Clark had been hovering all day. Not in the literal sense, though you wouldn’t put it past him, but in that gentle, quiet way of his. He lingered in doorways, offered you tea three different times, and kept asking, “Are you mad at me?” in that low, tentative voice that made your heart ache.
By the fourth time, you turned from the kitchen sink, eyebrow raised. “Clark. Why on earth would I be mad at you?”
He shifted, large hands fidgeting with the hem of his flannel, eyes dropping to your bare left hand. “You’re… not wearing your ring. I just- I thought maybe…” His voice trailed off, the unspoken fears tumbling around in his mind as plainly as if he’d said them.
Your expression softened instantly. “Oh, sweetheart.” You dried your hands, crossing the room to take his. “It’s at the jeweler’s, remember? I wanted to get it cleaned before our anniversary.”
His head lifted, eyes wide behind his glasses, as if you’d just told him the world wasn’t ending after all. “That’s it?”
“That’s it.” You smiled and pressed his palm flat against your chest, right over your heartbeat. “I’m still married to you, ring or no ring.”
Clark’s relief came out in a shaky laugh, and he ducked his head to kiss your forehead. “I thought I was losing my mind. I’ve been trying to make you happy all day, just in case.”
“Well, you’re succeeding,” you teased, wrapping your arms around his waist. “But if you really want to make me happy…”
His grin was immediate, boyish and bright, dimples flashing. “Dinner out?”
“Dinner in,” you said, resting your cheek against him. “As long as it’s with you.” And that was all Clark needed to hear.
that one tiktok trend that’s like “do you ever wish you were athletic/tall” with clark 👀
NOOOO I LOVE THIS
pairing: husband!clark kent x f!reader. word count: 524. content: silly fluff. you are ragebaiting your husband lmao. not proofread
You and Clark had decided to go for a food shop to replenish your rather sad looking fridge with some fuzzy strawberries tucked away toward the back.
Prior to that, Clark was sat at the table next to the window, deep in thought as he proofread his upcoming article to be approved by Perry White. And you had been doomscrolling for a good couple of hours on TikTok.
It was only when Clark decided he’d refill your energy levels with a homemade sandwich made with love, that you both bundled up and braved the bitter Metropolis weather to get the basic necessities for sustenance.
You were on your third aisle — pretty early on into the shop — with a trolley practically empty. Clark had mentioned that he needed a new razor; in which you mildly protested.
Sometimes you wish your husband would embrace the beard. Or, even just a moustache.
Hands in your pockets, scarf bunched up to your nose, you stared at the products as Clark made the hard decision on what sort of blade he wanted.
The tubs of protein just above your head caught your eye, a lightbulb moment pinged in your head as you smiled beneath your scarf.
“Honey?”
“Hm? Yeah?” Clark looked up from the pack of razors in his hand.
“Do you ever wish you were athletic?” You asked with enough innocence to be convincing that you were genuine in your curiosity.
Clark blinked at an unnatural pace, his jaw slack as he processed your question. You side-eyed him and saw his Adam’s Apple bob.
Oh. You got him.
Clark cleared his throat, “Athletic?” He looked down at his body and back up, “Are you—? Honey. Come on.”
“What?”
“Look at me.” Clark gestured to his torso, “I am athletic. Incredibly athletic.”
“I mean, like actually athletic, you know?” You pinched the skin of your hand to prevent you from breaking out into laughter at your husband’s face. Brows raised, you tilted your head, “You don’t ever wish to be that athletic?”
Clark pulled his lips into a thin line, “I don’t—I don’t understand. I am athletic, honey. Seriously, I’m one of the most athletic people in Metropolis. You, especially, know that.”
Both of your attention turned to another customer that had entered the empty aisle, before you turned back to your husband with a shrug and a pout.
You took the trolley from his hands and began to push it away from the scene; Clark hot on your heels.
“Honey.” Clark repeated, “You agree I’m athletic.”
“I didn’t say you weren’t, I just asked if you wished you actually were.”
Clark pulled a face, “That makes no sense. I—You’re joking me, right? Please tell me this is a joke. I cannot express enough that I am incredibly athletic.”
You nodded along, amused by his reaction, “OK, sweetheart. You are athletic. Are you happy now?”
“Not really.”
“Hm.” You turned down another aisle with Clark trudging behind you, sulking. You narrowed your eyes at some products, “Do you ever wish you were tall?”
summary: clark spends the first night of his honeymoon worshipping his beautiful wife. hint, hint, that's you! (aka 6k words of purely romantic smut)
tags & cw: pwp, clark is a munch and I WILL die on this hill, fem afab reader, KISSING KISSING KISSING, soft dom!clark, praise kink, reader described with long hair but otherwise unspecified, face sitting, allusions to blowjobs, married sex, unprotected p in v, sappy lovesick clark (is there anything better?), intimacy, clark is a YAPPER in bed, lotsss of pet names sorry (baby, honey, & sweetheart mainly), abrupt ending bc im lazy
wc: ~6k
a/n: lexa try to write something meaningful that is under 6k words level IMPOSSIBLE
want some more clark content? Check out my clark masterlist!
Your back hits the white wood of the french doors in your honeymoon suite, a large hand cushioning your head against the panes of glass. You’re smiling so widely that it strains the muscles in your face, mouth doing gymnastics to retain its giggling shape as frantic, passionate kisses are pressed into your lips.
You’re on the tips of your toes, fingers carding through black curls as you’re enveloped in the mountain of a man who you now get to call your husband. His lips are as passionate as they’ve been for as long as you’ve been together, only there’s something different about the way he touches you now, something infinitely more reverent, something inenarrable.
He walks you away from the balcony doors, a mix of moon and candlelight washing over his face as you both pause to breathe. There’s a look flooding his eyes, and it mirrors your own as you stare so deeply into his black-blown pupils that you can see your reflection.
You kiss him again, because you can’t help yourself. He tastes like tarte aux fraises, lips red-stained and swollen, an ensemble resulting from both the ridiculously expensive pastries and his need for you.
Feet stumble over plush carpet, a nightgown is tossed over the chenille camelback, a pair of sweatpants lands somewhere near the armoire. Your ring snags on the collar of his faded Met U t-shirt. His hypnoglasses are the only thing treated delicately, deposited on the dresser. Every other motion is urgent and desire-laden, hands driven by hours of yearning and years of love, culminating in a singular night that has reminded you exactly why you chose this man in the first place.
He’d kept your fingers interlaced the entire day, only parting to pull out your chair or open a door. Soft kisses to the crown of your head, your cheeks, the backs of your hands. Gentle words pressed into your hair, affirmations of love murmured into your ears.
He’s been nothing short of perfect.
Now, broad palms skirt the length of your body, raising gooseflesh in their wake as they settle beneath your thighs. The message is clear: jump.
You oblige without thinking, lips and tongues pressed together as he carries you to the obnoxiously large bed. For someone who can move the stars, he carries you like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever had the pleasure of holding.
The bed is unbelievable, spread with what you think are satin sheets and the fluffiest down pillows you’ve ever set your head on. Like something out of a romance novella, there’s rose petals across the duvet and scattered across the floor. It’s an adornment of love, a picture painted with the charged tenderness of a newlywed couple, a scene that won’t leave your memory any time soon.
For two people who spent the day walking the village of Eguisheim, the soreness in your feet and limbs is all but forgotten the moment you collapse into bed. It’s the first of nine nights you have here, and you plan to make the most of each and every one. After all, it’s not often that Superman gets a vacation; the worries of the world do not cease for even the most important days of his life.
But he’d promised you these ten.
For a while you do nothing but kiss—the weight of him steady and sure above you, your nails drawing white lines down the broadness of his back. It’s when his lips finally stray from yours, detouring along the lines of your jaw and the slope of your throat, that you keen beneath him, desperation colored by the flush that spreads across your skin.
“Clark.”
He pauses at the valley of your lace-trapped breasts, which heave up and down with the force of your heavy breathing. Twin blue eyes ask you a single, effortless question; because even after all these years, he always pauses.
You’re nodding frantically, hardly able to form a coherent thought let alone word, but he takes the gesture for what it is and descends upon you once more, mouth hot and eyes molten.
When he finally unclasps the bra, the look he gives you is overflowing with an amalgamation of longing and devotion, one that is both familiar and not; he’s seen you like this a thousand times, but never as this—as his wife.
The Man of Steel looks like he’s melting. “You’re so beautiful.”
You blush harder than you have in your entire life and fight the urge to bury your shy smile in the sea of pillows.
His thumbs trace the apples of your cheeks, keeping your eyes on his. “My beautiful bride,” he kisses your nose, and you can’t help but giggle as your eyes flutter shut. “I love you so much,” another to your forehead, “you look so pretty. My pretty girl,” one at each corner of your mouth.
At last, a dopey smile greets you when your eyes flutter back open. “My Mrs. Kent.”
His kiss is slower this time; the puzzle of your lips slotting together over and over. “Wanna make love to you, sweetheart. All night long.”
“Please,” you gasp. “Please, Clark. I love you so much, wanna feel you—”
“I know, honey. I know. I wanna feel you too.”
The kiss you share then is full of intent, of promise. His hands wander, and so do yours; skating over warm skin that’s grown flush with need. Your fingertips slip just beneath the waistband of his boxers, the only clothing you’ve yet to tear off of him. Your nails trace the circle of his waist, around to his unfairly round ass, then glide back to the quivering muscles that adorn his happy trail.
Clark is—literally—otherworldly. From the ivory of his hair to the breadth of his superhuman frame, he’s perfect and real. Healthy, not overly fit. All soft lines and subtle farmhand muscle, their suggested definition materializing when you touch him like this. And oh, how your husband shudders beautifully at the most simplest of touches.
He’s got his lips around one of your nipples when the slow grind of your hips draws a low groan from the back of his throat.
You’re already near-panting, breath whispering into his hair as your chest arches into his mouth. “God, Clark.”
A large hand moves to give some much-needed attention to your neglected breast. “Have I told you how much I love these tits? How’d I get so lucky, hm?”
The scorching heat of his mouth on your skin overwhelms you quickly, and your greedy body craves more of him with an intensity that lapses all rational thought. Your palms flatten against his shoulders, and it takes nothing more than a slight nudge for him to flop willingly onto his back. Superman, reduced to an obedient ragdoll at the mercy of his comparatively delicate wife.
He’s looking up at you like you hung the full moon that peeks through the massive bay windows. You both groan as your weight settles onto his hips, a mess of fabric and friction as he drags you down by the scruff of your neck and back to his impatient lips.
Another fact about your husband that makes you weak in the knees—he can kiss for hours. Loves to, in fact. You can’t count how many movie nights you’d spent straddling his lap on your sofa, one hand anchored on your waist and the other in your hair, rooting you in place. He stills almost all of your movement, much to your chagrin; he does it half to tease, half because he simply loved to make out that fucking much.
The slower and more deliberate the kisses, the better. Varying pressure, a perfect mix of tongue and lips, his kisses were something uniquely sinful and divine. Clark Kent kissed with his soul, a spigot of love and passion seeping through every pore.
Tonight was certainly no different.
One hand planted in your hair, guiding the motion of his lips over yours, the other squeezing the flesh of your ass, urging the slow grind of your pelvis unto his. He uses the time that only you need to break for air as an excuse to nip along your jaw and neck. Unlike usual—when you’re restricted by dress codes and professionalism—he worries the skin of your neck with his teeth, just enough to bruise. He wants the world to see, and so do you.
Mine. Mine. Mine.
The thought of seeing your reflection later makes your head spin. He succeeds in driving you so wild with growing lust that you can barely think beyond the movement of your clothed pussy over his cock.
That easily, he’s switched off your brain.
He’s kissing every last thought out of your head when something is muttered into your mouth.
“Huh?” you breathe, fast and hard against his parted lips.
His mouth brushes yours in a featherlight caress that contrasts your previous kisses.
“Sit on my face, baby,” he repeats, and the words land somewhere between a question, a statement, and a desperate plea. “Please?”
The way your cunt throbs at the image his words conjure leaves little room for debate. You must look wretched above him, hair a mess and panting like a damn dog as you wiggle ungracefully up his stupidly huge chest. But to your husband, you might as well have walked out of a Playboy magazine.
He lifts you to his face on those final few inches where you hesitate, almost on instinct—because somehow, you’re still subconsciously worried about suffocating your Kryptonian lover with your pussy.
Not that he’d complain, of course.
Your hands clumsily cling to the intricate headboard. “Clark, my underwear—”
“Leave em’,” he says, and you can feel his hot breath against your sodden core. “They look cute on you. You know I love it when you dress ‘er up for me. S’like a nice little garnish on my five-star meal.”
This time, you do hide your face. “Oh my God, Clark.”
He doesn’t allow you any more time to be embarrassed, however, because he’s attacking your pussy with his tongue and it’s unashamedly messy and the fucking sounds he’s making—
Suffice it to say you hadn’t known good oral sex until you’d gotten it from Clark. Because…holy mother of God, that man knew his way around your pussy better than he did an 800-word editorial.
You collapse forward, catching your head with your arms braced on the headboard, eyes glued to where Clark is actively making out with your cunt. Two fingers keep your panties tucked to the side and out of his way as he devours you like a starved man.
“O-oh, fuck, Clark, that—”
He’s sloppy, uncaring of the vulgar sounds he’s making and entirely motivated by the way your body moves on top of his, your inhibitions lowered the closer he drags you to that blissful edge. He loves it when you lose control, when you have no choice other than to surrender to the pleasure he’s pulling from your shaking body.
You’re fighting not to downright hump his face, clinging to the headboard for dear life until one of his hands reaches for your wrist and guides it down to his hair.
Hold on to me, baby.
Your fingers instinctively curl into the home of his hair, suffocating his head between your thighs as that taut coil winds tighter and tighter in your womb. Clark’s tongue slips fully into your fluttering hole, thumb moving to rapidly swipe at your needy clit. The sight of his eyes blazing up into yours is what does you over.
Your body convulses, tucking inwards as your thighs shake through the sweet release. Beneath you, your husband is moaning as if he’s the one who just had one of the best orgasms of his life. He continues kitten-licking your folds through the aftershocks, waiting patiently as you catch your breath.
With heavy limbs, you inch off of his face and nearly cry at the sight of him—eyes wild, face flushed red and smeared with your arousal. His hands rest on the meat of your hips, thumbs circling in soothing little motions as he awaits guidance, because these moments are somehow always about you. It’s a special sort of selflessness that you think only Clark Kent is capable of.
You start to mutter out what you think is a ‘thank you,’ but he beats you to it with a simple, “C’mere.”
You move obediently, almost without thought, and crumble over him. The taste of your slick is tangy in your mouth as he kisses you. The feel of his hard cock beneath your pussy easily reignites the throbbing need between your thighs. When it becomes too much, Clark’s hands at your waist switch your position again.
Although there is an inherent power exchange that usually accompanies being on top, Clark’s dominance is the furthest thing from intimidating. He’s familiar above you, patient and intimate and fostering a feeling in your chest that you can only describe as safety. What’s more remarkable is the fact that even if he weren’t superhuman, you’d feel the exact same—because your Clark was strong in ways that didn’t require enhanced physiology.
Remembering the current tally, you gain some semblance of reason and attempt to reach for the warm length of him between your bodies.
“Mm-mm,” Clark shakes his head, gently but firmly guiding your hand away from his boxers and pressing it to his chest instead. “I love you, my darling wife, but you drive me insane. Touch me with those hands of yours and this will be over before it starts.”
A groan rumbles from his throat when you dig your nails into his chest and run them down his front, muscles trembling beneath your fingertips. “It’s a good thing I married Superman then, isn’t it? Word has it Kryptonians have a shockingly low refractory period.”
Kisses are scattered across your chest. “And where did you hear such a thing, hm?”
“Well, you’re speaking to the primary source, Mr. Kent.”
He chuckles. “True as that may be, my point still stands. Because,” he traces your bottom lip with his thumb, “I want the first place I come to be in my beautiful wife’s pussy.”
Your breath hitches. Then you secure both legs around his waist, forcing his hips flush to yours. “Then what on earth are you waiting for?”
His grin is felt across your lips, his voice teasing. “Patience is a virtue. We have all night.”
“My husband and his virtues,” you huff, nipping along his jaw. “You’re lucky I love you.”
Clark hums, withdrawing just enough to look into your eyes. “Mmm. Say that again.”
“What? I love you?”
He squeezes your hips. “That works, but…not what I was referring to.”
Your eyes flash in understanding. “Oh. My husband?”
The smile that breaks across his face could sustain you for a lifetime, you think.
Clark nods, pressing another kiss onto your lips, and the moment is overflowing with the kind of tooth-rotting love that makes you feel slightly sick in the best way.
He returns the steady grind of your hips with his own. You’re certain there will be a permanent imprint of your body in this mattress come morning with the way he’s pressed you into it.
“My Clark,” you say, kissing each corner of his mouth. “My Kal. My husband.”
You feel him physically melt on top of you. “Golly, I’ll never get used to it,” he breathes. “Feel free to…mm, honey…keep saying it as much as…as much as you want.”
He’s still got his lips on yours when two fingers slide between your bodies and over the gusset of your ruined underwear. It makes your hips squirm, greedily seeking the temptation of his hand as you pant into his mouth.
“Want you to give me another one first.” His fingers slip beneath the waistband, seeking and finding nothing but liquid heat; residual from the first orgasm he tore from you, and increasing from his current ministrations. “Need you nice n’ ready for me.”
“Clark,” you exhale as he plays with your pussy, the lewd sound of it echoing in your ears. “I know you can feel me. I’m plenty ready.”
His tone is skeptical. “Sweetheart…”
“Please,” you resort to begging, because history has proven it has a 99.9% success rate. “I just want my husband to fuck me on our honeymoon.”
“Good golly. That’s so unfair.”
“I know. Is it working?”
The groan he releases wavers with barely restrained desire. “Mhm, yeah. Yeah, it is. Wanna be in you so bad.”
He’s fully dry humping you now, and frankly the unnecessary edging has gotten so ridiculous that you end up yanking his boxers off yourself. You may not have the gusto to rip the garment down the middle like Clark so often does (much to your dismay; you had strictly banned him from ruining your honeymoon lingerie sets—they’re expensive!), but he seems amused nonetheless.
His chuckle is strangled in a low moan when your sneaky hand evades his capture and wraps around him.
“Gosh, honey,” he rumbles. Clark blindly reaches for your underwear, scrambling to push them down in a desperation to feel you without any obstacles.
When he’s finally against you, hot and hard and real, you both let out sounds adjacent to relief. His hands bracket your head, nose brushing yours as his gaze sears into your eyes. His hips pump slowly, torturously, cock sliding the wet length of your throbbing pussy, the tease of it driving you both wild.
One of your hands tangles in the hair at his nape. “Please, Clark. No more teasing. I need you so bad.”
You sigh in reprieve when he finally notches at your entrance; because when all is said and done, he can’t say no to you.
“Let me in, baby,” he whispers, coaxing your legs to fully relax and spread against the mattress. “And you tell me if it’s too much, promise?”
You nod frantically. “Promise. I promise, Clark.”
Despite years of practice, taking Clark is no easy feat. He’s large everywhere, and without the proper prep he can—and has, albeit unintentionally and totally to his complete and utter despair—hurt you.
Your nails curl into his skin when he slides home, slow and almost unbearably large. The stretch burns the way it usually does, but you’ve become so love-drunk on him that it hardly registers as pain anymore; no, it’s something deliciously more complex, something that toes the precarious line of pain and pleasure.
Clark’s eyes are toeing a line of their own, a bright blue mix of feral need and reverent longing as his body swallows yours.
“Ooh, baby.” He traces your lips with his. “So tight. You sure you’re okay?”
You squeeze your pelvic muscles in response, and you’re rewarded with a delicious groan that buzzes from his chest into yours.
“Mhm,” you mumble. Your arms loop around his shoulders, nails gently scraping his scalp. “Fuck me, Clark.”
He doesn’t need to be told twice. He sets the pace to something painfully slow; pulling almost all the way out before gradually pushing back in.
“Nice n’ deep,” he mumbles into your ear, breath hot as he folds your bodies together. The sweat slicks between you, your skin tacky where his palm splays across your ribs. The blunt tip of him taps along your cervix, the pressure tender and aching as you curve against his body.
You moan weakly into his ear, tiny mewls of his name and broken, disorganized phrases. I love you. I love you. I love you.
Clark falls onto his forearms, biceps flexing at the sides of your head, drawing your attention. His lips smush into your cheek as he lets you ogle what is rightfully yours. Little kisses are peppered along your hairline, his nose pressed to your hair, breathing you in; he seems to want you just as close as you want him.
“Such a pretty girl,” he praises. “N’ all mine. Jus’ like I’m all yours. Only yours. You’re so good to me, m’so lucky…”
“Clark,” you whine. “It’s so much—”
“I know, honey,” he breathes. “You’re takin’ me so well. I love you, bein’ so good for me.”
The tempo of his thrusts gradually increases as you begin to chase your highs; your little whimpers encourage him as he carefully builds the pace, eyes glued to your face, ensuring your comfort, your safety, your pleasure.
“Tell me what you need, baby.”
“Mmmm…my…clit,” you manage, brow pinched at the hovering promise of an orgasm, just barely out of your reach. You just need a little more…
“Yeah? Hold on, hon.”
You whine when he readjusts, un-sandwiching your bodies as he leans back on his knees, tugging you closer by the hips in a casual display of strength that makes you twitch around him. He snags a pillow from near your head, gently lifting your body to slide it beneath your waist.
Clark’s eyes swarm your entire body, full of hunger and love, catching on the way your tits move before settling on where you’re joined. Finally, he wets a thumb before swiping it along your swollen clit. Your reaction is instantaneous—arms flopping down at your sides, fingers fisting the duvet, a few unlucky petals crushed between your knuckles.
It’s a lot. He’s a lot; overwhelming in the most perfect of ways, but it’s so right. It can’t possibly be more right.
“There we go,” Clark’s eyes refuse to leave your body. “Oh. That’s it, isn’t it? Can feel her squeezin’ me.”
You’re a shameless wreck beneath him, letting the pleasure wash over your body and pool at the bottom of your spine. Your thighs tighten around his waist. His left hand finds yours, fingers twining, rings bumping. The feeling of it draws your eyes, mesmerized at the sight of your joint hands.
You and him. A bond realized in the years you’d spent together; first as coworkers, then friends, then something in-between. Then, eventually, this. This thing that you couldn’t quite name in the beginning, out of fear or uncertainty or perhaps a mix of both.
Now, it’s been materialized in the crevices of your lives; two sets of keys on the hook, two pairs of shoes near the door, two chargers on nightstands, two rings on two fingers. A love made tangible and visible.
You draw his hand to your lips, messily kissing over his larger knuckles, his ring. He fucks into you, in time with the steady tempo of his thumb, whose movement changes from sideswipes to tight little circles. The difference is everything,
“You gonna come, honey?” he asks. There’s a needy edge to the tone in his voice, like he can’t function unless he feels your sweet release over his cock. “Please? You look s-so pretty when you come. My darling girl.”
Your breath heats his knuckles, panting sloppily against his hand that’s still pressed close to your mouth. The knot tightens in your lower belly, tension threatening to snap the longer he keeps his thumb moving over your throbbing nerves.
You can do nothing but nod, refusing to move your eyes from Clark’s face—the way his own gaze falters at the sight of you, like you’re something precious and irreplaceable; like he’s hardwired to hold and cherish you, to carry you through the rest of your lives with the type of strength that doesn’t come from the sun, but from love.
It’s the thought of him choosing you over and over, forever—Clark Kent, Superman, an extraterrestrial miracle serving a species and planet that doesn’t deserve his kindness—that finally does it.
With a sharp cry of his name your back curves away from the mattress, muscles caught in the heavenly cycle of tighten-release-tighten-release that makes Clark’s pace stutter. Pleasure tingles through every cell, your thighs shaking around his waist as he guides you through it, grounding you with a hand planted on your hip.
His insistent praises slowly seep through your ears like syrup; “O-oh yes, good girl, good girl. Mmm. Yes baby, come on this cock.”
Cockdrunk and lovesick, your hands reach for him, nails caressing the front of his perfect body, ending with a weak hold on his hips. Perhaps it has something to do with his alien physiology—or maybe you just have a raging breeding kink—but there’s no better feeling than when Clark’s cock twitches in your pussy, the odd yet welcome sensation of him flooding you with his come. Let alone the look on his face when he does it.
You don’t yet know if conceiving with him is even possible, but you’re beyond willing to find out.
Clark’s thumb over your clit steadily slows, following the declining twitch of your hips as you come down, riding through the aftershocks. His own hips are still moving, slow and deep, making you whine. “There we go, my beautiful wife. Golly, that’s so good.”
“Come in me,” you beg him suddenly, nails biting into the strong muscles of his upper thighs. “P-please Clark—”
His hips stutter again, going weak at your words. “Y-yeah? You want my cum, baby?”
Your nod is frantic, body overwhelmed with the continued abuse of your fluttering pussy.
“It’s yours, honey. All yours.”
His voice shakes around a moan of your name, curls flopping against his forehead as his head hangs to watch himself fuck into your pussy. His lashes flutter when it happens, eyes rolling back in his skull. The feeling pulls a low whine of satisfaction from your chest, legs hooking behind his back to ensure he’s as deep as humanly possible.
Clark collapses forward, grinding his pelvis into yours. The sweetest little whimpers of your name fan across your neck as he lets himself go. Your arms wrap around his middle, pulling him tightly against you as you swirl your hips against his, the skin between you sticky with sweat and cum.
“Mmm. S’good, baby. My wife. My love. So perfect.” Clark pulls back, moaning into your mouth as he kisses you. It’s hot and slow, a mess of tongue and spit and passion. Between your bodies, the movement of your hips has paused, pelvises flush together. You whine when his body shifts; the hair is swept from your face, kisses flurried over your eyelids, your name whispered against your lips.
“You okay, honey?”
His voice pulls you back into the moment; the warmth of his body on yours, enclosed in the arms of your lover.
Your nod is weak, your body loopy with pleasure. Looking up at your husband, he’s the picture of beauty, his hair mussed and lips swollen. Your husband who can bend steel but touches softer than silk, looking at you like you’re something divine, a deity he’s dedicated his whole life to worshipping.
You can’t help but crave his proximity, kissing him messily as he resumes the leisurely grind of his body unto yours.
“Meant what I said about makin’ love to you all night,” he murmurs, nosing along your jaw. “Only if you can take it; can you take it, pretty girl? Gonna let me give you more, hm?”
Your pussy seems to answer for you, clenching around him and he grunts at the sensitivity. Astonishingly, he’s already stiffening again inside you. It almost makes you laugh—he’s only proving your earlier statement about Kryptonian stamina.
“Yes,” you eventually manage. “Want you, always.”
“There’s my girl.” He nuzzles your cheek affectionately, voice flooded with gratitude. “Think you can get back on top, sweetheart?”
Your body shivers at the prospect. Clark loves when you’re on top; really he just loves you, and any kind of intimacy or experimentation you’ll allow him. But he seems to go particularly feral when he gets to look up for a change, so used to towering over you in everyday life that having you straddle him and look down with those ‘fuck me’ eyes—it’s ethereal. Even if he has to gently take the reigns, put in all the effort, he doesn’t seem to care one bit.
As for you, you just want his cock to stay inside you.
Your affirmation comes sealed with a kiss, one that he smiles into before you’re shifting yet again. When you’ve returned to straddling him, the reverential glint in his gaze has increased tenfold. Clark reaches up, plucking a few stray rose petals from your hair with a crooked, smitten grin.
“You’re so goddamn beautiful.” It’s a rare expletive from him, one that you cherish with an enamored smile of your own.
“You are too,” you say, and it reddens the tips of his ears in the adorable way that lives in your dreams.
He laughs, almost incredulously, like he can’t believe the luck he’s struck in having you as his wife. He leans forward, stealing a peck from your kiss-puffed lips.
“Y’sure you can take me again?”
“Clark, I plan to spend at least eighty-seven percent of this trip with you inside me. I can take it, love.”
He soothes one of his prior bites on your neck with his tongue. “Good. We’re on the same page.”
He settles back against the pillows as you adjust, watching you with rapture written across his features. Your hands land on his chest for support as you slowly rut your pussy against his cock, pulling low moans from both of you.
The slide is wet and obscene, the drag of your hips slow and deep, his tip teasing along your quivering hole.
“Oh gosh, baby. Look at the mess we made.”
You follow his gaze to the mess of your cunt, shining with your joint releases as begins undulating his hips, sliding himself through it. The sight makes your heart spike in your chest, a certain possessiveness overtaking you as you watch him shudder.
You’re the only one who gets to see him like this, the only one who gets to know this intimate part of him.
The knowledge sparks the renewed need in your gut.
A large hand grips your hip, guiding you to sit fully on his throbbing cock. You watch his eyelids flutter as you whimper at the stretch, even though he’s easier to take in this position.
You imagine that Clark looks just as fucked-out as you do; he’s got that unmistakable, head-empty, pussydrunk glaze over his eyes, focused on nothing but the feel of your warmth engulfing his cock once more.
Despite the pending exhaustion, your body moves on its own accord as you grind down on his dick.
“Yesss, mmm. That’s so good, honey. Feels so good,” Clark praises almost instantly. His hands trace your body, detouring to flick and pinch at your nipples before continuing their journey south. His fingers tease around your parted folds, rubbing the hypersensitive skin of your labia and succeeding in making your eyes roll.
Your elbows quiver, struggling to keep you held upright as the feeling intensifies, building once more in the depths of your center. You surprise yourself with just how quickly you’re able to soar back to the brink of orgasm, the heat of it burning beneath your skin and boiling your blood. Distracted, your hips get sloppy, though no less desperate.
Soon, it becomes too much to keep up. Clark notices right away. Hands migrate to your back, inviting you closer. Taking over, not because you told him, but because he noticed.
“There we go. Just relax on top of me, sweetheart. Let me do all the work from here, okay?”
You’re glad to let him regain control, going slack against his chest as he ruts into you; not rough, but hard. Not fast, but meaningful. Your hands are pressed between his shoulder blades and the mattress as he fucks you with all the vigor of a man wholly consumed by a love larger than he knows how to deal with, the excess of it pouring from his body into yours in the shape of sharp, deep thrusts.
You grip him a little tighter. “Mm-mm-mm, Cl-ark, g-god—”
“It’s okay, baby. Just hold on a little more for me. You’re doin’ so good.”
You feel it in the way his hips snap that he’s close again. You’re a babbling mess in his ear, pleading with him to come in you a second time, to fill you, to fuck you. Anything to feel him flood you with the evidence of his love and lust.
“Wanna feel you come on me again,” he breathes, impossibly close. “Let me have it. Wanna feel my wife come undone on her husband’s cock.”
The way his pelvis presses against your tormented clit has you shattering moments after. This time, however, Clark follows immediately. The feel of your spasming pussy around him is too much to handle, demands a level of control that is too far beyond his broken resolve and so he lets go.
“I love you,” he whispers, the sound half-muffled between the feverish kisses he places in your hair. “I love this pussy. This body.” He draws back, fingers brushing the hair from your face. “I love you, Mrs. Kent.”
Your stomach flips, butterflies and something far more intimate turning over in your belly; your heart fires in joint lust and love, an all-encompassing need to draw him closer, to melt him into your skin.
You spend several long moments calming your lungs and heart, ear pressed over Clark’s chest as he too comes down. The air is scented predominantly with sex, but there is an undercurrent of something that is distinctly Clark—something not quite man, but undeniably real. Satiation and exhaust creep into your body, and it’s absolute bliss.
“Baby?” Clark’s voice is a low rumble in your ear, his large palms soothing over your back. “You still with me?”
Weakly, you nod. “I think so.”
He huffs, rolling you onto your back so he can lean over you. His fingertips brush your cheek. “Come back to me, Mrs. Kent. I need you in tip-top shape for the rest of our honeymoon. Something about eighty-seven percent and low refractory periods.”
You giggle, your own hand cupping his face. “If that’s what married sex is like, we’ve wasted so much time.”
Clark chuckles, pressing a kiss to your forehead before resting it against his own. “Sex is for strangers, honey,” he says sincerely. “That was making love.”
You grin stupidly. “That’s actually…very romantic.”
“I am nothing if not the paradigm of romance.”
You laugh as he wags his brows. “I can’t disagree with you there, darling.”
He leans closer, lips hovering. “Mm. You love it, though.”
“I do indeed.”
Clark’s kiss is unhurried; a conveyance of adoration and thankfulness, a longing to simply be close. You part only twice for the rest of the night: once when Clark treks to the ensuite to retrieve a warm wash cloth, cleaning you with a gentleness that betrays the amplitude of Superman’s brawn. Then another when he sleepily but urgently persuades you to use the bathroom before falling asleep.
You wake the next morning shrouded in sunlight and newly wedded bliss. You kiss the sleep off of Clark’s face and use his morning fatigue to your advantage, sneaking a hand and eventually your mouth under the covers because you’d been dying to touch him like this since the wedding. He basks in the sun that shines through the windows, and you could swear that he glows beneath its light; it’s unreal to witness so close.
Although, watching his chest rise and fall in rapid, desperate huffs as he fights with all he has not to buck into your mouth is also a sight that’ll never get old.
Really, though, you’re happy just to be with him—Clark, your husband, the love of your life, now and for the rest of it. If you asked, he’d say he’s the lucky one, because Clark is benevolent in ways even you will never fully comprehend.
That’s alright—you’ll just kiss him a little extra in appreciation.
*disclaimer : i am a woc, so that's why there is a woc in the header
husband!clark kent who appreciates normalcy, the easy and simple, Tension rolls off of him in waves, surrendering to the music that is your laugh. you two are in a book store, trading one-offs about how ridiculous the plots of modern romance novels are, he's pride and prejudice and your wuthering heights. while they may both be categorized as the same genre, they are world's apart... just like you and him. he thinks to himself.
he's not superman or man of steel, around you. he's not a journalist at the daily planet. he's clark. clumsy, introverted, optimistic clark.
being here, holding your warm hand in one and a coffee you persuaded him to try in another, superman today was trading in his cape for an umbrella to protect you from the rain, and his signature, s, for chocolate stains on his shirt
husband!clark kent who takes pictures of you all the time, doing your hair, feeding animals on the farm. Painting, running, swimming, playing board games. Or his favorite setting random items on you while your sleeping
husband!clark kent uses his powers sometimes for personal gain to make up with you after a fight. Super speeding down to the mini-mart by your house and getting you flowers, a teddy bar, and a cheap bottle of wine and chocolate. he then flashes past you, spinning you around, he throws you on a slip dress with a jacket and shoes. together you to fly out of the house, onto the roof where he offers his apology basket.
husband!clark kent who keeps scrunchies and hair ties around his wrist since your hair can be "wild" at times. You never really settle on a singular style for the day, ponytail, bun, up or down, you never decide.
So for the random times that you do, clark is near and dear, ready to pass along a hair tie
husband!clark kent who if he had a wife with curly hair would be praising her all the time, gently pulling her curls just to watch them spring back into place, curling her hair around his finger. learning her hair routine.
he would even go as far, as a devoted husband, to sit down on the bathroom floor, notepad in hand, glasses sliding down. To take notes, hum in agreement on things he understood and shake his head as you complained or demanded that the beauty industry/companies who made products for people who have like you to be more inclusive and thoughtful
bliss and contentment spread throughout him like warm honey, hitting his chest. oh how he loved watching you be you
husband!clark kent who is just to cute wearing his glasses while you guys... that you tell him everytime during makeouts, showers and etc to keep them on
husband!clark kent who is so in love with you that he can forget to blink (p.s he can stare at you for eleven hours and forget to do it)
husband!clark kent - sometimes it's harder than words can capture or explain to be the world's sole savior. the city's only hero. clark doesn't want his phone to doomscroll, unwinding in front of the tv doesn't help him to relax. he wants to rest his head on your thighs and build a pillow fort and stay inside of it all day. when clark comes home, he's not talking or thinking about coming home to a place made up of four walls, a bed, and dinner. but someone there. who's decorating those walls, with colors and frames of happy memories, someone inside of his bed, exhausted from last night, sleeping peacefully. someone who can order the right takeout based on the day
he wants to make a home, not leave work to go to his house
husband!clark kent who uses his x-ray vision to examine your uterus for any signs of mild pain, discomfort or inflammation. when your on your period, he wants to know what you need before you even have to ask.
husband!clark kent who loves to take care you
busy and forget to the clean house, or go grocery shopping
it's taken care of
so busy working, you've forgotten to take a day off for self-care
don't worry, clark's already called in ahead of time, to tell you boss that you're not feelin' well and you're going to need the rest of the day off
husband!clark kent who also loves to spoil you, he'll take you flying, when the city is asleep and it's just the two of you, awake and carefree. coffee dates, surprise date nights, desserts straight from paris, penthouse suite views from the highest building, breaking into closed / abandoned fair grounds and flying up to the highest seat on the fairest wheel, to share a sweet long kiss
husband!clark kent who begs for you to make him a father, he can have such severe baby fever that he's constantly grabbing you, touching you, kissing your hands, placing his hands on your lower back, any and everywhere you bare skin is exposed, he makes a move to have it, you, in his hands.
you wonder to yourself, if he thinks just by touch alone, you'll become with child and give him what he yearns for.
《《 reblogs and comments are appreciated, support your writers!! 》》
It was quiet in the Kent house this morning, too quiet.
The only sounds came from the kitchen, the sound of your voice reaching Clark’s ears as he rubbed his eyes, the smell of pancakes, eggs and bacon crowding his senses as the sunlight shone in through the sheer white curtains.
It was an unusual feeling waking up without his wife clinging to his side, and Krypto curled up on his chest like he was the world’s largest heating pad - to be fair, he kinda was. His blue eyes felt heavy with exhaustion, the kind that came from barely sleeping and using all of his barely there energy to stop criminals every day.
“I won’t let innocent people get hurt just because I’m tired.”
He said on a quiet night months ago, a night when raindrops hit the roof and the wind blew violently outside. A night when it was just you and him, curled up beneath the sheets with some sappy movie on the tv that always made Clark shed a tear. He was Kryptonian, an alien, a man who held more power than anyone, but he still got tired; he still felt a dull, nagging ache in his bones after saving innocent citizens all week.
He never stopped being Superman.
Not even at home.
Not when he could feel the weight of the world on his shoulders.
The bed creaked as he got up from it, sheets tousled and half on the floor. He grabbed one of his white t-shirts off the dresser, slipping it over his head as he made his way down the hall and into the kitchen. The sound of his wife’s voice filling his ears like the most beautiful music he had ever heard.
“Hey,” Clark murmured softly as she came into view, Krypto quickly running up to him, one of his furry white ears sticking straight up as he happily barked at Clark. The Kryptonian leaned down to pet the super dog, ruffling the white fur on the top of his head before he straightened and closed the distance between you and him.
His arms wrapping around your waist from behind, his face finding the crook of your neck with a gentle nuzzle as he placed a kiss along the smooth skin there.
“It smells delicious,” He uttered, his lashes brushing against your skin as he moved his head so he could rest it against your shoulder - his hands giving your hips a gentle squeeze. “It’s a special ingredient,” You say, lips curving up into a little smile since the ‘Special Ingredient’ is very clearly just a new seasoning that was bought at the local supermarket last week.
“Oh really?”
Clark asks with a raised brow, pressing a kiss to your cheek.
“And, what would that special ingredient be?” He questioned playfully, acting like he couldn’t smell it mixed into the eggs — ugh, it was unfair! He figured everything out with his enhanced sense of smell, there was no seasoning that could get by him.
“I can’t tell you. Great chefs never share their secrets,” you murmured with playful grin as you patted his hand that rests against the soft expanse of your hip. “Ohhh, I see,” Clark says, huffing a soft laugh as he gently guides you to turn around - sliding his hands up the curve of your waist.
This is what kept him going during every fight, every ache and quickly vanishing injury was worth it because he got to come back home to this. To you.
He wouldn’t trade these small moments for anything.
“I love you.”
Clark utters against your lips before he presses a soft kiss there, eyes shutting for a moment as he presses his forehead to yours. The world seemed quiet for a moment, no one calling for help, no screams for Superman, no villains tearing apart cities. Just you, him, and Krypto nudging Clark’s leg impatiently because he wanted to play.
summary: After a long day on the farm, you meet Clark in the warm glow of your kitchen, dust on his boots, hunger in his eyes. What starts as a simple brush of hands and a stolen kiss turns hotter fast, ending with you on the counter, flour on the floor, and your husband making it very clear just how much he wants you.
pairing: cowboy!clark x reader
tags/cw: cowboy clark kent, husband clark, kitchen/counter sex, fingering, clark is kinda rough, pet names, size kink if you squint, dirty talk, creampie, manhandling, aftercare, domestic fluff, clark has a country accent ofc
1.9k wc
more cowboy clark fics here
The skillet crackled softly on the stove as you stirred dinner, the smell of garlic and butter filling the kitchen. The windows were open, letting in the warm evening breeze that carried the scent of hay and sun-warmed wood from the barn. It was peaceful, quiet, the kind of quiet you only ever got living in a small country town.
Your husband worked late that day, a lateness that always made you a little restless. You kept glancing toward the door without meaning to, expecting to see that broad frame, that dusty hat, those soft eyes searching for you before anything else in the room.
You didn’t even hear him walk in. One moment you were stirring the pan; the next, you felt his presence press into your back, a solid wall of heat, sweat, and sun. His hat hit the hook by the door with a soft thump. Then his hands found your hips. Warm, callused palms sliding over your waist like he’d been starving for the feel of you.
“Mm,” he hummed against the back of your neck, breath warm, voice rough from hours of work. “Something smells real good in here.”
You smiled, still facing the stove. “Dinner. You’re late.”
“I know,” he murmured, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Missed you.”
His hands moved slowly, thumbs brushing the curve of your hips, drifting inward, teasing. Your breath hitched when he pressed closer, his chest flush against your back, his body unmistakably hard behind you. “Clark,” you warned, even though your voice wasn’t steady enough to sound threatening.
“Yeah?” he asked, all innocent Kansas drawl, though his fingers were anything but innocent, sliding down to where your thighs brushed together.
“I’m cooking.”
“I can see that,” he whispered, nuzzling into your neck. “Doesn’t mean I can’t touch m’wife.”
His hands slipped around the front of your waist… then lower. Slowly, deliberately, Clark lifted the hem of your dress, pushing the soft fabric up inch by inch until the cool air hit the backs of your thighs. You gasped when his fingers brushed against you.
“You wearin’ these just for me?” he asked, voice dropping to a sinful rumble as his fingers grazed the edge of your panties.
“Clark—”
“Answer me, sweetheart.”
“Yes,” you whispered, barely getting the word out. His breath hitched, a low groan vibrating against your shoulder.
Your hand fumbled on the spoon, the heat from the stove warming your face while the heat from Clark seared everywhere else. He slid one hand up your stomach, holding you gently but firmly, while his other hand pushed between your thighs, fingertips pressing the damp cotton.
“Mmm,” he murmured as if he’d just discovered something decadent. “Already wet?”
You shuddered. “You— you’re the one starting this while I’m trying to cook.”
He chuckled, soft and dark, kissing down the side of your neck. “Honey, all you did was stand here breathin’ lookin’ like that. How can I resist?”
He hooked one finger under the band of your panties and pulled them to the side. The air hit you, cool and shocking. You gripped the edge of the stove to stay upright. “Clark, the food…”
“Let it simmer.” His voice was a low promise against your skin. “Gonna take real good care of you, sugar.”
Then he slid two fingers through your slick, caressing your clit softly, slowly, and deep, just enough pressure to make your breath stutter. You whimpered, head falling back onto his shoulder. “That’s it,” he whispered, kissing your jaw. “Lean on me.”
His fingers pushed inside you in a slow, torturous rhythm, curling just right, dragging along the spot that made your thighs tremble and your knees weaken. The hand on your belly kept you steady, holding you flush against him. “Clark… oh my god—”
“Shh,” he soothed, kissing the soft spot under your ear. “Let me make you feel good.” You could barely keep your eyes open. The stove hissed softly beside you, but the world had narrowed to Clark’s body against yours, the wet sound of his fingers working you open, the slow grind of his hips against your ass.
“You’re squeezin’ me so tight,” he whispered hungrily. “Think you’re gonna come for me like this, hmm? In our kitchen?” You nodded helplessly.
“Good,” he breathed, curling his fingers deeper. “Let go for me, darlin’. Right here.”
Your orgasm hit hard, your hips jerking, your thighs shaking, breath breaking apart in soft cries that Clark swallowed with kisses against your shoulder. He held you through it, fingers working you gently until you whined from overstimulation.
He slowly eased his hand away, slipping your panties back into place. You sagged against him, boneless, warm, humming with aftershocks. Clark kissed your cheek, your jaw, your temple, sweet now, slow, loving. Then he turned you gently in his arms.
“Dinner can wait,” he murmured, brushing a thumb along your kiss-swollen bottom lip. “’Cause I’m not finished with you yet.”
Before you could answer, Clark lifted you effortlessly onto the counter, stepping between your thighs with that look in his eyes, the hungry one that meant you weren’t leaving this kitchen until he’d had you properly. “Round two,” he whispered against your mouth. “Right here.”
Dinner sat forgotten on the stove, the quiet hiss of simmering butter swallowed by the sound of your own breathing. Clark cupped your jaw and kissed you slowly at first, making every muscle in your body unclench. Then he deepened it.
His tongue brushed yours, warm and hungry, one hand sliding down to your waist while the other braced the counter beside your hip. You whimpered when his thumb traced the inside of your thigh, brushing just shy of where you needed him again. “Clark,” you breathed, holding fistfuls of his shirt, “come here.”
He didn’t have to be told twice. He stepped between your legs completely, palms spreading along your thighs and pushing them open until the cool air of the kitchen hit the heat of your skin. Then he pulled you to the very edge of the counter with a single, slow drag that made your breath catch.
“My wife sittin’ up here lookin’ like this?” he murmured, lips brushing yours. “Drives me insane.” His hands slid under your dress again, not teasing this time, not slow. He pushed it up around your hips, bunching the fabric until it stayed, leaving you warm and exposed on the cool counter.
You swallowed, chest rising in small, shaky breaths. “You’re still covered in hay,” you whispered, voice shaking.
“Good,” he said, kissing your neck, “then you know exactly where I came runnin’ from.” His hands gripped your thighs, thumbs stroking the sensitive crease where skin met hip, and you felt him, thick, hard as ever, straining against his jeans.
“Tell me you want this,” he whispered, voice thick.
“I want you,” you breathed. “Always.”
Clark groaned, a low, broken sound that vibrated against your throat, and kissed you again, devouring this time, full body pressed against yours. His hips rolled into you, slow, heavy, enough to make you gasp.
One big hand slid between your thighs, finding you already warm and sensitive from the first orgasm. He stroked you with soft, deliberate circles that made your head tip back and your fingers tighten in his shirt. “That’s it,” he murmured, watching your face like it was the only light he needed. “Let me get you ready again.”
Your thighs shook as his fingers slid inside you, warm and confident, curling exactly right. He kissed the corner of your mouth, your cheek, your jaw, each kiss softer than the last as his hand worked you open. You moaned his name, hips chasing every slow thrust of his fingers.
“Sweetheart,” he rasped, “I need you so bad it hurts.”
You grabbed his belt, tugging. “Then take me. Please.” Clark’s control snapped with a quiet, helpless groan.
His fingers slipped out, leaving you aching and wanting. He freed himself just enough, jeans open, breath shaking against your throat, and lifted your hips in his big hands, guiding you down onto him with one smooth, deep thrust that stole every bit of air from your lungs.
You cried out, nails digging into his shoulders. Clark pressed his forehead to yours, jaw clenched tight as he let the feeling hit him. “Oh, honey… you feel like heaven.” He anchored your hips and pulled you closer, sliding deeper with every slow, heavy grind. His breath stuttered against your mouth, his voice rough and reverent.
“Hold on to me,” he whispered. You did, arms wrapped around his neck, chest pressed to his, thighs trembling as he moved inside you. The counter creaked under you with every thrust. Clark’s mouth was everywhere, kissing your cheek, your throat, the soft hollow beneath your ear.
“Talk to me,” he pleaded softly, hips rolling deeper. “Tell me you’re mine.”
“I’m yours,” you gasped, tightening around him. “God, Clark, I’m yours.”
He groaned again, shuddering, grip tightening on your hips as he thrust deeper, harder, each movement controlled but hungry. You could feel it building, the pressure curling low and tight, the heat pooling fast. “Clark— I’m close- ”
His thumb brushed your clit in slow circles that unraveled you instantly. “Come for me,” he breathed, voice cracking. “Come on, sweetheart, make a mess of me.” Your climax hit sharp and overwhelming, your whole body shaking as pleasure surged through you. Clark held you steady, murmuring soft praises against your cheek as you clenched around him.
He followed moments later, letting out a low, helpless groan as he pulled you tight to him and spilled deep inside you, hips trembling through the final push. He held you there, the world quiet around you, his chest rising and falling against yours. Then, slowly, he pulled out and kissed your forehead.
“Stay right here,” he whispered, breath warm. “I got you.”
Clark lifted you off the counter, carrying you bridal-style through the house, because you'll always be his princess. He pressed a kiss to your temple as he walked. “Gonna take care of you now,” he murmured. “You just relax.”
He ran the bath warm, then he came back to you, and helped you undress, slow, careful, kissing you between every motion. Then he guided you in, your body calming in the warm water. He sat on the edge of the tub watching you as if you were an angel.
You melted instantly. His voice was soft against the shell of your ear. “There we go. Just breathe.” He washed you with a warm cloth, dragging it over your arms, shoulders, and the stiff muscles in your thighs. Every stroke was slow, attentive, almost worshipful.
You leaned on the rim of the tub, looking up at him, eyelids heavy. “You okay, sweetheart?” he murmured, lips grazing your shoulder.
“Mhm,” you whispered. “You always take good care of me.”
His arms wrapped tighter around you, chin resting on your shoulder. “I like takin’ care of you.”
He washed you until the water cooled, then lifted you out, wrapped you in a soft towel, and carried you back to the bedroom. He helped you into one of his warm, worn, and perfect overfitted shirts before tucking you under the blankets. Then he climbed in beside you, pulling you to his chest, hand sliding slowly up and down your spine. “Still with me?” he whispered.
“Always.”
He kissed your hairline, soft and warm. “Good. ‘Cause I love you more than any man’s got words for.” You fell asleep on his chest, feeling safe, held, and adored.
summary: The county fair is all fun and cotton candy, until a few men mistake your wedding ring for decoration. Lucky for you, your cowboy husband doesn’t take kindly to competition, and he’s more than willing to remind you just how loved you are.
pairing: cowboy!clark x reader
tags: 18+, cowboy clark, wife reader, porn with plot (explicit, fingering, penetration, public-ish setting, sexual activity in a vehicle), jealousy and possessiveness, jealous clark, harassment / unwanted flirting from strangers, lots of aftercare (bathing, cleaning), gentle clark (of course)
w.c.: 2k (this is kinda long ik lol)
more cowboy!clark fics here
The county fair had always been your thing. Neon lights, the dust kicked up by passing boots, the faint hum of generators powering rides that probably should’ve been inspected twice. But this year felt sweeter, maybe because Clark’s hand was warm in yours, his thumb brushing over your wedding ring every few steps like he couldn’t help reminding himself it was there.
Your cowboy was a sight: worn denim hugging his hips, sun-bleached flannel rolled to his elbows, hat tilted just right to shade those baby-blue eyes. And every time he smiled at you, that soft, lopsided grin he only ever gave his wife, your chest fluttered like a loose Ferris wheel bolt.
The sun dipped lower, bleeding gold into the fairgrounds as the temperature slipped with it. A cool breeze rolled across the open field, brushing goosebumps up your arms. Clark noticed instantly, of course, he did. He always noticed you first. “You cold, sweetheart?” he asked softly, thumb pausing where it circled your ring.
“A little,” you admitted.
Without missing a beat, he squeezed your hand. “Stay right here. I’ll run to the truck and grab my jacket for ya.”
You nodded, watching the confident, easy stroll of his retreating back: broad shoulders, steady gait, that little hitch of his thumbs hooking into his belt as he walked. He looked unfairly good from every angle.
While you waited, you wandered toward the cotton candy stand, breathing in the sugary air. Pink spun sugar glowed under the warm bulbs like it existed just to be eaten under fair lights. You were debating between pink and blue when a voice cut in behind you. “Well, hey there, darlin’. You here all by yourself?”
You turned to find two men, locals, probably, mid-twenties, leaning in a little too close. The first one gave you a grin that tried a little too hard, and the second let his eyes travel lower than they should have. Your wedding ring glinted under the lights, but neither bothered to look.
“No,” you said politely, stepping back. “My husband’s—”
“Ah, c’mon,” the first guy drawled, “no harm in talkin’ a bit. Pretty girl like you shouldn’t be waitin’ alone in the cold.”
You barely had time to exhale before a familiar warmth slid in behind you. Clark.
His presence folded around you like a shield, quiet, tall, immovable. He stepped just slightly in front of you, not shoving, not rude, just… blocking their view. His jaw clenched tight beneath light stubble, and his hand found the small of your back with a quiet, unmistakable claim.
“Evenin’,” Clark said, voice low and calm but carrying that unmistakable edge that meant he was seconds from breaking a fence post in half.
The men stiffened. “We were just talkin’ to her,” one muttered.
Clark’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “She wasn’t lookin’ for company.”
You felt him tuck you closer, fingers pressing between your shoulder blades. You swore you felt his breath warm against your temple as he added, softer, only for you: “Got worried when I didn’t see ya.”
That alone almost made your knees buckle.
The guys mumbled something and drifted off when they realized they were outmatched, not just physically, but in the way Clark’s entire soul tilted toward you. When they were out of sight, Clark draped his jacket over your shoulders, pulling it snug around you like he was wrapping you in part of himself. It was warm, smelled like cedar and sun-worn cotton, and the second you slipped your arms into the sleeves, Clark kissed your temple.
“You okay?” he murmured.
“Yes,” you whispered. “Are you?”
He huffed a small laugh. “Tryin’ real hard not to throw ’em into the corn maze.”
You rose onto your toes and kissed the edge of his jaw. “My big, jealous cowboy.” He tugs you close until your chest presses against his. “Always.”
He bought you cotton candy, pink, and fed you pieces off his fingers, each one stolen with a teasing brush of his lips, a little smile tugging at the corners of his mouth every time you giggled. His arm stayed around your waist the rest of the night, hand slipping into his jacket pocket with yours inside it, keeping you warm.
By the time you made it back to the truck, the fair glowing behind you like a cluster of dying embers, Clark opened your door, helped you inside, and leaned in close, close enough that his hat brim brushed your forehead. “You know,” he murmured, voice dropping to a low rasp, “watchin’ other men look at you like that… might’ve made me a little crazy.”
Your breath hitched. “Yeah?”
“Mhm.” His lips grazed your cheek, slow and hungry. “Gonna have to work it off, sweetheart.”
He shut your door, circled around, and climbed in. The second his door clicked shut, he reached over, tugged you into a bruising kiss, then pulled back just far enough to growl, “Seatbelt, darlin’. Then hike that pretty dress up for me.”
You obeyed, trembling, bunching the fabric to your hips and spreading your thighs. Clark started the truck one-handed; the other slid straight between your legs, pushing your soaked panties aside and sinking two thick fingers deep inside you without warning. The engine rumbled to life the same second you cried out his name.
He kept his eyes on the dark country road, jaw tight, but his fingers moved slowly and relentless, curling just right, thumb circling your clit in steady, maddening strokes. Every bump in the gravel sent those fingers deeper; every curve in the road made his palm grind against you.
“Clark—” you whimpered, head falling back against the seat, hips chasing his hand.
“Shh, baby,” he rasped, voice rough with restraint. “Twenty minutes home. You’re gonna come on my fingers every single mile, Understand?”
You could only nod, breathless, as he added a third finger and fucked you slow and deep the entire drive, drawing three shaking, sobbing orgasms out of you before the porch light of your farmhouse finally came into view. The second he rolled to a stop in the driveway, engine still ticking, he killed the lights, yanked the seat lever, and reclined all the way back. “Come here, Mrs. Kent.”
You scrambled over the console, straddling him in one frantic move. He shoved his jeans down just enough, lined himself up, and pulled you down onto his dick in one smooth, possessive thrust. You both groaned, loud and broken, at how perfectly he filled you.
The windows were already fogged from your earlier panting. Moonlight spilled through the windshield, painting silver across his cheekbones as he gripped your hips and guided you to ride him exactly how he liked, slow, deep rolls that dragged every inch of him against your walls.
“Love you,” he whispered against your lips, reverent, desperate. “I love you so damn much it hurts.”
You kissed him through the words, moving faster, chasing that edge together. His hands slid up under your dress, palms spread wide over your back like he needed to feel every inch of skin he could reach.
When you came, it was with his name on your tongue and tears in your eyes; when he followed, he buried his face in your neck and pulsed deep inside you, holding you so tight you could feel his heartbeat against your own.
After, he didn’t let you go far, just tucked you against his chest, fingers stroking lazily against your back while the crickets sang outside.
“Think the neighbors heard?” you mumbled, sleepy and sated.
Clark chuckled, low and warm, pressing a kiss to your temple. “If they did, good. Let the whole county know my wife’s cherished.”
He carried you inside a few minutes later, still unwilling to separate even for the length of the porch steps, because some nights, Clark Kent simply couldn’t stand an inch of space between him and the woman he’d sworn his forever to.
Inside, the house was dim and quiet, lit only by the soft glow of the kitchen night-light and the moon through the windows. Clark nudged the door shut with his boot, still holding you close, his hands warm beneath your thighs. You could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest, the way he was still breathing a little harder than usual, that post-pleasure looseness in every slow step he took.
He carried you straight to the bedroom, brushing a kiss to your hairline. “Just sit tight, sweetheart,” he murmured. “Gonna get you cleaned up.”
He set you gently on the edge of the bed, hands sliding down your hips like he was afraid you might disappear if he didn’t keep touching you. Your dress was wrinkled, straps fallen, hair mussed beyond repair, but he looked at you like you were the prettiest thing the fair had offered all night.
The bath faucet turned on with a low, steady rush. Steam filled the room, the scent of the lavender bath soak you loved curling up in warm tendrils. Clark tested the temperature with his wrist, because of course he did, then added more hot water until it was perfect.
He slipped off your shoes for you, placing them neatly by the dresser, because even after fucking you senseless in the truck, Clark Kent was still Clark Kent. He eased your dress off next, careful not to snag the zipper.
Clark kissed your forehead, then your nose, then the corner of your mouth, slow, lingering, sweet. “There she is,” he murmured. “My girl.”
When the tub was full, he returned to you, lifting you with easy, careful hands. He stepped in first, settling into the warm water, then pulled you in with him, guiding your back against his chest like he wanted you as close as physically possible. His thighs bracketed yours, his arms slipping around your waist under the water.
You felt him exhale against your shoulder, breath warm on your damp skin. “There we go,” he whispered, kissing right where your neck met your collarbone. “Just relax for me.”
The water soothed your trembling muscles instantly. Clark reached for a soft cloth, soaked it, and dragged it gently over your thigh, up your hip, along your stomach. Slow, tender strokes. No rush. No pressure. Just the kind of care that made your eyes sting.
“You hurtin’ anywhere?” he asked softly, that same gentle drawl he only used after nights like this.
You shook your head. “Just… floaty.”
His arms tightened around you. “Good. Means I did somethin’ right.”
He washed you with reverence, wiping along your arms, your shoulders, your neck. Every so often, he pressed a little kiss to your temple or cheek, as if he couldn’t help himself.
“You did so good tonight,” he murmured against your jaw, voice low and soothing. “So damn good for me.”
Eventually, he stood and helped you out, wrapping you immediately in a fluffy towel, then carrying you to the bedroom with your legs dangling and your face tucked into his throat. He set you on the edge of the bed and helped you into one of his soft, worn T-shirts. It hung halfway down your thighs, smelling like laundry soap, hay, and him, then tucked you in.
He slipped under the blankets with you, pulling you into his chest. Your head rested over his heartbeat, his hand stroking slow, lazy lines down your back. “Still mad about those guys?” you asked, voice thick with sleep.
“No,” he murmured into your hair. “Not mad. Just… reminded I’m real lucky.” His thumb rubbed small circles over your spine. “Lucky you chose me. Lucky I get to bring you home. Lucky I get to hold you after.”
Your throat tightened. “Clark…”
“Hm?”
“I love you.”
His whole body seemed to melt around you. “I love you more,” he whispered. “More’n any cowboy’s got words for.”
He kissed the top of your head, tucked the blankets around you both, and held you close, so close you felt his warmth seep into your bones. Outside, the fair sounds faded into the distance. Inside, the only thing that existed was Clark’s arms around you, the hush of his breath, and the steady rhythm of two heartbeats pressed together.
You’ll be in the kitchen, half-awake, hair a mess, wearing one of his shirts and nothing else, reaching for your coffee. He comes up behind you, arms slipping around your waist, chin resting on your shoulder. You feel the soft press of his lips against your knuckle before you even realize what he’s doing.
Your wedding ring. Always the ring.
When you tease him about it later, he just smiles, a sweet smile from his childhood never quite went away. “It’s important,” he says, like it’s the most factual thing in the world. “It reminds me.”
"Of what?" you ask.
He answers by taking your hand again, turning it palm-up, brushing his thumb over the band before kissing it slow and careful. "Of a promise renewed each time. It's a thank you. I'm still a little in awe that you chose me and keep choosing me every day."
Sometimes it’s quick, a passing peck as he walks by. Sometimes it’s lingering, his lips warm against the cool metal when the day’s been hard and he needs grounding. Once, you catch him doing it in his sleep, half-dreaming, your hand tucked against his chest. You curl closer, smiling into the pillow.
Because you know. No matter how big the world gets, no matter how loud it is out there, Clark will always come back to this. To you. To that small, shining circle that says home.
