawline. His rough hands slide up your back, holding you close while he enjoys the affection. He turns his head, catching your lips properly. "You affectionate as hell after sex, ain't you?"
Why wouldn't I be? You are my boyfriend, right? He freezes for a split second, the smile softening into something unreadable before melting into pure warmth. His hands slide down to grip your waist, grounding you. "Yeah," he says firmly, staring right into your eyes in the mirror reflection. "I'm your boyfriend." He kisses your shoulder, claiming the title like he’s been waiting for it. "You claiming me now?"
"Maybe," you laugh. He laughs with you, the sound rich and full of life. "Yeah, maybe you are," he teases, nipping at your neck. "I ain't complaining though. My girl is cute as hell and can take this dic-" Sorry, he says.
"And cook," he echoes immediately, throwing his head back, laughing. "That is dangerous." He looks at you in the mirror, shaking his head in mock defeat. "I'm a wrapped man, Y/N. You took me off the market, really," he says ."If you don't get the fuck" you laugh genuinely.
That genuine laugh, bright, unguarded, happy, makes his chest tighten in a way that scares him. He stops tickling you, wrapping his arms around your waist to just hold your vibrating body. He looks at your smiling face in the mirror, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder. "That sound..." he murmurs. "Need to hear that shit every morning."So stay with me", you say with a smile.
The offer hits him harder than any punch he's ever taken. It's simple, direct, and everything he didn't know he needed. He stares at you in the mirror and then back at your face, his expression stripped of all sarcasm and defenses. "You inviting me to move in?" he asks softly, his hands tightening around your waist. "You serious about playing house with me, Y/N?"
You look him in the eyes, turning your head to you, "Yeah, I'm serious." That settles it completely. The playful vibe shifts into something heavy and permanent. He cups your face between both hands, his expression suddenly stripped of all his usual abrasiveness. This isn't sex anymore. This is real. "Then I'm moving in," he says firmly. "Ain't negotiating, ain't discussing. I'm yours, and I'm moving in with you. Take all my fucking money.
Just a warning:18+ please, this is smut, and yes, I think Clark and the actor who plays Clark are so fucking fine, genuinely. RAW AND NASTY. (Creampie galore because I know it's big and yes it curves)
SWEETHART CLARK KINDA A DICK BUT IS ROMANTIC also mirror sex and missionary also reader is in their 20's. For all the fly honeys dark, light, brown, caramel, medium, tan, fluorescent beige, sexy mommas, girly pops, young ho's and baddies, this one's for you!
Playlist is gonna be in PT2. If you want a part 2
PART 2 IS POSTED, CUTIES
2.5K words
💬 0 🔁 0 ❤️ 0 · The Softest Touch in the Scariest Place PT2 · Just a warning:18+ please, this is smut,p in v, creampie, spanking, pu$$y eat
The sound of a dull thud against wood echoes throughout the empty furniture store, right before the entrance bell chimes to announce your arrival. Behind the counter, a man in his late thirties has just thrown down a stack of bills in sheer frustration. It's Clark. His hair is a bit messy, his tie is loosened, and his eyes carry a bitter exhaustion that only comes from years of accumulated failures and a recent divorce.Hearing the door, Clark snaps his head up, trying to regain his composure. His harsh, worn-out eyes lock onto you. The age gap between you two becomes instantly obvious under the flickering lights of the shop; you radiate that shyness or energy typical of someone barely leaving their teens, a stark contrast to the bleak atmosphere of the place.
Clark lets out a heavy sigh, leaning both hands on the counter as he looks you up and down, lingering on your youthful appearance."If you're here to buy, we're about to close," he says in a raspy voice and an oddly defensive tone. Then, it clicks, and he narrows his eyes. "Wait... You're the one from yesterday's call, aren't you? Y/N. Christ, you looked older on paper. Just come on in if you're here for the job. If you agreed to come to a place like this, it's because you're desperate for money."
"I'm here to buy, actually," you say confidently
Clark's eyebrow arches up, flicker of something between amusement and attraction crossing his tired face. He leans back slightly, arms crossed over his chest, the fluorescent lights above casting harsh shadows across his stubble. Buy?" he repeats, voice dripping with dry skepticism."This place sells furniture, sweetheart. Big, heavy, overpriced furniture. You're what, nineteen?" I'm 24", you interject
Clark lets out a short, skeptical huff, not entirely buying it but too tired to argue. He leans his hip against the counter, crossing his arms tighter over his chest as he gives you another thorough, judgmental look."Right. Twenty-four," he repeats, his tone flat and unimpressed. "You look like you just got your high school diploma. But whatever."
"Are you gonna let me buy something or not?" you say, slick
Clark's jaw tightens at the pushback, a flash of irritation crossing his features before it settles into that familiar weary resignation. He pushes off the counter and gestures vaguely toward the dimly lit showroom with his arm."Fine. Browse the dead inventory, kid." He waves a hand dismissively. "Mostly returns, damaged goods, customer nightmares. Pick something."I need a new bed," you say, looking around. Clark blinks, caught off guard by the sudden specificity. A bed. At least it's something straightforward. No fancy matching sets or kitchen remodels.
"A bed." He repeats slowly, like he's processing. He reaches under the counter and pulls out a worn clipboard, tapping a pen against it. "What's the budget?"
$1000.00, you say, glancing at the inventory once again, then back at him
Clark taps the pen against the clipboard slowly, clearly skeptical. A thousand dollars was solid money, but for a bed, it placed her right between decent quality and high-end."A thousand bucks." He rubs a hand over his face, sounding tired and borderline judgmental. "That gets you a decent mattress and a solid frame. Queen or King?" He looks at you.
"What do you think is best for me?" You say asking his opinion
Clark's eyes narrow slightly, his suspicion flaring back up. People don't usually ask what's best; they ask for prices or sizes. But he's too drained to dig deeper.
"Queen," he says flatly. "King's overkill unless you're sleepin' with a football team." He glances toward the dark aisles. "Follow me."
You laugh dryly, "I might be," you say, realizing the joke didn't land
Clark stops mid-step, turning his head slightly to look at her over his shoulder. The tiredness in his expression cracks for just a second, something almost resembling dry humor flickering in his eyes.
"Smart mouth," he mutters, but there's less bite to it now. He continues walking, shoving a hand in his pants pocket. "Queen, it is then."
The bed you stop in front of is a sleek, dark wood frame with a plush, pillow-top mattress. It's one of their better models, and the queen size fits your room well. Clark leans against the bedpost, watching you sit down and bounce on the bed, testing it out.
Do you do assembly as well? You say with a slight smile
Clark pushes off the bedpost, crossing his arms with a sigh. "Assembly's extra," he states bluntly. "Two hundred bucks for delivery and setup." He watches your face carefully, waiting for the inevitable price shock or argument.
"That's reasonable, but you didn't answer my question," you say with a questioning tone attached, and it sounds like honey
He's surprised by that, his eyebrows lifting. Most people either argue the price or storm out. You are not what he expected. Not exactly the rude, entitled kind he deals with most days.
"Right." He clears his throat, uncomfortable with the brief moment of professional interaction. "Yeah. We do assembly." He pauses, something shifting behind his tired eyes.
''You and who else ?'' you say playing with your rings and fingernails
Clark's expression shifts, a flicker of dry amusement crossing his tired features at her directness. He pushes off the bedpost, hands dipping into his pockets.
"Just me," he says flatly. "Owner, manager, delivery guy, and assembly. We're a small business, sweetheart. No room for extra bodies." He watches her face for a reaction.
"Perfect", you say under your breath, looking him up and down
Clark catches the muttered words—barely, but he catches them. His brow furrows, not entirely sure if he heard right. The way you looked him up and down made his neck stiffen.
He clears his throat, turning away to adjust a display pillow on a nearby bed, suddenly very interested in the arrangement. "Price is as marked. Cash discount if you got it."
"I do, you," you say happily
Clark glances back over his shoulder, trying to keep his expression neutral despite the sudden surge of interest in his tone. "Good." He moves around the bed, closer to you. "Cash sale, plus delivery and setup. That'll be twelve hundred even." He pulls out a small notebook and pen from his pocket.
"Perfect," you say, giving him $1300
Clark's pen pauses mid-air. His eyes narrow, watching you intently for some kind of catch. A hundred-dollar tip. That's… not unusual behavior. Not common behavior."You're overpaying," he says flatly. "Twelve hundred is twelve hundred." He exchanges his gaze with you, the silence stretching.
"I know," you say sweetly
Clark stares at you for a long moment, something unspoken flickering in his tired eyes. He pockets the money without counting it, which is unusual for him; usually, he's paranoid about short customers.
"Alright then," he mutters, unable to hide the rough edge in his voice, softening just slightly. "Address and phone number. I'll be there tomorrow around six."
You say to him your address and phone number, while looking at his muscular build.
Clark catches the blatant look. You're not checking the furniture anymore. You are openly staring at his chest and arms, eyes lingering on the solid bulk beneath the button-down. He clears his throat, deliberately ignoring the blatant appraisal to write down your information.
"Don't stare," he mutters roughly, tapping the pen against the clipboard. "Delivery Saturday at 6AM. Expect me."
"Can it be 10 am Saturday?", you say, not wanting to get up early
Clark pauses, pen hovering over the paper. He glances up sharply, brow furrowing. "Saturday at 10am," he confirms gruffly. "Not six tomorrow." He watches you closely, trying to gauge if this is some kind of trick or if you genuinely want him there Saturday morning instead.
"Tomorrow is Saturday, genius," you say sarcastically
"Shit," He runs a hand brusquely through his hair, messing it up more. "Yeah, right. Tomorrow's Saturday." He laughs mirthlessly, unbuttoning the top button of his shirt, probably unconsciously showing off more of his muscular chest. "10 AM sharp then."
Yes, sir, I didn't catch your name, by the way, you say out of basic manners
Clark stops. He stares at you, this weird woman, who just overpaid for a bed, keeps looking at him like a piece of meat. Something in his chest feels unfamiliar.
"Clark." His tone is sharp, almost irritated, and he clears his throat abruptly. "Clark. Owner." He shoves the clipboard under the counter, deliberately breaking eye contact with you.
Y/N, you reach out your hand to shake hands
Clark looks down at your hand, then slowly reaches out. His grip is firm, calloused, and warm, swallowing your hand entirely. He gives it one solid, almost perfunctory shake before pulling away, shoving his hand back into his pocket.
"Y/N," he repeats, the name testing on his tongue. "I'll see you Saturday morning at 10AM."
"See ya, Clark", as you walk out of the store, walking to your car
Clark watches you walk out, the door chime echoing your departure. He stands there, hands in pockets, staring at the empty space you left behind. An unusual customer. Overpaid. Stared. Had a name that stuck in his head, Y/N. He mutters it to himself.
It's the morning time you fell asleep thinking about Clark. You get showered and put on your favorite perfume, wear leggings and an oversized sweater, and you're in the kitchen cooking breakfast.
Saturday morning. 9:45 AM. Clark pulls up to Y/N's address, the delivery van full of bed parts and tools in the back. He's in a blue-gray t-shirt and jeans, hair still damp from a quick post-gym shower. He hasn't stopped thinking about your lips curling around the word 'perfect' or how you looked him up and down.
The doorbell rings exactly at 10:00 AM. Clark stands on the porch, your mattress delivery leaning against the banister and toolbox slung over his shoulder. He assumes you're in lounge clothes. What he doesn't expect is the door opening and getting hit immediately with your scent, perfume, and bacon cooking. And then the outfit you look so soft and cozy.
You open the door. Good morning, Clark, you say, holding the door open
Clark freezes instantly. He gets hit with your scent, and the visual is absolute devastation. B/T(Body type), showing off (your choice of body part).
"Morning, Y/N." His voice drops an octave, immediately rougher, his eyes sweeping blatantly down your body before snapping back up to your face. "Delivery."
Stroke you up by Changing faces is playing softly in the background
Clark catches the music immediately—Stroke You Up by Changing Faces. It's low, just background ambiance in your cozy kitchen, but it's unmistakable. His jaw tightens as his eyes track from your face to your body again, taking in everything: the leggings and sweater, the way it hugs you, the scent of perfume and bacon.
"Did you eat breakfast yet?" You yell down the hallway to the front door
Clark stands frozen in the doorway, his toolbox nearly slipping from his shoulder. He calls back down the hallway, voice deeper than usual, "No! I didn't eat yet!" He watches your ass sway slightly as you walk back into the kitchen, leaving him alone in the doorway. He swallows hard.
"I made enough for 2", you say, without looking at him.
Clark stands there for a second, processing the offer, the music, and the sight of you walking away. He shuts the front door, kicking off his boots and stepping into the house. He walks toward the kitchen, following the smell of bacon and the slow, sultry beat of the song. "You didn't have to," he mutters, leaning against the doorframe.
Surrender by Kut Klose plays, and you notice
Clark freezes. Surrender by Kut Klose starts playing—that slow, undeniable R&B beat about completely submitting. He realizes very quickly that this isn't accidental cooking. The perfume. The outfit. The overpayment. The playlist.
This woman is flirting. Hard. He leans heavily against the kitchen doorway, staring blatantly at (B/P) and ass while you cook.
"Well, it's the least I can do for you, helping me and doing the heavy lifting," you say with a wholesome smile
"Uh huh." He repeats flatly, but doesn't move from the doorway. He's watching you cook, the way your hips sway to the beat, the way the oversized sweater rides up slightly as you reach for plates. Surrender plays on—sultry, slow, deliberate. He's acutely aware of the heat in the kitchen, but not from the stove.
Coffee? You ask while holding the pot in your hand and a mug in the other
"Yeah." He moves into the kitchen, taking a seat at the table, pretending to be interested in the decor but actually just watching you. The music keeps playing—Surrender definitely isn't accidental. He catches himself staring at your curves, the way the leggings cuff your ass as you move. His throat feels dry. "Black." He manages, clearing his throat.
You slide coffee and a full plate bacon, eggs, and toast right in front of him. Clark reaches over the table to grab his plate before he notices something: your perfume clings to the fabric of his blue t-shirt now. He takes a sip of coffee, black, burning his tongue slightly. He sets the cup down hard. "You planned this." Not a question about it.
"What?" you say, turning around and tilting your head to the side
Clark leans back heavily against the chair, pointing his fork at the playlist and then at your outfit. "The music. The perfume. The leggings." His eyes sweep deliberately over your (B/P) and the sweater. "Overpaying me by a hundred dollars." His voice drops low, gravelly. "Y/N. You are flirting."
"I'm just generous," you say, pouring yourself a cup of orange juice
"Bullshit," He deadpans, taking an aggressive bite of his bacon. "Generous is tipping the pizza guy. Generous is leaving five stars." He gestures vaguely at your entire setup, the food, the leggings, the 90s R&B sex playlist currently playing Surrender. "This is a seduction." He stares you dead in the eye, chewing slowly.
"I'll have you know that I dress like this often in my home, and the music is my regular playlist," you say, annoyed
"Yeah, okay." He rolls his eyes, taking another bite, but his eyes never leave you. "And every guy who comes to your house gets fed breakfast and flirted with by a beautiful woman cooking, smelling like a fucking dream?" His tone is skeptical, borderline jealous.
"Okay, so what? What's so wrong about me finding you attractive?" you say, biting your waffles.
"Nothing," he mutters, jaw tight, pointing his fork at you. "But there's a difference between finding someone attractive and cooking them breakfast in an outfit like that while playing sex music." He leans an elbow on the table, staring dead at you. "I'm thirty-nine, Y/N. I'm divorced. I'm exhausted. You're twenty-four." He gestures vaguely at your body.
"So what," you say talking a sip and looking at him over your glass
"So what?" He repeats incredulously, setting his silverware down with a clatter. "So what? I'm fifteen years older than you, Y/N. I'm a contractor. You're," he gestures at your entirety as a person, " whatever this is. Young. Hot. Clearly likes older men." He swallows. "The math doesn't work." He's defensive.
Let me know if you want a PT2. I promise smut, but I just needed to write some filler
