Honey.
helping clark housesit for his parents leads to: 1. lots of teasing, and 2. getting very familiar with his childhood bedroom (aka fucking in clark's childhood bed)
a/n: watched superman (2025) like 10 hours ago and my childhood crush is soooo back i need him bad, went into a different plane of existence and wrote this in a two-hour-old gdoc, first dc fic!!
cw: clark kent x fem!reader, established relationship, smut mdni, banter, fingering, praise, lowkey size kink he's HUGE, slightttt dumbification but not really by clark, unprotected piv, he almost breaks the headboard, defiling clark's childhood bedroom, you want each other badddd
wc: 2.8k
mlist
(reblogs are the only way to promote fics on tumblr! please reblog if you enjoyed it :) )
“So, this is where Clark Kent grew up, huh? I can see it now, you’re running in that field, yelling at your dad on the porch, sneaking a nudie mag in your backpack through that door—”
A large palm flattens over your mouth, muffling your next words. Slumping your shoulders dramatically, you look up with mirth in your eyes.
Clark is standing in front of you, his expression defeated. It’s clear he’s half-regretting inviting you to house-sit for his parents with him for the week, but the flush on his cheeks indicates that your teasing isn’t all bad.
“I’ll have you know I never had any magazines that weren’t PG-13.”
He speaks with a mock-injured tone, hand slipping down to rest on your back as he guides you through the screen door into the old-fashioned living room.
“What kind of degenerate do you think I am? Ma raised me right.”
You should be teasing him further. If you had your wits about you, you would. It’s unfortunate that the feeling of Clark’s hand on your lower back makes you go a little loopy. You’re lucky he hasn’t caught on to what his touch does to you, or you’d be screwed.
Flushing slightly, you dance out of his grip, running a finger over the shelves.
“So, are you gonna, um, give me a tour? Lots of anecdotes, I want the true Clark Kent experience.”
His low chuckle is indulgent, a finger hooking into your belt loop as a means of tugging you towards the door.
“If you want it, you’ll get it. Just don’t be mad at the tour guide when this takes a while.”
You have to shake the daze from your eyes before you can hear the story he’s telling about accidentally cracking the kitchen countertop.
The Kent house is exactly how you’d expect it. It’s quaint, the decor reflecting the cozy tastes of his parents. Each room has a reminder of Clark though, whether intentional or not.
The doorway to the bathroom has markings of his growing height in childhood, including the five-month period where he went from 5'8" to 6’3”. The office has a dent in the wall, where Clark sheepishly tells you he kicked a soccer ball by accident when he was ten. It leaves you feeling as if you knew him when he was young, by proxy of the many scrapes he got himself into.
Nothing does it like his bedroom, though. The final stop on his tour, Clark forgoes any preamble, simply opening the door and letting you wander in.
It’s a stark contrast to the rest of the house, the brown paneled walls plastered with various posters and pictures. You can’t help but grin, seeing the trophy case with all his football awards near the window.
“Wow, Kent. Didn’t realise you were Boy Wonder, too,”
You cross the room, immediately fiddling with the academic awards that are hanging on the far wall.
“I mean, is it even fair at this point?”
You can hear him huff out a deep breath, picturing how he’s surely lifting one large hand to rub the back of his neck, his flannel straining against the bulge of his bicep and—
“It really wasn’t that big a deal, Smallville’s got a pretty good high school for the area.”
His voice cuts through the static in your brain, the barely-there heat of his chest radiating towards your back snapping you into reality at once. Humble bastard.
Turning to face him, you step as close as you can, hands finding their rightful place on his shoulders.
“I think you’re selling yourself short. Besides, it’s better for me if you’re exceptional. I get to pat myself on the back for locking you down.”
You go in for a quick peck, pressing your lips to his slightly-chapped ones for a brief moment. Parting from him, the two of you seem transfixed by each other’s eyes, Clark leaning back in for another when a distinctive poster catches your eye, making you turn your head.
Clark’s lips land on your cheek as you rile yourself up for more teasing.
“Clark! The Mighty Crabjoys? Are you kidding?”
He lets out a groan, hands settling at your waist as he attempts to turn you back toward him.
“Yes I did listen to them, yes I was an insufferable poser as a kid, yes you would have mocked me relentlessly, now please?”
His lips seek yours, molding against you for another moment before you pull back again.
“No, wait, don’t distract me. That’s there unironically? Like, you listened to them, and listened to them so much that you just had to—”
You’re cut off again, tasting the cornbread you’d had earlier on his tongue as he laves it over your bottom lip. Suddenly you’re not all that bothered with the poster anymore.
It’s his turn to talk now, it seems.
“Can we please stop talking about the poster?”
His voice has deepened a few octaves, sounding eerily similar to his Superman voice. It’s doing bad things for your panties, feeling your thighs rub together involuntarily. You’re rendered mute, nodding wordlessly up at him.
A self-satisfied smile settles on his face, using his grip on you to walk you backwards until the backs of your knees hit the bed.
“Thank you, honey.”
He’s pushing you down softly, lowering you until you settle against the plaid sheets. You’re given absolutely no time to register anything else about the bed, not when he’s settling over you, all broad chest and thick thighs and beautiful face.
“Clark…”
“Yeah? What is it?”
It seems like he’s relishing the opportunity to get you back for all your teasing, leaning on an elbow resting near your head as his other hand slips down to grip your hip. It’s unfair how he gets to you.
“I want… You know what I want.”
You can barely stand to look at him, his eyes are so big and kind. You could get lost in him, drawn in by his gravitational pull.
“Yeah, I do know, don't I? You want your clothes off, sweetheart?”
Your head begins to nod before you even register it, making Clark laugh as he sits up to tug off your clothes.
Once you’re sufficiently undressed, you’re feeling a little unfair. He’s still wearing so much. Clumsy hands fly to the hem of his shirt, pushing it up gently.
“You too, Clark. Not going to let me be the only one in their birthday suit, right?”
He blushes, but follows the movements of your hands, shucking off his shirt and jeans, although the black boxers he’s got on remain there, much to your dismay. The moment he’s bare enough, he’s climbing right back over you, lips pressing to yours with insistence.
Clark generally lets you take the lead with kissing, letting you explore his mouth with as much zeal and vigour you can muster. He’s content to moan into your mouth, hands running wild over all the newly-exposed skin at his disposal.
Rough fingertips travel up to your hair, smoothing it back as your tongue brushes against his. A soft squeeze to your breast when you gasp for air before diving right back in. Slowly, slowly, he begins to make his way down your body.
You falter a little as he lingers over your stomach, rubbing a thumb over your lower belly, feeling yourself ache for him. Your own hands spring into action, caressing over the planes of his abdomen as you move lower and lower.
However, a hand encircles your wrist before you can reach his boxers, Clark’s abashed face looking at you.
“Not yet, baby. Can’t—oh, gosh,”
He throws his head back in pleasure when you forge forward, boldly gripping him through the thin fabric.
“Clark, please. You said you’d give me what I wanted.”
He seems to falter, but his touch doesn’t move, redirecting your hand to rest on his shoulder.
“You know we can’t… yet. I don’t want to hurt you, sweetheart.”
Damn it. Damn his big fucking eyes and his honeyed voice. You can’t complain, no matter how much you’d want to. Not when he’s looking at you like that.
With a sigh, you slump a little, voice slightly petulant.
“Fine.”
He sees right through it, of course he does.
“Oh, I know. It’s so hard, isn’t it, letting me touch you?”
You’d have a cutting reply on the tip of your tongue if his hands weren’t roaming again, his left cupping the back of your head as the right makes its way down to where you’re dripping.
Your legs spread automatically, letting his fingers brush against your soaked folds. You have to moan, the feeling of his larger fingers always overwhelming at first.
He swipes through your folds, once, twice, until his index finger is covered in slick. You’d be embarrassed, but it’s hard to feel anything but pleasure when Clark is touching you. Slowly, he brings his index up to your hooded clit, pressing down on it with practised precision.
It’s like he’s feeling it too, the way he starts to pant at the sight of you getting enveloped in bliss. This is a part of your routine because you need to be worked open, yes, but it’s also selfishly for Clark’s own satisfaction, you both know it.
The pleasure arcing up your spine has you arching your back, right leg jerking involuntarily. It only seems to spur him on, index leaving your clit.
Acknowledging your whine with a kiss to the temple, Clark moves his hand slightly, positioning his finger a little lower.
“Here we go, honey.”
He pushes further, thick finger brushing your gummy walls deliciously. Every time Clark fingers you, you worry that you’ll never be able to go back to your own fingers again. His are like the rest of him, broad, work-worn and skilled. The way he slowly increases the pace of his movements have you squirming under him, hands scrabbling at his shoulders.
“Doing so good for me, baby. Take it like a champ, every time.”
His hushed praises are sent straight to your core, hot breath fanning over your cheek as he adds another impossibly large finger to the mix.
The stretch burns, in the way that has you gushing around his digits. You’re openmouthed, unable to stop the endless torrent of moans and whimpers that leave you.
“Clark—!”
He smiles a little, watching how your hips are starting to grind down on his palm.
“Yeah, honey? Feeling good?”
You nod frantically, staring wide-eyed up at him.
One more finger joins the two already plunging in and out of you, and the staggering onslaught of sensations pushes you over the edge.
A final brush of his palm against your clit and you fall apart, choked moans spilling into the air as your hips stutter.
“Oh my god, ohmygod, Clark!”
He knows to work you through it, slowing his pace until the wave has crested, and you’re looking up at him with big, wet eyes.
Pulling his hand away from you, he dips down, capturing your lips with his.
“How’re you feeling, honey? Want to stop?”
You’d rather die. You tell him so, reveling in the shock on his face. He seems to forget how badly you want him until it's shoved in his face, so you do just that.
Snaking a hand between your bodies, you brush the waistband of his boxers again.
“Please, Clark? You know I can take it. Just wanna feel you.”
He’s a sucker for you, you both know it.
That’s what has him shoving down his boxers with graceless hands, what has him blushing when you compliment his cock for the umpteenth time.
He’s hovering back over you, the mattress dipping by your head and hip, where he’s braced himself with a hand and knee. His other hand has found purchase on your thigh, kneading at the plush flesh idly.
You wonder absentmindedly if there will be any marks left later. He’d be mortified. You’d love it.
“Sweetheart, you ready? Gotta take this slow,”
He’s let go of your thigh, gripping his cock at the base so he can swipe through your folds. You both let out guttural moans, laughing at each other when the pleasure subsides.
“Yeah, Clark. I want it.”
He’s embarrassed by your confession, like he always is, but that doesn’t stop him from pressing his hips forward a fraction. The blunt tip of his cock pushes past your entrance, the stretch causing another moan from the both of you.
You’ll never get used to it, the all-encompassing pleasure that comes with the first few inches of him.
He’s slow, taking his time as he groans word salad into your ear.
“Feels so—so good, baby. Always so good for me, aren’t you? Does it— oh, god— you feeling okay?”
His voice is hoarse, as if he’s been yelling for days. You can’t help but feel a little satisfaction at how thoroughly you seem to wreck the Man of Steel.
“Yeah, Clark… Keep going.”
He nods, pushing even further. The tip of him reaches somewhere deep in you, somewhere only he’s ever been. The heady haze in your mind can’t dissipate, not when he’s making you feel like this.
It feels like an eternity, but finally, his hips meet yours. You’re feeling obscenely full, like you could never live without him in you like this. It has you whining sharply when he pulls himself out slightly.
However, the feeling of him pushing back in sends any thought of complaining flying out of your head. He’s swift in finding that perfect pace — somewhere between stuffing you as full as you can be and providing the friction he craves.
Throwing your head back, you see his right hand hover in the air, as if he’s unsure what to do with it. It seems as though he’s decided when it grips the headboard behind your head, but a splintering sound has you pushing past the daze to warn him.
“Can’t— Don’t break the headboard—” You’re cut off by a moan, unable to stop yourself. He seems suitably chastised though, his hand balling into a fist and pressing into the mattress instead. You feel a distant hope that he won’t punch through that, somehow. It’d be a hell of a story to tell his parents why you had to replace it.
His left arm has slid under your shoulders in the meantime, holding you as close to his chest as possible. You’re sure he gets some pleasure out of it, but you know he does this for you.
He knows you like to be overwhelmed by him, surrounded by his touch and smell and words until every thought’s been chased from your mind but him. He won’t let you run away from the excruciating pleasure, and you’re grateful. It’s even more wonderful here, in this single bed that forces you even closer to him than normal.
The brutal pace he’s set has you floating up to the sky in no time, head in the clouds as you let him hold you close.
It could be a lot of things, but you’re getting close after only a few short minutes. It could be the deep groans that he’s letting loose in the air between your mouths. It could be the tight grip he’s got you in. It’s probably the incessant grinding of his pelvis against your clit when he drives home.
Whatever it is, your arms around his neck tighten as you attempt to tell him.
“Clark— Clark, m’gonna…”
He nods, smiling breathlessly down at you, knowing you want reassurance.
“Me too, baby. Go ahead, you can come.”
Something about his gasped-out words has you spiralling, your climax hitting you at once. Walls spasming around him, his hips falter in their speed, slowing to a more languid, leisurely pace as he works you through it.
“Good— good girl, honey. Feel so good.”
He lets you pull him in for a filthy, openmouthed kiss, pressing his pelvis against yours.
One final grinding motion, and he’s gasping into your mouth. The blooming heat inside you has you shuddering with an aftershock of pleasure, moaning one final time.
He remains pressed against you for some time, his arm holding you slightly off the bed as your chests heave. Only once he catches his breath (annoyingly quickly) does he settle you back against the sheets.
The next few moments are a blur, Clark kissing you one moment, softly wiping at your pussy with a cloth the next, and finally bringing a glass of water to your lips.
“Feeling okay? Tired?”
“Yeah, a little, but a quick nap, and I’ll be ready.”
He looks at you quizzically, tilting his head in a way that reminds you of Krypto.
“What, you don’t have more in you? C’mon, Superman, we’ve got to wear you out at some point.”
He’s blushing again.