pairing David!Clark x girlfriend!reader
summary Clark's from out of this world. Not in the abstract, romantic, larger-than-life way the rest of the world said about Superman. No, your boyfriend was factually an alien. Kryptonian. What you do not know, and unfortunately cannot stop thinking about, is how far that whole thing went.
tags 18+, mdni, smutty ramblings (hot-n-heavy make out, thinking about alien dick, handjob, Clark cums on you, brief cum tasting), unedited, little dialogue, wrote in two passes just to put something out there
wc 2k
Main Masterlist | Mrs. Kent Diaries
You knew everything about Clark before the dates, the kisses, the escalating intimacy.
The truth about who he was, where he came from, what he could do, what he believed he owed the world. And, said in that soft earnestness that always made your chest ache, what you meant to him.
Clark told you everything that mattered. Showed you, too. Well... almost everything.
Sure, Clark looked like an average human man. More than average, honestly. Smiled like one, laughed like one, talked like one, walked like one, blushed like one, held you like one. Still, your mind kept snagging on the same question:
Did what he fuck with looked human, too?
That was the mystery, and historically, your imagination always gone rabid the second it slipped off its leash.
What if his cock had bumps and deep grooves like a pine cone in late summer? Had tiered barbed hooks from base to tip? What if it curved as dramatically as a Harpy Eagle talon? Extended like a telescopic stick? Glowed the more he got aroused? Vibrated?...Pincers? You wouldn't have been mad about the vibrating, but what if this, and what if that, and-and-and-
It was one crude scenario after another, each worse than the last.
To be clear, different would not have been a bad thing. Far from a red flag.
If anything, curiosity was the root of the problem. Not fear. You loved Clark. You wanted Clark. If there was something a little ...unfamiliar...in the mix, that hardly felt like a reason to run.
Still, in theory, you could ask.
Hold Clark's hands, stare up into those striking baby blues, and bluntly put it out there: "Baby, what does your dick look like? Standard issue? Extraterrestrial surprise? You know I like to be prepared for surprises..."
Hm. Clark would probably blink at you with that open, guileless expression first. Then maybe laugh under his breath. Then maybe, because he was your Clark, answer with total sincerity. Reassure you. Drop trow?
That... somehow felt worse. More mortifying. You’d rather have lightning strike you on the spot than tempt that conversation.
So instead, you did what any normal, well-adjusted girlfriend would do when plagued by intrusive curiosity about her boyfriend’s possible alien anatomy: you spiraled quietly about it on your own.
Which was how you ended up mentally inventorying things. The cut of his suits. The weight of his body when he hugged you, leaned over you, sat next to you. The shape of him in motion. Over and over again.
And yes, fine, even saving a few blurry Superman bulge photos from social-media user @/supes-packing-meat, who had far too much free time and far too little shame! Tsk, tsk!
In all seriousness, things only got worse once your curiosity gained poor company. Half nonsense, half thirst, all conjecture. No answers. No clarity. Just enough to leave your skin hot, your vibrator undercharged, and your imagination even less manageable than before.
And that part really did make you feel bad. This was Clark, who trusted you with the biggest truths of his life. Clark, who kissed you breathless, like the world had dropped away beneath both your feet. Clark, who looked at you with that soft, tender devotion you had never seen before. It felt juvenile to lose your mind over this unknown when he had already given you so much of himself.
But curiosity, unfortunately, would never let you go once it sank its claws in.
So. Fine. Enough.
You had to put an end to it. Quietly. Organically. For the good of your dignity, your sanity, and maybe the general stability of your nervous system.
Which was, perhaps, how you got yourself into this particular position...
You were pinned beneath Clark on his leather couch, the cushions dipping deeper every time either of you shifted. The leather had gone warm beneath your back from the heat of your body and his.
Clark’s mouth moved from yours to your jaw, then lower, following the line of your throat with this unfamiliar hunger that made your pulse skip. His glasses were gone, his curls a little mussed already, and when he shifted between your legs to tug your shirt up and your bra down, the brush of his knuckles over your ribs made you twitch.
His attention went straight to your breasts. A hot, wet seal around your pert nipple, the gentle suck next, the teasing flick of his tongue last. You gasped and squirmed, arching into him, one hand catching in the soft hair at the nape of his neck.
"Yeah?" he hummed against the swell of your breast, the vibrations shooting straight to your cunt. "Liked that?"
You only managed a meek, shaky "Y-yeah,", your grip tightening in his hair. Clark gave your nipple one more slow, gentle swirl that sent another shiver straight through you. God, he was good at this.
Your legs were tangled, one thrown half over the couch cushion, the other caught between his, and his obvious arousal pressed heavily against the sensitive flesh of your inner thigh. You shifted under him, pressing your hips up into his. He groaned, and his own hips rocked back, grinding against you. The friction was delicious, but you needed more.
More of him. More to love. More to feel. To know—
The opportunity to put these silly thoughts to bed was Right. There. Touch him. Feel him. Do it! Your mind screamed.
As one hand stayed tangled in his hair, the other took the metaphorical and literal plunge, grasping the waistband of sweatpants. Startled, Clark lifted his head from the valley of your breasts, cheeks flushed, and lips parted and damp, his breath still warm on your skin. There was a faint crease between his brows.
"Hon, what are you—?" he began, breathless and puzzled, but his words stalled the second you tugged the fabric again, rougher this time.
Clark sucked in a sharp breath the same moment his cock finally sprang free. Just like that, it was real and solid and alive within your grasp. Your mind, which had been so loud for days, so full of impossible scenarios and increasingly absurd speculation, went suddenly, wonderfully blank. A blank canvas.
You kept your eyes on his face at first. On the stunned pleasure in those wide blue eyes as your hand wandered, on the way his kiss-swollen mouth fell open a little as if he had not expected this from you and did not quite know what to do with the fact that he liked it.
"Oh," he said softly. "Oh, you’re—you sure you want to—"
Before Mr. Sweet and Earnest could finish what was bound to be something sweet and earnest and derail your nerves, you tugged him into a mind-numbing, sloppy kiss.
He made a muffled 'hmm?' against your mouth—surprised, then quickly, helplessly into it. One of his hands came up to cradle the side of your head, thumb pressing just behind your earlobe as he deepened the kiss.
It was enough to keep him quiet. Enough to start your blind investigation.
First impression: your breath caught when your hand, so bold two seconds ago, felt so embarrassingly small and failed to completely wrap around the unmistakably thick, heavy, stiff column.
Clark felt your hesitation, or your wonder, because when you pulled back just enough for air, he glanced down at you with both compassion and concern.
"You okay?" he rasped, searching your eyes. "You can— gosh, you can do whatever you want—" He swallowed hard. "At your own pace. Just tell me what to do."
The sweetness of that assurance nearly undid you.
“I’m fine,” you supplied your answer with a nod, though it all came out a little winded. "Just... curious."
That pulled a brief warm laugh out of him.
"Curious, huh," he repeated, cheeks dimpling. His eyes fluttered for a second when your hand shifted again. His forehead dropped to yours, and you tipped your head once more to kiss him.
Regaining composure, you explored slowly, stroking towards the tip at a pace that let your touch do what your imagination failed to. Mapping, learning, replacing nonsense with certainty. Clark's breathing changed between kisses, turning deeper, rougher, warm bursts of it feathering over your lips every time your hand moved.
No obvious ridges, nothing pine-cone-like, nothing telescopic...just warm, velvety skin.
Sliding...still sliding...still..Fuuuck!
You whimpered when you realized your sweet Clark's both massive and long. There was a slight upward arch, a curve to the right your hand naturally followed. Thank goodness nothing dramatic like a bird's hooked nails, but God help your soul and your hole.
Reaching the head was a surprise. No pincers... unfortunately, nothing vibrating. It felt proportional, a smooth, broad, rounded dome. Your undeniably slick cunt clenched when Clark involuntarily jerked into your fist while your thumb smeared what you assumed was pre-cum experimentally along the slit and over the rest of the crown.
"G-gosh," he gritted out, breaking mid-kiss with a shuddering breath against your mouth. He pressed his face against your cheek, the side of your neck, then into your shoulder as if he needed somewhere to put all these unfamiliar, but not unwelcomed, feelings.
Confident and fearless, you kept going despite the ache in your wrist. Tip to base, base to tip. Again and again. Faster and braver with each stroke, you found a rhythm. Lost in your curiosity's mesmerizing hold, you failed to realise Clark was losing himself, too.
He perspired at his temple, dampening his raven curls. Brows drew together in concentration. Nostrils flared. Lips parted to give way to labored pants against your collarbone. Back muscles corded tight. Tighs trembled above yours. The palm cradling the side of your head flexed for just a second before settling again. The hand at your hip gripped firm enough to anchor, as if there was a possibility of floating away.
Clark was so completely lost in the sensation you were giving him that he seemed to lose language piece by piece until all that remained was breath and instinct and praise half-formed somewhere in it.
"Hon—"
A groan.
"Gosh, that feels good."
A moan, louder this time.
"Just like that—b-beautiful—you're amaz—"
His voice gave out just as your slick hand grasped his balls on this next stroke. Soft, heavy, proportional, nothing...alarming. Before he could recover, Clark made a sound that was almost a whine, and immediately retreated into the crook of your neck.
Grinning, you kept worshipping him with your touch, lingering on every inch, every vein, every pulse of that magnificent cock. The wet squelches of your hand pistoning over his shaft grew louder as your pace turned frantic.
When you squeeze him a tad harder, a rushed, "H-hon, hold on! I’m… I’m close…gonna..." tumbled out of Clark's lips.
Merciless, you only spurned him on, "Cum f'me baby, been curious 'bout that, too," and didn’t let up. You wanted to see this till the end. You wanted to know.
His hips bucked, a wild, uncontrolled thrust. His cock twitched in your hand, a sharp, violent pulse. He stifled his groans by quickly claiming you in an open-mouthed kiss once more, a helpless surrender, just as it happened.
Hot and sudden, you felt thick ropes of cum shoot out, painting stripes across your exposed stomach. Some landing on your breasts, shockingly abundant. Each jet of heat painted your exposed skin, each accompanied by a choked moan, whimper, and groan.
The last of Clark's release seeped from his slit, dripping over the fingers still wrapped around his shaft and just below your navel. Your hand loosened its grip and reluctantly slid away.
Eventually, Clark collapsed against your side, heavy and warm like a pillow you'd hugged all night. His breathing was ragged.
"Holy…" he mumbled at last, trailing off.
"Shit," you finished, laughed softly. "Was it bad?"
Clark made a weak, scandalized sound, then lifted his face just enough to look at you with flushed cheeks and dazed blue eyes.
"That's hilarious, sweetheart," he gave you a pointed look, as if the answer should have been obvious. "You know it was incredible," before settling back down with a dopey sigh.
"I'll...gimme a sec," Clark muttered, eyes fluttering shut. "I'll get you cleaned up, sweetheart. Just...one sec."
You smiled, pressing a freather-light kiss along his damp forehead, and left it at that. Well, that should have been the end of it. Question answered. Curiosity settled.
Finally, you looked down. Your stomach, breasts, and hand were completely coated in streaks of Clark's sticky clear-white cum, quickly cooling on your skin. Tentatively, you brought your hand up to your face. Wiggling your fingers, strands of cum glistened like liquid satin between your digits.
Oh. There it was again—that dangerous spark in your mind, that same restless itch that had started this whole mess in the first place. Like a Hydra, one slain question only gave way to the formation of the next.
Pulse picking up all over again as a new curiosity took root, quieter than the last but no less insistent:
What did Clark's cum taste like?
Your heart hammered as you brought your fingers closer to your lips, hesitating for just a moment before your lips parted. Your tongue darted out, brushing against the tip of your cum soaked finger.
Salty...a little sweet... underlying metallic, but not unpleasant. You wouldn't mind swallowing it whole next time.
You took another cautious lick, intrigued by the complexity of it, right when Clark shifted. Glancing down, his cock settled into view, still a massive, hard weight against your groin. It looked impressively full, despite his climax. You swallowed hard at the fleeting thought of—
Fuck.
Maybe Clark was not nearly as finished as he ought to have been. He hadn't said much, and at this rate, the evidence of his persistent arousal was impossible to ignore.
Good God. Staring blankly at the ceiling, you had the sudden, dizzying epiphany that you’d been asking the wrong question all along. Bigger questions began to take shape, thrilling and faintly horrifying in its implications.
This was Clark after one orgasm. What about two? Three? ...Four? How did Kryptonian stamina differ? Would you be able to take it? His cock felt human, but did he fuck like one too? There was only one way to find out.
And just like that, the cycle of curiosity began again.
Refused to let you go.
"Hey, Clark? Babe? Instead of cleaning up, did you wanna try something? I'm curious."
.
Thank you for reading! Likes, comments, and reblogs are forever appreciated. Keeps me motivated!
hiiii jae thank u for this... kicking this off with frat!scott is truly what i needed 🤭
You walk him to the kitchen, eyes locked on his while you tip the contents of the solo cup down the sink.
"Some of us are good people you know," he says as he watches you make your own drink, the flex of his biceps almost distracting when he crosses his arms.
"I have yet to hear a single good thing about you and your brothers. You'll forgive me for not taking my chances."
"What have you heard about me?" he asks, brows furrowed as he follows you back into the crush of bodies in the hallway, hand reflexively landing on your waist then retracting when you glare at him.
"Enough to know I need to keep my distance. Thanks for the drink," you say, before you disappear into the sea of people, leaving him equal parts confused and intrigued behind you.
Pairing David!Clark Kent x bsf/roommate!reader
Summary After another terrible date, you come home to the one person who always knows how to make it better—your best friend, your roommate, Clark. One comforting touch turns into a line you can’t uncross, and when your phone won’t stop ringing, Clark decides he's had it. (I'm not done with you)
Tags p0rn with minimal plot, 18+, mdni, smuuuut, p in v (unprotected) makin' out, reader on top, stated multiple rounds, creampies, edging, overstimulation, Is this considered phone sex? Smug!Clark (my favorite Clark if I'm being honest), possessive!Clark, yearning!Clark, you and Clark are messy together 4ever
WC 4k
Sucked at writing this fic when I would've much rather sucked Clark's dick, huzzah, i completed galentine's! Not edited bc my eyes are tired
Galentine's #12 by @/wildflowersandvibranium & @/pinksplace
"Are you okay?"
"Yeah, more than that. That was...wow... I...I don't think once was enough for me...”
"Good, because I'm not done with you."
The thrilling, terrifying promise of 'more' after your orgasm already sank in two hours ago, and Clark had been delivering wholeheartedly.
Just then, your phone vibrated violently on the nightstand, the screen flashing 'MARK', the name of your date from earlier.
Even floating in the hazy aftermath of repeated climaxes, you had enough sense to ignore it. It was the obvious decision — the only decision — given that the slow, deep rhythm of Clark’s cock slowly moving inside you again had your full attention.
The phone cut off, then started buzzing again. And again. And again.
"Geez, he’s—persistent," you managed through a sharp gasp, your fingernails leaving half-moons into the solid, sweat-slicked planes of your best friend’s shoulders.
You were straddling him during this round, your body bowed over his larger frame. Your damp forehead pressed against the junction between his collarbone and neck, dragging slightly with every lift of your hips and subsequent drop back onto him. Each movement sent a shockwave of pure, liquid heat through your already cum-slick core.
One of Clark’s calloused hands gently slid from your waist to the meat of your ass to hold you steady, the other coming up to cradle the back of your head, fingers spreading through your hair, guiding you into an open-mouthed kiss.
"Let—him—be," he murmured between each kiss, more mirth than malice. "You’ve got more important stuff to do."
Between laughter and smacking his shoulder playfully, he rolled his hips up on the last word. The motion met your downward slide, and you both let out a long synchronized moan.
Holy Fuck.
Your mind wanted to float clean out of your skull. It was ridiculous: this man was your best friend. Those years you’d lived together, countless nights brushing your teeth side by side. The man you’d slept across the hall from, shared dumb jokes, laughed, made dinner with, and fought over blanket space with. Years of your life spent making a home without crossing this line. Until tonight.
It hadn’t started like this.
It had started with you slamming the apartment door behind you, kicking your heels off, and venting about your date’s endless monologues—his crypto portfolio, his condescending “corrections,” the way he’d checked his reflection in his spoon more than he’d looked at you, and the final, humilating critique of your career over a wilted salad—your anger finally burned down into a smoldering, frustrated ember.
Clark listened to all of it. Opened his arms and carried you to bed. Lit your favorite candle. Made you tea. Sat beside you in bed, his larger frame a solid presence, and he’d reached over and brushed a tear you hadn’t even realized had fallen from your cheek.
That single, tender touch had blown everything wide open.
Like two galaxies finally giving in to gravity. Like a collision you’d both been drifting toward for years without admitting you were on the same trajectory.
His thumb traced your jaw. You turned your face into his palm. He leaned in as his other hand cradled your head, fingers threading into your hair. And then you were kissing.
It was nothing like the awkward, calculated peck on the cheek Mark had given you on the sidewalk.
It was a revelation.
A stunned, breathless "why haven’t you done this sooner?"
And when Clark filled you so completely. A thick, relentless, good-burning stretch that teetered on the edge of too much and not nearly enough— A Big Bang.
Your phone finally stopped ringing.
For five glorious, seconds, there was only the sound of skin on skin—a wet, rhythmic slap-squelch impossible to soften—the ragged pull of your shared breathing, and the soft press of open-mouthed kisses that kept breaking apart because you couldn’t keep your lips together long enough.
The air in your apartment bedroom was thick with the scent of your favorite candle, sex, sweat, and the warm, musky scent of your own arousal. The sheets were damp beneath you, the headboard faintly tapping with every rock of your body as Clark kept you perched above him.
Then your phone started all over again.
A different ringtone.
A video call.
A choked laugh, more disbelief than humor, escaped you, sounding near hysterical. You pushed up a few inches, your breasts still pressed against Clark’s solid chest, nipples dragged tight and sensitive by the movement.
"Oh, for fuck’s sake!" you growled, voice cracking. "I’m going to block that loser. Clark, Superman, save me! What do I do?! Block him, right?"
You met your best friend’s eyes, looking for some sort of agreement, reassurance, the typical version of him that would’ve laughed it off with you.
His summer sky blues, usually so kind and soft, were dark with a rare, possessive heat that made your heart flutter, rendering you silent.
Mine, that look said. Now and forever.
"Answer it."
"What!? What h-happened to leave him be?!" You shrieked, your internal muscles clamping down around his cock like a reflex.
He groaned, head tipping slightly into your plush pillow, throat flexing as he failed to swallow the sound—too far gone to hide what you’d just done to him.
"Answer it, hon," he repeated, gaze steadier than his breathing, a gentle command wrapped in velvet.
The hand lingering on the back of your head brushed a damp strand of hair from the apple of your cheek. His thumb traced your kiss-swollen lower lip, and you opened for him without thinking, sucking the digit into your mouth and moaning around it.
"Since he's so persistent. Maybe he’s calling to say sorry. If not…well, he’ll hear what a good night really sounds like, right?"
The idea was insane. Unacceptable. A violation.
It should've made you recoil.
Instead, it sent a jolt of pure, electric arousal straight to your already soaked cunt, hot enough to make your thighs tense, your belly flutter, all things you had to unpack later.
"Are you—you're sure?" you whimpered, needy and a little nervous, brows pinched together, teeth gnawing on the pad of this thumb.
"Yeah," Clark assured with a bashful shrug, reading you with an ease that was utterly terrifying and comforting. "C’mon, I can feel how much you want to. Your whole body’s itching for it."
He was so right, and that was the worst and best part—because the dark, thrilling pulse between your legs synced with the heavy throb of him buried inside you, and you swallowed hard as you nodded, quick and jerky.
Clark reached over, his arm stretching past your head without parting from you, without letting you escape the weight of his gaze or the fullness of him. He brought the phone to your sweaty hand, while his other palm left your mouth and initiated a slow, circular massage at your lower back.
"Put it on speaker," he whispered. "Keep it low. I’ll be right here with you."
Your fingers fumbled, leaving tiny sweat-lined prints on your screen. You swiped to answer, hit the speaker icon, then quickly plopped the device down by your calf with the screen pressed against the mattress, the faint glow illuminating the rumpled sheets.
"H-hello?" you greeted. You were proud of how almost-normal you sound. Almost.
"Hey! Finally, you picked up. Thought you’d gone to bed already," Mark’s voice burst into the room, cheerful and oblivious.
Reclaiming your place over Clark’s body, you nosed at his neck before sucking lightly at the skin beneath his galloping pulse—a little bit of distraction, partial affection, more a warning to yourself to stay quiet.
"S-sorry," you mumbled, focusing on keeping your breathing even as Clark’s hand ventured lower to squeeze your ass. "I was… busy."
"Busy decompressing from my dazzling company, right? I do have that effect," Mark chuckled. God, he was so egotistical. "I was just thinking about our dinner. I had a really great time with you."
Clark exhaled loudly and chose that moment to move.
His hips lifted in a slow, deliberate upward thrust. You unlatched yourself from his well-loved flesh, biting down hard on your inner cheek to stifle your moan. It still slipped anyway: a sharp, raw gasp, and the tremor in your fingers where they dug into his shoulders.
"Uh, you good?" you heard hesitation already creeping in. Damn.
"Y-yeah, juuuust peachy!" you chirped, pitched high and strained.
You pressed your face harder into Clark’s neck, as if you could bury the heat there, and reached up to tug lightly on his thick hair in retaliation—petty, desperate, utterly useless. "Just… stubbed my pinky toe. On—on the side—of my bed. Bed—frame!"
"Damn, hate when that happens," he sympathized with a low whistle, chuckling at your imagined pain. Asshole.
"Listen, I know our conversation got a little heavy at the end, with the whole ‘career goals’ thing. I didn’t mean to imply your job was… you know, trivial. I just think a woman like you could apply herself better, ya know?"
You wondered if Clark rolled his eyes just as hard as you did.
“Anyways, I was thinking of giving us another shot," the man continued, drowning in his own confidence. "Maybe drinks next Friday? Somewhere quieter. That might be more your speed, right?"
While he rambled, Clark began to move you this time.
His hands slid back up to your hips, gently lifting you just high enough that only the fat, leaking crown of his cock caught at your swollen entrance, keeping you stretched, wide, aware of him.
The emptiness and relief lasted half a second before he tugged you down again, an inch at a time. It was a slow, enticing, torturous re-sheathing that made your eyes roll back. The wet dragging of his cock between your folds was drowned out by the sheets against the phone receiver, but to you, it was deafening.
It was so obvious!
"I—I—fuck— don’t know, Mmm–man," you ended, pathetic and breathless.
You couldn’t even manage to say another man’s name while Clark bottomed out, his pelvis grinding maddeningly slow against your clit. A full-body shudder wracked you, and it wasn’t from secondhand embarrassment.
“Hear me out! You’ll have fun," Mark pressed. "I promise I’ll be on my best behavior."
Your failed date's voice was a grating buzz in your ear, a stark contrast to the visceral reality of Clark’s broad, strong body beneath you, inside you, fucking you, making love to you for the past two hours.
His mouth found your ear, lips brushing the sensitive shell. He blew a light, cool puff of air against your searing skin.
"Tell him you’re busy," he murmured, words barely breaking through your haze. His tongue flicked out, a quick, wet stripe, then he nipped lightly. "Tell him you have a… prior engagement. With me."
You were panting and squirming, trying to keep your breathing quiet, trying to pretend you weren’t being fucked to oblivion while desperately carrying a polite phone conversation.
"I… I'll be busy Friday night. Prior… engagement. With my best friend—Clark—I, uh, told you about him."
"Oh. Clark. Yeah, you did." A scoff, a clear sign of irritation, but he recovered like nothing happened. "Well, what about Saturday? I’m free all day."
Wrapping one powerful arm around your waist to support you, Clark planted both his feet on the mattress, changing the angle with such casual strength it made your stomach flip.
The new position had him pounding you deeper, fuller, the thick ridge of his thick cock rubbing directly over that special spot inside that made white sparks flicker behind your eyelids. Your hands gripped his biceps, clinging for dear life, praying for mercy.
"Oh f-fuck, C-clark," you whimpered into his skin, the curse hardly silent.
Instantly alert, you heard a muffled: "What was that?"
"N-nothing!" you squeaked. You forced a laugh as Clark pressed a kiss along your temple soothingly. It was shrill, unhinged, cringe-worthy in any other context.
"You sure? You sound a little… out of breath."
"S-sorry! Yeah, no, it's uh my—cat—she jumped. A little tense."
"A cat?" There was suspicion now. "Didn't know you had one."
"She’s—new! Adjusting, kinda overstimulated. That's why I left," you rasped, voice trembling and shredded, your vocal enthusiasm from the initial rounds finally catching up. "She's—getting used to him —Me! Getting used to me. N-new owner, and all!"
You glared at Clark, pinning the blame on this ridiculous predicament on him. He grinned back, all dimples and without shame.
The irritation was fleeting as a deep rhythm soon settled down to a shallow rocking between you.
A pure, unadulterated, delicious torture. Clark wasn’t only chasing his own pleasure; he was orchestrating yours, drawing it out, winding the overspent coil in your belly tighter and tighter with every tiny friction. You felt your combined wetness coating his length, dripping down onto his balls, making a hot, sticky mess between you.
"O-kay," Mark droned, already sounding bored, distracted. "I like cats. I’m more of a dog person, obviously, but cats are fine. I guess. Independent."
Unprompted, Clark’s large hand slid between your swollen folds, gathering cum from previous climaxes as lubricant. Deft fingers found your clit easily, thick and clever, pressing the pad of his middle finger to your swollen, throbbing nub, and held it there, a constant, maddening pressure.
You jerked up slightly, peered at Clark through wet lashes, your lips pulling into a quivering pout. You planted both hands on his chest and dug your knees into the mattress, and grinded harder against his cock and his hand. The dual sensation tipped so close. A wave of heat crashed through you, your muscles fluttering wildly around his length.
You were so close again. So dangerously close to riding that high.
"So, Saturday?" Mark pressed, bulldozing straight through the moment. "Restaurant. My treat. A real do-over."
"N-no, Saturday’s… complicated…won’t work," you sighed deeply.
The excuse barely made it out as Clark ducked his head, trailing a wet, lazy path down your neck to the space between your collarbones.
"Why?"
The trail of kisses ventured lower to greet the swell of your breasts.
"Just… not interested anymore," you forced out behind clenched teeth, white knuckling through the overwhelming attention you were receiving.
"Anymore? This is ridiculous. What the hell happened since you saw me?"
A flare of anger momentarily cut through your pleasure. It should’ve steadied you. It should’ve put steel in your spine.
But your rage was quickly extinguished when Clark delivered a single, deep, deliberate stroke that stole the air from your already spent lungs. A loud, sharp, involuntary cry tore from your throat.
You couldn't speak. You were shaking, your entire body drenched in pure pleasure. You were focused on that one point of contact—the insistent press of fingers, the full, aching stretch inside you, the coil of pleasure winding so tight you felt you might snap in two. Tears of frustration and overwhelming sensation pricked at your eyes.
The line was dead silent for a long beat.
Then, confused and impatient: "Hello? Still there? Are you even listening to me?"
Clark finally gave you mercy, answering for you. Secrecy and subtlety blew to smithereens. The shift in his tone was immediate—lower, steadier, authoritative. The phone caught every word.
"Hey, buddy. She said she’s no longer intersted."
There was another long pause on the line.
"Who… who the hell was that?"
"Clark." His tone was polite. Even. Earnest.
His eyes stayed locked on yours, blazing with a smug, satisfied fire. He watched your face, studying every twitch, every flutter of your eyelids, time your mouth fell open on a sound you couldn’t swallow. His middle finger started to move against your clit, a quick, zig-zag pattern that sent a fresh wave of slick to gather between your thighs.
“She's preoccupied at the moment,” he added.
Another pause, longer this time. The wet sounds of your bodies moving together grew louder in the silence. The schlick of your soaked folds, the soft thump of his hips meeting yours, the breathless ‘yeah, right there, baby,” and “just like that.”
"Preoccupied," Mark repeated flatly.
"Mmmhmm," Clark hummed as he mouthed along your jaw. "She has this—thing she needs to finish. It’s taking longer than usual. She needs to… focus. Priority One. You can respect that, right?"
You bit your fist to muffle the desperate, keening sounds threatening to escape. Your orgasm was right there, right fucking there, a towering wave about to crash. Unfortunate for you, Clark’s control was absolute.
He eased off, just enough to make you gasp, just enough to make you go hollow with need, the wave receding a fraction and leaving you shaking and whimpering in its aftermath.
"Is this… are you… Right now? The entire call?!" Mark's disbelief cracked into curses. "You’re fucking kidding me."
“No kidding around here,” Clark retorted quickly, “but there had been plenty of that other stuff.”
Before you could cut in with your own sharp retort, Clark leaned up, capturing your lips in a soft kiss that was so tender amidst the ridiculous drama unfolding. When he pulled back, he spoke again, his voice dropping to that low, bedroom rumble, and it did something to you that you weren’t ready for.
"She’s been so good for me. Since she came home. Applying herself, reaching her full potential, or whatever crap you said to her."
That did it. The filthy, possessive praise, the sheer audacity, paired with the feel of him—it was too much. A broken sob escaped your clenched teeth.
"God–please…"
"It’s j-just Clark, sweetheart, you know that," he joked lightly, his middle finger resuming its relentless circles in time with his frantic thrusts, making sure you didn’t spiral alone. "U-use your words. O-on me. Tell me what you need."
“I need—” You couldn’t even keep your voice steady. “I need to come. Please—let me come. I can’t— I can’t hold it, I’m so close, so close, pleasepleasebaby—” You babbled, ragged and desperate, half-formed pleas choked with tears and overwhelming pleasure.
On the phone, Mark made a strangled, irritated growl. "I’m…Forget everything I said! Fuck this, fuck your cat, and fuck you,—" he spat your name, useless as his outburst barely phased you.
"Yeah," Clark grunted, not even glancing toward the phone. "Already on that last one, man. Have a good—"
The call disconnected.
"—night."
The sudden silence was profound, broken only by your ragged panting and the slick, rhythmic sounds of sex.
"He finally hung up," Clark breathed, finally shedding its polite veneer, his gaze dropping to where your bodies were joined. "Now you can come, sweetheart. Come for me. Just me. Lemme feel it one more time."
You thread your sore fingers into his dark hair gently, nuzzling into the crook of his neck again.
"You’re…Fuck, we’re terrible, baby," you whispered through laughter, your walls gripping his shaft like a vice, on the brink of that delicious high again.
"Ah-ah, like I said: I’m done being polite," he corrected. “Hearing you cry over jerks like that for months. Watching you try to force a spark that wasn’t there… it was killing me, sweetheart.”
He punctuated each confession with a deep, rolling thrust.
"I love the way you smell, right here." He buried his face against your temple, inhaling deeply, his cock swelling even thicker inside you.
Thrust.
"I love you when you fell asleep on the couch and pretended you weren’t waiting for me to come home after patrol."
Thrust.
"Gosh, I love the way you always reach for me.” His forehead brushed yours, adoration breaking through the heat. “I’ve been in love with you for a long time. All I ever wanted—was to be the only one who made you lose yourself like this. "
Thrust.
You’d shared sweet nothings. Tender confessions. But this—this was devotion spoken in the air between searing kisses, in the control of his hands, in the way he refused to let you fall without catching you.
The last pretense shattered.
"Oh, fuck, I'm gonna—come!" you sobbed, your eyes screwing shut and head lolling to the side. "I’m so close, so close, I'm gonna come, don't stop, Clark–Clark—!"
Your final climax hit you like a tsunami.
It was a full-body break, pleasure ripping through you in convulsive waves. Your cunt clenched around Clark’s cock in rapid, fluttering pulses, milking him, and you heard yourself crying ‘Clark, I love you,’ over and over, a raw, continuous sound of pure release. You felt a gush of arousal around his thrusting length, the hot spill adding to the already sticky mess from previous rounds between your shaking thighs.
The sensations went on and on, one peak crashing into the next until you were a sobbing, boneless mess in your man’s arms, lazy kisses pressed onto the side of your lips, your cheeks, each eyelid.
Through the haze, you felt Clark's control splinter.
His rhythm faltered apart, then turned erratic. His arms locked tighter around you, crushing you to his chest as he buried his face back into your neck. You felt the hot puff of his breath, then the sharp, sweet sting of his teeth at the tender junction of your shoulder, the sensation blooming and melting into pleasure, another bright thread woven into everything that had happened tonight.
"You’re so beautiful," he grunted, muttering a curse soft and heartfelt against your skin. “So incredible—God—”
"N-not God," you panted, smiling against his hair, still shaking. "Just me, baby."
Clark managed a strangled chuckle, hips pistoning up once, twice more, then he stilled, burying his cock to the hilt. You felt the hot, sudden flood of his release inside you again, pulse after thick pulse filling you up. A guttural, satisfied groan rumbled from his chest into yours.
For a long moment, you both stay like that—fused together, trembling in the aftermath of your lovemaking.
The only sounds were your slowing breaths and the wet, sticky sounds of your joined bodies. He was still inside you, still hard, still gently pulsing.
“Hey, still okay?” Clark murmured, hands smoothed over you—your sides, your hips, your back—checking in, every touch saying I’ve got you, I’ve got you, I’ve got you.
Gingerly, he maneuvered you back to the mattress, careful not to jostle you, careful not to pull out. He shifted onto his side and guided you with him until your back was to his front, the two of you fitting together like this was how you’d always slept, how you’d always belonged. His arm draped heavy over your waist, palm settling low on your stomach.
The faint, residual movement of his cock inside you was a warm reminder of his continued presence, but he went still again the moment you tensed—patient, listening.
“Clark,” you whispered, voice hoarse.
“Hm?” His mouth brushed the back of your neck, a barely there kiss.
“Thank you for waiting for me."
You felt his grin against your skin, the one you knew by heart—the deep dimples, the crinkle at the corners of his eyes you’d seen a thousand times across a kitchen counter, over a shared couch cushion, in the doorway when he came home late.
“Always,” he admitted, and the honesty in it made your heart skip. He propped himself up on his elbow, leaning in to kiss you again—soft, lingering, the kind of kiss that didn’t ask for anything more.
“But no more bad dates. No more… anyone else… if that's okay with you.” His forehead rested against yours, blue eyes searching. “Just this. Just us. If you still want that in the morning.”
You swallowed, blinking hard, because it was so Clark to worry about the morning even now—to make room for your choice even when his body had been sure.
“Just us, Clark,” you said, and your voice didn’t shake this time. “In the morning. Tomorrow night. Every day after.”
His grin was helpless—boyish, bashful—and the sound he made was half-laugh, half-exhale, like relief finally found him. He kissed you once more, soft and lingering, then curled behind you again and held you like he’d been practicing for years.
When morning came, it still felt like a revelation.
A Big Bang.
It felt like Clark’s arm still around your waist, his thumb tracing slow, sleepy circles against your bare skin as though he’d woken up and immediately remembered: mine to love, mine to keep safe.
The phone on the nightstand sat dark and forgotten, and you didn’t reach for it.
Clark's first words in the morning were: “Still okay?”
You turned your head just enough to look at him—blue eyes, rumpled hair, that soft worry he couldn’t hide.
“Still,” you murmured. “Especially now, Clark.”
The way he smiled then was almost too much for your heart. You held his face in your hands, fingers catching on stubble, and kissed him first today.
And when you both finally got up to brush your teeth side by side, bumping hips at the sink like you’d done a million times before, your body and heart knew better.
Because everything with this Clark was new.
.
Thank you for reading! Likes, comments, and reblogs especially are forever appreciated. Keeps me motivated!
pairing David!Clark Kent x wife!reader
summary Clark's a greedy, indecisive man when it comes to you.
tags minimal plot, mostly porn, 18+, mdni, smuuuut, hot n heavy make out, fingering, oral (f receiving), groping, brief nipple play, body worship, doggy style bark bark, creampie, the suit stays on, Smug!Clark, Lovesick!Clark
wc 3k
Not my finest work. Wrote in one sleepy pass, if you saw a mistake, you know the drill 🫵🏼 no. you. didnt.
based on this ask (is Clark a boob/ass man?) | Mrs. Kent Diaries
Clark’s hands were on you the moment the farmhouse door quietly clicked shut behind him.
It was well past midnight, and he was still in the suit, blue and red stark against the dim pink wallpaper of his parent's hallway, against the worn denim of your jeans and the soft cotton of your white t-shirt.
He crowded in close before you could get a full breath, broad chest firm and unyielding as he pressed you back against the wall, and the little sound that left you—a soft, startled, breathy oof—barely made it out before your hands came up on instinct to grab at his biceps.
His arms, impossibly strong and somehow still gentle, slid around your waist and pulled you tighter against him. Heat rolled off him through the fabric between you. Want settled hot and low in your ribs, sudden and familiar and a little embarrassing in how fast your body answered him.
"Baby, I missed you too, but…" you breathed, the protest weak even as it left your mouth. "Ma and Pa are just down the hall."
"They’re sleeping," he murmured, a confident rumble that vibrated through his chest and into yours. His mouth found the spot just below your ear like he’d been thinking about it for hours, and then he was kissing there, slow at first, then nipping, then sucking gently until your fingers tightened on him. "Soundly. I checked."
"But still, behave."
The words were automatic despite your pleasure, a reflex honed over years of stolen moments in this very house.
A slow, smug smile spread against your skin. You felt it more than saw it.
"Oh, that’s funny. You know that just makes things worse."
It did. I absolutely did. You should’ve known by now. The command, the pretense of propriety, was a spark to the tinder of his focus. That singular, overwhelming attention he turned on you when the world wasn’t watching.
One of his hands slid down, broad palm spanning the curve of your ass through your jeans, holding you there with a possessive little squeeze that made your breath catch. The other came up to your face, thumb brushing slowly over your lower lip, once, twice, like he was reacquainting himself with the shape of your mouth. You opened for him without thinking. Caught the pad of his thumb between your lips.
His eyes flicked to yours, bright blue in the moonlight spilling in from the kitchen window at the end of the hall, and all at once the teasing softened a notch.
"I missed you, sweetheart," he confessed, quieter now.
He’d been gone thirty-six hours. A tectonic event in Indonesia. Unstable plates, a collapsing undersea volcano, too many people in danger, too much pressure under too much water. He’d kissed you quick before he left and promised he’d be careful, and you’d nodded like you always did, and then spent the night pretending not to count the hours. You’d stayed up just long enough to welcome him on his return.
"Did my girls miss me?" his gaze dropped pointedly to the front of your shirt.
You let out a soft laugh, one hand sliding up into his hair at the nape of his neck, fingers curling there.
"They’ve been inconsolable," you murmured, a smile curving your lips. "Pining. A real Greek tragedy."
He chuckled, the sound a pleasant tremor against your sternum.
"Yeah?" he asked, mouth brushing your jaw, already moving lower again. "I could fix that."
He didn’t kiss your mouth.
Instead, he bent, dipping his head to nose the neckline of your t-shirt aside, his breath hot over the upper swell of your breast before his lips closed over the thin cotton, drawing the fabric—and the sensitive flesh beneath—into the warm, wet pull of his mouth. Pleasure struck sharp and sweet, a clean jolt from your nipple straight to your core, and you gasped, fingers tangling helplessly in the cape at his shoulders and in the thick, dark curls at the nape of his neck.
He made a satisfied, hungry sound against you, his tongue swirling a damp circle through the material. The cotton clung to you, soaked and transparent. He switched to the other breast, giving it the same devoted, thorough attention, his free hand kneading the cheek of your ass in a slow, rhythmic pulse. You felt the hard ridge of his cock through the spandex of his suit, press against your hip.
"Clark," you moaned, your head falling back against the wall. "Your suit…"
"Hm?" he mumbled, mouth still working at your breast. "What about it?"
"You’ll—it’ll get…"
"Hon, I don’t care."
He lifted his head then, finally, and the look on his face made your stomach drop. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, your shirt damp and cool where the hallway air hit it. His mouth was wet. He looked a wreck already.
"I’ve been thinking about you," he said, voice rougher now, gaze dropping to your chest again. "About these since I left. The way they feel in my hands. The way they taste."
His hand left your ass and hooked under the hem of your shirt, tugging it up just enough to bare your stomach. Then he dropped to his knees in front of you, big and broad and still in the suit, and pressed an open-mouthed kiss to your navel. Another just above the waistband of your jeans. His tongue traced a slow line across your skin, and your muscled tightened under this attention.
"But then I remembered," he murmured, mouth moving lower, "I didn’t get to kiss you here yesterday."
Another kiss, lower.
"Or here."
His teeth scraped lightly over your hip bone, just enough to make you shiver hard against the wall.
He was everywhere at once, a superhuman blur of need. One second he was on his knees with his mouth on your stomach, and the next he was up again, one hand at your jaw, the other at your waist, dragging your mouth to his in a deep, consuming kiss that stole the breath right out of you. It was heat and tongue and the wet sound of your moans swallowed between his lips, all urgency, and when his hands found your ass again he lifted you easily, allowing your legs to wrap around his waist on instinct.
He carried you quietly down the hall to his old bedroom, never breaking the kiss.
The door to his old bedroom barely made a sound. Then he was lowering you onto the quilt-covered bed, following you down, his body a heavy, welcome weight. The red chest pressed against your damp shirt. He rolled his hips once, grinding the thick length of him right where you needed him through too many layers of fabric, tearing a ragged moan out of you.
"Fuck–"
"I know," he mumbled against your mouth, breath hot and uneven. "I know, sweetheart. Let me—"
He shifted, and whatever steadiness he’d had a minute ago was gone. His hands turned frantic at your waist, fumbling at the waistband of your shorts, dragging them down your hips and thighs just far enough to get what he wanted. He didn’t even bother taking them off. He just shoved them down and out of the way, your jeans catching around your calves, and then his fingers hooked into the sides of your panties.
With a soft rip of fabric, he tears them right off you.
"Clark!" you hissed, half scandalized, half breathless, but the rest dissolved into a gasp when his fingers found you, sliding through your folds with a slick, filthy sound that made heat flash up your neck.
"Clark what?" he breathed, and the smugness was back, threaded through all that hunger as he watched his own hand move between your thighs. His fingertips circled your clit once, twice, slow enough to make you twitch, before he pushed two fingers deep inside you in one smooth thrust.
Your back bowed off the bed immediately.
"Something the matter?"
"You—ah— you know what," you panted, hips rocking up to meet the rhythm of his hand anyway, chasing the stretch, the friction, the pressure that had your thighs already trying to close around his wrist.
"Do I?" He tilted his head, mock innocence gone syrup-sweet in his mouth.
His thumb pressed down on your clit and began those tight, deliberate circles, and when he curled his fingers inside you to stroke that sensitive spongy spot that made your eyes roll back and see stars, your hands fisted in the quilt, and your legs trembled faster than a rabbit’s.
"I’m being unfair, aren’t I?" he murmured casually, like this was a mundane conversation and not him ruining your ability to think. "I’m neglecting… so, so much."
With a wet, sucking sound, he pulls his fingers from your cunt. Before you can protest, he’s moving down your body. He pushes your ruined panties aside, your jeans still tangled around your calves, your shirt still bunched up under your breasts. You’re half-dressed, completely open to him, his wife spread out on his childhood bed with your legs shaking and your skin hot and your cunt aching where his hand had been.
He doesn’t hesitate.
He buries his face between your legs.
The first flat stroke of his tongue was a lightning bolt. It was broad and hot and perfect, laving from your stretched entrance all the way up to your sensitive clit. You cried out, grab for him, both hands in his hair, fingers tightening in the dark curls. He groaned against you, and the vibration went through your whole body, deep enough to make your hips jerk and your thighs clamp around his shoulders.
Then he feasted.
His mouth was relentless, all appetite and devotion. He licked into you with long, languid strokes that made your thighs shake, then switched without warning to quick, precise flicks over your clit, sharp and pinpoint and mean in the way he only got when he was paying very close attention. He drew the sensitive nub into his mouth and sucked gently, worrying it between his lips just long enough to make your breath hitch, then soothed it with slow, circling laps like he was apologizing for how good he was at this. He drank from you, tongue delving deep, and the room filled with the wet, shameless sounds of him taking his time with your body.
"Good fucking God—" you dragged out with a long, shaky sigh. "R-right there, fuck…"
"Mmm," he hummed against you, and the vibration hit your clit so directly it made your whole body jerk.
His hands slid under your ass and lifted, tilting your hips up into his mouth, opening you wider for him. His thumbs spread you apart while he worked, greedy and focused, and then he fucked you with his tongue. Alternating shallow and fast, then deep and slow, changing rhythm to mimic what he was aching to do with his cock for the last thirty-something hours.
Your orgasm built hard and fast, a tight, coiling spring low in your belly. Your heels dug into the quilt. Your back arched. One hand flew to your mouth because you were in his parents’ house and some reflex still clung to you even now, even with him between your legs like this.
"I’m-ah!-gonna—Oh, shit C-Clark, I’m gonna come— right now, right now, shit, faster!"
He doubled down immediately.
His tongue became wickedly precise, all clever speed and pressure, focused on your clit like nothing else in the world existed. He sucked hard, then flicked, then sucked again, nose pressed into you, breath hot and uneven. The scratch of his stubble burned sweet against your inner thighs. His hands held you up so firmly it was almost too much, almost unbearable, and underneath it all he kept making those low, incoherent little sounds into your cunt—pleading, hungry, praising—like he’d come home from saving the world and this was the only thing he wanted as his reward.
The orgasm hit all at once.
It crashed through you in a bright, blinding wave, your body seizing around it, your cries muffled behind your clammy hand as your cunt clenched on nothing and pulsed hard.
He stayed with you through every second of it, easing his tongue into softer, gentler strokes as you shook, lapping through the aftershocks and drinking down everything you gave him.
By the time the trembling started to ebb, your legs felt useless.
Clark lifted his head slowly. His chin was wet. His mouth was swollen. He looked wrecked and pleased with himself in equal measure, like he knew exactly what he’d done to you and intended to do worse.
Then he crawled back up your body, broad and warm and heavy, settling over you again, and kissed you open-mouthed before you could even catch your breath. He let you taste yourself on his tongue, the kiss deep and slow this time, savoring.
"Gosh, your pretty mouth, too," he whispered against your lips, smiling. "I love how it tastes after I’ve been on you."
You couldn’t do anything but whimper. Boneless. Hot all over. Still twitching.
But he wasn’t done. Of course, he wasn’t.
His large, calloused hands were already moving again, roaming your body. One big hand palmed your breast through your shirt, finding your nipple through the damp cotton and pinching it between thumb and forefinger, rolling and tugging until the sensation went sharp and bright and made you gasp into his mouth. It mixed with the lingering throb between your legs, the aftershocks still sparking every time he shifted over you.
He broke the kiss and looked down at you, at your wrinkled and damp shirt, your shorts shoved almost to your ankles, your body still heaving under his.
"Oh no," he breathed.
You blinked up at him, dazed. "W-what?"
"I’d been negligent." The words came out with genuine distress. "A complete failure."
You stared at him, frowning, still trying to catch up. "What are you talking about?"
"Your ass," he clarified, as if stating a profound and tragic oversight. "We’ve been at it for… how long? Twenty minutes? And I haven’t given your perfect, incredible ass proper attention. It’s probably feeling abandoned. Unappreciated."
A snort burst out of you before you could stop it. "No, it’s okay. It’s managing just fine."
"Unacceptable."
The word had barely left his mouth before he moved.
He turned you over with effortless strength, smooth and quick, and by the time your brain caught up you were on your stomach, cheek pressed to the quilt, your ass tipped up in the air for him. He knelt behind you in the mattress dip, hands spreading your cheeks apart, and the cool room air hit your wet, swollen folds hard enough to make you clench.
"So beautiful," he whispered.
Then he bent and kissed you there, open-mouthed and hot, right on your center, his tongue swiping through your slickness from behind. You moaned helplessly into the quilt, pushing back against his face. He did it again, and again, eating you out from this new, deeper angle, his tongue spearing inside you. One hand remained on the curve of your ass, kneading the flesh, while the other slid around your hip to find your clit again.
"Isn’t that better?"
The combination nearly undid you on the spot. You were still sensitive from your first climax, and now every touch amplified, electric.
Clark scissored two fingers inside you, curled them, while his thumb rubbed tight, urgent circles on your clit. Then his mouth left your center and moved to your ass, biting the rounded flesh in soft, possessive little nips before soothing each one with his tongue.
"Baby, please—" you pleaded, back arching deeper. "I can’t— it’s too much—I need—"
"I know, I know," he murmured, mouth warm against your skin, the words half swallowed by your body. "You were doing so good for me. Just wanted to take my time with you, sweetheart."
He shifted behind you, and you heard the distinct shhhk of a zipper and fabric being shoved. The sound sent a fresh flood of heat and slick between your legs.
You could hear the rough drag of his hand as he fisted his cock, giving himself a few rough strokes. You felt the broad, slick head of him nudging against your entrance, still stretched and wet from his mouth and his fingers.
He didn’t push in yet.
He held it there, the thick tip parting your folds, the sheer size of him a delicious promise. He leaned over you, chest pressed to your back, mouth pressing kisses along your shoulder, your neck, temple. One hand still splayed across your ass, lightly gripping every few kisses.
"Hon, I need to be inside you," he whispered. "Right now. Just like this, with you on your knees."
He kissed just behind your ear, breathing hard, and you felt the way he held himself back for the space of a second.
"I might be a little rough with you like this," he admitted, low and honest, one hand smoothing down your hip before tightening again. "I don’t want to be, but I might." His mouth brushed your skin. "Can you take it for me? Do you want—?"
"Yes," you said immediately, the answer tearing out of you before he’d even finished. You pushed back against him, needy and shameless, trying to take more of him at your entrance. "Yes! Please. I want it. I want you like this, now hurry up!"
He let out a sound that was a mix between a groan and a laugh.
"O-okay," he murmured against your shoulder, kissing one more time. "That’s my girl. I got you."
The first push inside was slow and steady, and even with all your slickness, even with how open he’d prepared you, the stretch still stole the air from your lungs.
He was too big to take any other way. It was immense, almost sharp for a second, your body pulling tight around him before it gave, before the ache melted into that dizzy, overwhelming fullness that only he could give you.
He kept going, breathing hard against your shoulder, one hand firm on your ass, and the other smoothing your side tenderly as he filled you. By the time his hips were finally flush with your ass, by the time he was buried all the way inside you, both of you were shaking and groaning.
"O-oh, geez," he panted, his forehead dropping between your shoulder blades, causing you to arch your back at a steeper angle. "Sh–Gosh, you feel… sweetheart, you’re everywhere. You’re squeezing me so tight—"
He didn’t move right away. He just stayed there and let you feel it with him, the tight, skin-hot fit of him, the way your body clenched and fluttered around every pulse of his cock, the way your breath came in little broken pulls into the quilt. His mouth found your shoulder. He kissed you there, open and wet, then your spine, then the back of your neck, like he couldn’t decide what part of you he needed first.
"That’s it," he murmured, voice low and strained. "Take your time. You’ve got me."
Naturally, you started rutting against him, small, quiet pleas of ‘move’ and ‘keep going’ puffing out of your lips. Clark drew back, almost all the way out, and thrust back in hard.
The force of it shoved you up the bed, a choked cry punching out of you before you could bite it back, brace on your forearms, and whatever was left of his restraint disappeared with the sound.
Clark set a brutal, pounding rhythm immediately, no warm-up, no gentle build. This was reunion and hunger and thirty-six hours of wanting you packed into every thrust. Every thrust was a deep, driving piston stroke that jarred your entire body, that hit your cervix and made you see stars.
The wet, rhythmic slap of his skin against yours, the squelching sound of your copious wetness, the creak of the bedsprings—it was a symphony of filth.
"This," he grunts, his hand coming down on one ass cheek in a light smack. Not enough to sting, but enough to feel the contact. "I love it. I missed it."
Another thrust. A grope. A sharp whimper from you.
"I missed your hips," he went on, words breaking up with the rhythm. "Missed your thighs. Missed your stomach. Missed these pretty breasts—"
He leaned over you, his red cape sliding to one side and covering you like a blanket. One arm braced just next to yours while his free hand slipped under you to your chest, finding your nipple through the damp cotton and pinching it, rolling it carefully between his fingers until you sobbed and clenched around him hard.
"T-there," he groaned, hips stuttering once before he found the pace again. "There she is. I love all of you. Missed all of you. Every part."
His hand came back to your ass, spreading, squeezing, holding the plush flesh.
"My beautiful girl," he moaned, mouth at your ear, all heat and devotion and need. "My God. I thought about having you like this the whole time. Thought about being inside you. Thought about how you feel when you take me." A hard thrust, deep enough to make your fingers claw the quilt. "My wife. My beautiful wife."
The words unraveled you faster than the rhythm already was. You were babbling before you could help it, his name and yes and please-please-please all blurring together, your body rocking back to meet him even when it made the next thrust hit harder.
The second orgasm was already building, tighter than the first, sharpened by the rough drag of him, the sting in your skin, his hand on your breast, his mouth on your neck, the way he sounded half gone and completely in love.
"Baby— God, C-Clark—I'm close!"
"I k-know," he breathed, and kissed your shoulder again, then bit gently, then soothed it with his mouth. "I know, hon."
His hand slid up into your hair and he guided your head just enough to kiss you on the lips. He kept thrusting, harder now, deeper, his control falling apart right in front of you.
"I’m gonna...." he ground out, warning. "I’m gonna fill you up, hon." His hand tightened on your hip. "Do you want it? Tell me you want it."
"Yes," you sobbed, already shaking on the edge. "Yes, God, yes— inside, Clark, please—"
The permission snapped his control. He whimpered into your shoulder, half groan, half swallowed cut-off curse, and drove into you one more time.
The first burst hit hard and hot, deep inside, and your whole body jerked with the force of it. Then another followed, and another, his hips flush against your ass as his cock pulsed inside your cunt, each release thick and heavy. He kept holding you open and close at the same time, one hand spread over your hip, shaking through his climax.
"O-oohh, sweetheart—" he panted. "So good. So good, I love you—"
His unadulterated bliss triggered your orgasm, tearing through in a hard, shuddering rush. Your cunt convulsed around him, clenching down in sharp pulses that dragged another low groan out of him and wrung a few more hot, weaker spurts from him while he was still buried to the hilt.
Your legs shook so badly the mattress creaked under both of you. You could feel warmth spilling out around him, sticky down your inner thighs, the two of you making a complete mess of the quilt and the clothes still tangled around your legs.
By the time the last pulse left him, he was breathing like he’d flown across the entire galaxy.
He collapsed over you carefully, still covering you with his body even while trying not to crush you, his cock staying deep inside, thick and hot, and you both just lay there for a long moment listening to each other breathe.
Your shirt was still bunched under your breasts. His suit was damp and wrinkled and definitely ruined in at least three places. The bed was in terrible shape, something that had to be managed before Ma woke up.
You could feel the heavy, leaking fullness between your legs every time either of you moved.
Eventually, Clark kissed the back of your shoulder, then your neck, then rested his cheek there.
"So," he said after a long, contented silence. "I think…I think I covered everything. Nothing neglected, right?"
"Not at all," you laughed, a tired, happy, sated sound. "You can never decide, can you?"
"An impossible choice," he agreed immediately, his hands stroking your sweaty back and side. "It’s like asking me to pick between Ma’s apple pie and her peach cobbler." He kissed your shoulder again. "Both are… transcendent. Vital. Everything about you is."
You laughed into the quilt, fingers lazily toying with his red cape enveloping half your body.
"You’re a greedy, messy, indecisive man, you know that?"
"Yes, I’m a greedy, messy, indecisive man," he kissed the top of your head, words completely lovesick, lovestuck, whatever you wanted to call it. "But I'm yours."
He kissed the top of your shoulder, then your lips, lingering there.
"And later," he added, already sounding excited. "After we clean up, I’m sleeping with my head inside your shirt. I’ve decided. Non-negotiable. Think I’ve earned it."
.
Thank you for reading! Likes, comments, and reblogs especially are forever appreciated. Keeps me motivated!
Pairing David!Clark Kent x Girlfriend!Reader
Summary When a stranger crosses a line, Clark doesn’t raise his voice. He simply steps in and makes it clear. The word “husband” slips out as a defense, but by the end of the night, it feels more like a future. (Swapped - can hardly wait to put a ring on that finger/ getting handsy on the dance floor)
Tags 18+, mdni, SMUT, dance floor grinding, hot-n-heavy make out, simultaneous fingering + handjob, semi-public wall sex (just how i like it, mr muscles), p in v (unprotected), Cock Praise, Praise Kink, hyperspermia, creampie, alcohol use but reader is not drunk, protective!Clark, unwanted attention/touching, brief talks of wedding rings
WC 5.75k
This one's for you Pink. Sorry it's so late, could have been worse!
Galentine's #14 by @/wildflowersandvibranium & @/pinksplace| Mrs. Kent Diaries
This club wasn’t usually yours or Clark’s scene, but you’d promised: no flaking this time.
Not after the karaoke night that ended with Clark leaving mid–power ballad. Not after the bowling alley reservation you never showed up for. Not after entirely forgetting the all-you-can-eat Korean barbecue reservations because someone, somewhere, needed saving. (In Clark’s defense, Superman never rests)
You both built a reputation: well-meaning, well-dressed, and absent when it came to social obligations.
Though tonight was different. It was Cat’s birthday.
She’d booked the rooftop venue with a suspended dance floor two months ago. There was a signature cocktail in her honor. A hashtag already circulating. A photographer somewhere in the crowd waiting for candids.
There was no ditching this one.
So, you’d both cleaned up nicely and showed up on the dot.
Clark in black-on-black, collar open enough to see the line of his throat. You in that dress, the one you bought with trembling resolve and a credit card you almost put stuffed back in your wallet. Short. Sleek. Nothing about it said farmer’s market or Sunday potluck.
Now, heat bloomed across your chest, your dress clinging to your sweat-slicked spine. Your hem rode up high from how often you shifted, and the breeze did nothing but toy with your hair.
The cocktail in your hand was the only cool thing about you. Lime slice half-drowned. The bass from the lower floor traveled up through your heels and into your calves, steady and intoxicating.
Lois burst into laughter beside you, head tipped back toward the open sky. Cat murmured something wicked in response, and your own giggle slipped out. You leaned into Lois’s shoulder, tipping your drink back for another sip just to keep your hands busy.
Clark stood just behind you, half turned toward Jimmy, head ducked as he listened to whatever dating escapades his pal was rambling about. He swirled amber in his glass with a tilt of his wrist. You knew that was for show, but he liked the illusion, the social rhythm of it.
Cat turned to you suddenly, manicured fingers plucking your drink from your hand before you could protest.
"Enough hovering!" she declared. "C’mon, girls. I wanna dance!"
Lois whooped immediately and spun toward the stairs.
You let yourself be pulled, pulse rising, laughter bubbling up again, but not before you brushed your fingers over Clark’s forearm as you left his side. You caught his gaze over your shoulder, raising your hand for a tiny wave.
He lifted his glass in a silent toast, go on, have fun, topping off with a soft, lovestruck grin, before turning back to Jimmy.
Your heart fluttered, and turned toward the music with a carefree laugh.
.
Things started out easy.
Bass rolled under your feet. Strobe lights swept overhead. Sweat clung to your forehead, but it didn’t matter. You, Lois, and Cat stayed close, hands brushing, shoulders knocking, your cocktail buzz sitting perfectly in your veins.
You were glowing, safe, and happy to be in this moment.
You didn’t realize someone joined the tight circle until a hand landed on your hip.
It was firm, cold, fingers pressing into your dress like your body was something he’d purchased admission to.
Your smile fell instantly. The buzz you’d been riding the last hour evaporated. The music kept playing, but it felt further away now. A little less sparkle, a little more static.
Turning your head, you saw a man, older than you, maybe. Or just overconfident. Radiating some cheap cologne and entitlement. He leaned in close without invitation, cutting through your comfort like a knife
"Hey, beautiful."
You took a step back. He stepped with you, deliberately keeping close, like this was flirtation instead of an intrusion. Like he’d decided this was all harmless fun and you’d eventually laugh about it fondly with friends Monday morning at work.
Except it wasn’t funny. Not to you. Not now or ever.
Cat clocked it immediately, her expression dropping like a curtain. Lois followed suit, shifting her weight and pushing forward, placing herself between you and him to signal that he wasn’t welcome.
"Excuse you! She’s with someone," Lois snapped, her tone was the kind of warning you only gave once.
"Back off!" Cat added with a glare.
He didn’t. Of course not, that would be too easy.
"She can answer for herself," he said with a smirk, clearly proud of himself for saying it like he was taking some kind of moral high ground. His eyes flicked to Lois, then Cat, then back to you. "So what do you say, pretty lady?"
You stiffened. Your fingers curled around Lois’s, and you tugged her just slightly back towards you and Cat. You were furious. Protective—not just of yourself, but of your friends.
"I’m not interested," you answered clearly, lips tight with disgust.
The man blinked like you’d smacked him.
"You don’t have to be rude, baby," he insisted, irritation quickly dominating his tone.
"I’m not being rude, I’m saying no."
He took another step forward, ignoring Lois when she reached out to block him again. He dragged his eyes down your body, lingering where your dress clung to your waist, then where your glistening chest rose and fell in shallow breaths. His tongue wet his bottom lip, not even subtle about it.
"Just one dance, baby. I’ll make it worth it."
You felt something primal rise in your chest now, something sharp and furious at his repeated advances, the repeated pet-name only one man could use on you. You said the first thing that came to mind—
"You know what? My husband's around here somewhere."
Husband.
No stuttering, stumbling, or hesitation. Like you’d rehearsed it for months in the privacy of your own thoughts. Beneath the anger and the adrenaline was the image of Clark earlier — head tipped toward Jimmy, listening politely, but glancing at you every few seconds
"He’s not going to like you doing this," you added. You didn’t look at Lois or Cat, didn’t want to see their surprise. "You should go before he sees you harassing us."
The man scoffed, mouth tugging crooked when he snatched your left wrist. The man’s hand was a vise, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your wrist, a sharp, possessive grip that made you gasp. The sound was small, lost in music.
"Really?" he smirked, amused. He forced your left hand to curl, and you wondered if he saw your pulse, a frantic counter-rhythm to the club’s beats. "Funny, I don’t see a ring."
You were about to respond—sharp, cutting, done with the conversation—when a solid wall of heat brushed your back.
A hand brushed gently on your waist, a touch that didn’t pull or grip. It just rested. A claim without bravado. A presence you’d know anywhere and you flushed instantly.
Clark.
His other hand closed over the man’s wrist, not with violence, but with an immovable, calm finality. The pressure on your own wrist vanished, peeled away quickly.
"Is there a problem here?" Clark asked, his voice deceptively even.
He wasn’t angry, per say, but his tone was tighter than usual. That soothing, easy tone flattened to something quiet and clipped. It was the voice you’d only heard a handful of times, when he’d seen something he couldn’t ignore. When he’d been pushed just far enough.
The man, who had seemed so large a moment ago, seemed to shrink into himself. He tried to yank his arm back. It didn’t budge. Clark’s fingers were like a cuff.
Jimmy stepped in behind Lois and Cat, muttering frantic check in's, gaze flicking between you and the man without missing a beat. Cat nodded once. Lois folded her arms, heat in her eyes.
"Hm, she said she has a husband," he scoffed, a weak, blustering sound as he gestured vaguely to you. "That supposed to be you?"
Clark didn’t turn away. His eyes were fixed on the man, a storm brewing in their usually kind, blue depths. You saw his jaw tighten.
"Yeah," he replied. Calm. Certain. Lethal, like the crack of frost splitting a windshield. "That’d be me."
"Didn’t see a ring," the man instantly muttered, a last, pathetic stab.
"Didn’t hear my wife say anything, but no," Clark retorted just as fast, his stare just as powerful even behind his glasses. "Once should’ve been enough."
The message was clear: This discussion is over. You are leaving now.
The man faltered. He took in Clark’s height, the breadth of his shoulders that even his simple button-down couldn’t disguise, the quiet power in his stance. The calculation was swift, cowardly. With a final, grunted curse, he wrenched his arm free—because Clark let him—and melted back into the crowd, a shadow swallowed by brighter lights.
The music slowly thumped back into focus. Jimmy remained a steadying presence, his concern a stark contrast to the dance floor's neon lights. Lois exhaled sharply, her own protective fury deflating.
"What an asshole!" she spat, adjusting her top.
Cat, ever the poised hostess, smoothed a hand over her hair, her gaze already scanning the crowd for any other potential disruptions. She then touched your arm.
"Hey, hun, you okay? That guy was a real ass."
You blinked and nodded, your throat tight as you were still transfixed on where the man vanished. "Y-yeah. I’m alright. How are you guys?"
"We’re fine, we’re good, we’re—"
"Actually, we’re gonna grab another round. You guys...take a minute," Lois interjected, her eyes darting meaningfully between you and Clark. She hooked her arm through Jimmy’s and Cat’s with little resistance. "Come on, guys. Something tells me the birthday girl needs something stronger!"
They were gone, leaving you in a pocket of sudden privacy on the crowded floor. You reached for Clark’s hand without thinking, and he, without hesitation, threaded his fingers through yours.
When you glanced up, his gaze was already on you—lingering on your lips, tracing the rapid flutter of your pulse in your throat, before settling down to your wrist where you had been grabbed. His eyes were still dark, jaw set tight.
"Hey, you," you started, catching his attention back to your face, "how did you know? That we needed you."
Clark’s thumb traced a slow line along your knuckles before he answered.
"I was listening to Jimmy, but I always keep an ear out," he admitted. "When you stopped laughing, I knew something was wrong. Then I heard you say no."
He didn’t elaborate further. You didn’t ask him to.
"Are you sure you’re okay?" he murmured, leaning in when the music surged louder. He gently brought your forearm up, his lips pressing a warm, lingering kiss to the inside of your wrist, right over the fading red marks. "Lois? Cat? Nobody hurt?"
"We’re okay, Clark," you managed, raising your voice just enough to carry over the bass. You swallowed, trying to quell the thrill that had everything to do with how close he was. "I’m okay. Thank you."
He hummed, a non-committal sound that said he didn’t entirely believe your casual tone, but was accepting it for now. Still, his hand tightened around you, guiding you subtly toward a slightly less crowded, quieter pocket of the dance floor.
Once settled, you turned into him. Your palms flattened against his chest, feeling his chest rise and fall beneath your hands. His hand remained at your hip, but he kept a deliberate inch of space between your bodies.
"Thanks for going along with the whole husband thing," you smiled shakily, looking up at him through your lashes. "I probably shouldn’t have said it. Sorry, I just—"
He shook his head immediately, thumb stroked a small arc on your hipbone.
"Don’t say sorry, never for that," he murmured, eyes softened slightly, though the tension hadn’t fully left them. "Just irritated you had to lie to get someone to listen."
Before you could respond, the music changed again. Pulsing electronic beats faded to something slower. Heavier. A low-thumping with a sinuous, grinding R&B rhythm vibrating through the floor, curling around your ankles and into your bones.
Clark pulled you into him as the dance floor crowded again on on cue. Chest to chest, hips aligned like clockwork. You could feel him breathe against your temple. His other hand slid from your hip to the small of your back now, less cautious, less hesitation. You felt the weight of him press against your belly, already thick and twitching beneath his slacks, already there.
You melted into the dizzying touch, one hand drifting up to the nape of his neck, thumb brushing the warm skin just beneath the curls. The other ghosted lower, below the button of his slacks, below the waistband, teasing, testing.
"It wasn’t a lie," you finally responded, the remnants of alcohol and adrenaline making you bold. "It was a premonition."
His grip faltered for half a second feeling your fingers toy with his belt buckle, then tightened as a group of women passed behind you. He grinded you along his thigh once, rough and helpless, and you bit back a whimper.
"A premonition?" he repeated huskily, brows furrowed.
The crowd blurred around you. Lights and shadows smeared together. You finally pressed your palm flat over the hard line of his cock while your body made its own demands again. You reached for his large hand, guiding it down to cup the curve of your ass.
"Yeah," you confessed into the crook of his neck. "You were really fucking hot back there, calling me your wife, saying you’re my….my husband."
You tasted the word again, slowly this time. Like honey dripping off your finger.
Clark exhaled hard. He didn’t answer this time. Just held you tighter, allowing your nose to graze the column of his neck. You swore he shivered as he fisted the fabric at your bottom just a hair. Grinning, you shifted your hips, slow and deliberate. Grinding once, twice. The friction of your thighs against his drew a quiet, pained sound from the back of his throat.
"My protective husband," you drawled, lush and amused. "The one who would never let a man cross a line with me."
His breath hitched against your temple. You kissed the corner of his jaw this time, hot and slow.
"My kind husband," you gushed, rubbing your palm harder. You felt him sigh so deep you felt it in your chest. "The one who checks on Lois and Cat while still managing to look like he could ruin someone without even raising his voice."
"My strong husband," you purred, both of your hands curling around his biceps as you pressed your chest closer to his. "The one who didn’t even need to do anything. He just showed up, and suddenly the problem wasn’t a problem anymore."
Clark flexed his arms as his hips shifted forward this time. He chuckled, pained and breathless, as you squeaked. "Sweetheart, you have to stop soon."
You recovered, grinning against his skin. Didn’t let up.
"My intelligent husband," you whispered, sugar-slick and utterly devious as you tapped his glasses. "Knows better than to let me say these things on a dance floor if he’s not planning to do anything about it."
That was the final thread.
He moved before he could think, hand still firm on your ass, the other rising to cradle your jaw, tilting your face up, breath mingling with yours. His eyes burned under the strobe lights, far from playful.
"Don’t," he gritted out, his nose tracing the sensitive spot just below your ear as he leaned in. His lips moved against your skin, his heated warnings scraping over every nerve ending. "Don’t say things like that when I can’t take you home. We made a promise: No flaking tonight."
"Then don’t be so possessive, baby," you teased, nipping at his jaw. You felt him shudder. "You know how I get."
"Yeah, impossible." He retorted, though there was no real reprimand.
His hand on your ass adjusted, hiking your leg up a notch higher against his leg. The thin barrier of your dress and his pants did nothing to hide the hard, insistent ridge of his erection pressing against your stomach. The size of him, even confined, made your mouth water.
"You have no idea what it does to me. Hearing you say things like this. Seeing that man’s hand on you, hurting you."
You moaned, the sound swallowed by the bass. Your fingers tangled back in the soft hair at the nape of his neck, tugging, just a little, and his head bowed, his forehead resting against yours.
The world, the party, Lois, Cat, and Jimmy—it all blurred into a distant, irrelevant haze. There was only the heat of Clark, the smell of his skin, the desperate rhythm your bodies were finding against each other beneath shadows and rhythm.
"What does it do?" you pressed, breathless. You ground down again, seeking that perfect, maddening pressure as your eyes remained locked on his. "Remind me again, husband?"
He answered by finally capturing your mouth.
It wasn’t a gentle in the slightest. It was a claiming kiss. Firm and demanding yours to part, and you did immediately, a soft sigh escaping you as his tongue swept in.
He tasted like the whiskey he’d been sipping and spearmint. His thumb stroked your cheek as he kissed you deep and slow and filthy. It was a kiss that said mine, that chased away the ghost of the stranger’s leer. Your hands slid down from neck, over the hard plane of his chest, down to the waistband of his pants. Your fingers played with the belt buckle once more, a silent, desperate question.
The hand on your ass squeezed, a warning and a promise.
"Keep this up," he rasped against your skin, "and I’ll forget where we are."
You bit your lip, fighting your wicked grin. Then, just loud enough for him to hear: "So take me somewhere. Somewhere you can forget. Somewhere you can really let go for me."
For a heartbeat, he just looked at you, his gaze searing into yours.
"You’re serious?" he asked, the gentleman in him fighting a losing battle with the man who’d just staked a very public, very primal claim.
In answer, you squeezed the thick length of him once more. He jerked against your palm this time, a sharp, involuntary thrust.
"Yes, I need you, Clark," you whispered, raw and honest. "Now. Even for a little."
Clark stared at you like he was seconds from losing it completely, then glanced at the bar behind you.
Cat was now laughing too loud at something Lois said, one hand fluttering toward a waiter balancing an entire tray of champagne. Jimmy was nodding along, chatting animatedly with a fellow party guest.
None of them were looking at you. None of them would miss you for a few minutes.
"Come on."
He took your hand, lacing his fingers with yours, and turned, guiding you through the crowd. You weaved past dancing bodies, spilled drinks, and strobing lights that painted his broad back in flashes of reds, blues, and golds. You couldn’t help but giggle as you slipped away like teenagers, the thrill of pure, illicit excitement coursing through your veins.
He led toward a shadowy hallway marked with a glowing ‘EXIT’ sign, past a smaller placard for restrooms.
The noise of the club suddenly became muffled, a dull thump-thump-thump through the concrete walls. The air grew cooler as you both walked deeper into the narrow, unused hallway. It was lit by a single, dim sconce, the walls painted a deep, matte black that absorbed all other sound.
The heavy fire door at the end guaranteed even more seclusion.
The second you were clear of the last partygoer heading to the bathroom down the hall, Clark spun you, your back meeting the cool, unyielding stone of the dark wall. He was on you in an instant, his body caging you in, his mouth crashing back down onto yours.
His tongue swept into your mouth, tangling with yours. You kissed him back with equal fervor, your hands flying to his hair, gripping, pulling him closer. This was nothing like the soft, exploring kisses you’d shared before leaving for the party.
This was filthy.
This was married.
This was the kiss of a man who’d just been called a husband and decided to act like one.
Meanwhile, Clark’s hands were greedy and searching like they couldn’t pick just one place to stay.
One remained at the back of your head, protecting it from the wall. The other slid down your neck, over your shoulder to push the thin straps of your dress down, gently groping a breast before roaming to your hip, hiking up your dress.
The cool air hit your bare thighs, and you shivered.
"Shit," he breathed against your mouth, the curse so rare from him it sent another jolt straight to your core. "The way you looked at me when I stepped in. Like you wanted to jump me right there."
"I did, Clark," you moaned, arching your back as his lips trailed hot, open-mouthed kisses down your jaw, your throat, his teeth scraping lightly over your pulse point, ending with a gentle bite that made you cry out. "I do!"
You fumbled with his belt, a project you’ve been rounding back on the past half hour, fingers clumsy from escalating need. The buckle finally gave way with a sharp clink. The button of his pants popped open. You dragged the zipper down hastily, and pushed his pants and briefs down just enough to free him.
He sprang out, thick and heavy, the head already glistening with precum. You licked your lips as your mouth watered, collecting spit into your palm to slick the way. You stroked him, a lewd, wet sound echoing, your thumb smearing the bead of moisture over his slit.
A groan tore from Clark's throat, deep and guttural. He pressed his forehead into the wall beside your head, his entire body trembling with the effort of holding still.
"Geez," he hissed as you stroked him. Your movements were slow at first, then faster, your thumb swiping over the slick head, spreading the wetness.
"You’re so fucking big," you whispered, shaky with awe. You’d felt him before, inside you, countless times, but it always struck you anew. The sheer, magnificent scale of him. Being the only woman to have this part of him. "I love your cock, baby. I love how hard you get for me. How much you want me."
"A-always want you," he rasped. His hands went to your hips, yanking your dress up around your waist. The cool air hit your bare thighs.
"Lift a lil’ bit for me," he urged, one shoe tapping against your heels.
Not breaking your grip on him, you lifted one leg, then the other, letting him peel the scrap of lace down your legs and past your shoes. He stuffed it into the pocket of his pants, a possessive, thoughtful gesture that made you squeeze your thighs together. He traced your slit once with an eager finger, exhaling deeply.
"Sweetheart, you’re already—you’re so wet. All because I told some guy to get lost?"
"Y-yes, of course! It was hot!" you panted, arching he parted your folds further, circling your swollen clit with rough, perfect pressure. "C-clark!"
Your head fell back against the wall with a soft thud, your strokes faltering.
"No, call me the other thing. The other word," he pleaded, doused in want.
He pushed one finger inside you, then a second almost immediately, the stretch delicious, filling. Your inner muscles clenched around him, a wet, tight grip.
"You mean—husband?" you whimpered, your hips rocking against his hand as you gripped his shaft harder and faster. "My—husband."
He nodded, eyes half-lidded in hunger, his breath coming in harsh pants. He curled his fingers, finding that spot inside you that made your legs buckle.
You cried out, the sound echoing off the stone, and your grip on him tightened. He groaned, bucking into your hand while he added a third finger, the stretch exquisite, filling you perfectly, preparing you for what was to come. You could feel the muscles in your walls fluttering around the intrusion, aching for more.
"That’s it, hon. Relax for me, beautiful. Feels good?"
The praise, combined with the rough, intimate penetration, had you spiraling. You dropped your head back against the wall, your breath coming out in ragged pants.
"So damn good, baby… please—I need you."
He withdrew his fingers, bringing them to his mouth. He never broke eye contact as he sucked them clean, his tongue swirling around his own digits, tasting you. The visual was so erotic you thought you might come from that alone.
"You need me how?" he asked, peppering light kisses along your burning cheeks, your jawline, waiting for your answer.
"I-I need you t-to make love to me—fuck me—whatever you want to call it," you begged, beyond pride, beyond anything but the desperate, clawing need between your soaked thighs. "I just need you inside me!"
He lifted you then, his hands under your ass, boosting you up effortlessly. You wrapped your legs around his waist, your arms around his neck, clinging to the collar of his shirt. The rough fabric of his trousers scratched your inner thighs as he guided himself to your entrance, the broad, wet head nudging against your slick cunt, stealing your breath.
You moaned as you kissed Clark while he pushed in. You took in the love, the possessiveness, the barely leashed power of the man who gently kiss your forehead every morning, and the one who was about to wreck you right into concrete.
It started off as a slow, steady pressure, a breathtaking stretch that burned so good. A guttural groan tore from his throat, and your own mouth fell open in a series of quiet cries as your nails dug into the hard muscles of his shoulders. You felt every inch as he filled you, stretching you open, claiming a space that felt made only for him.
"O-oh," he breathed, his own composure shattering as your walls already started tightening around him. He didn’t move for a long moment, just held you there, trembling, letting you adjust, letting you feel the complete, overwhelming fullness of him.
"You feel... Gosh, you feel like heaven, sweetheart."
You nuzzled into the crook of his neck, small huffs of air against his galloping pulse, encouraging him to move. He pulled back, almost all the way out, the drag exquisite and torturous, then surged forward again.
The rhythm soon turned hard, desperate, a raw piston of his hips that drove you back against the stone with every thrust. Slap-slap-slap of skin on skin mingling with the muffled bass from the club.
His hands gripped your ass, fingers digging in, holding you open for him, adjusting the angle. Each thrust rocked you, jolting you against the unyielding, rough surface, the friction of his body against your engorged clit with every snap of his hips sending sparks flying behind your eyes.
"You feel incredible like this." he grunted. He shifted his grip, one arm banding across your lower back to hold you steady, the other hand dropping to where you were joined. His thumb found your clit, circling it with rough, perfect pressure. "So—tight—warm."
You were babbling, a stream of filthy, worshipful praise buried in the crook of his neck.
"Yes, f-fuck y-yes… so deep… you fill me up so good, Clark… please—h-harder…"
"S-say it," he grunted, his pace never faltering. "Say it again."
"My husband," you cried out, voice breaking on a particularly deep thrust. "My Clark. My good, strong, incredible man. Fuck me."
One of the thin straps of your dress had slipped entirely down your shoulder. Clark ducked his head, his mouth finding the swell of your breast, peeling the silky pasty off your nipple with his teeth, the little snap of adhesive loud in your ears. He spit out the cover, then his hot, wet mouth closed over a peak, sucking hard, his tongue lashing the sensitive bud.
The dual sensations of deep, relentless pounding and the sharp, sweet assault on your breast pushed you toward the edge with terrifying speed. Your impending orgasm coiled tight in your belly.
"B-baby, I’m–Ah!---gonna… I’m so close…gonna cum—"
The music through the walls swelled again, a pounding beat that matched the pounding of his hips, the pounding of your blood. You were a mess of sounds: his ragged grunts, your high, desperate mewls, the slick, wet schlick of his cock driving into your soaked cunt, over and over.
"I got—you. You’re everything," he whispered hoarsely against the valley of your breasts. "A-always—have been."
It was the tenderness in the midst of the filthy, frantic fucking that undid you. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes as your climax ripped through you. Your entire body convulsed, a raw, ragged cry tearing from your throat as the pleasure blinded you, white-hot and all-consuming. Your walls clamped down on him in rhythmic, milking pulses, and you felt him swell even larger inside you, felt the first hot, urgent pulse at the root of his cock.
"That’s it, sweetheart," he praised, slowly his thrusts as you rode out your orgasm, feeling a new wave of slick coat his shaft.
"Mmm, c’mon, baby," you challenged, raw and desperate for his release. "Fuck me like I’m your everything then. Like I’m your wife already. Like I'm already a Kent."
He made a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob. "Y-you will," he promised. "You’ll have—my name. You’ll wear my ring." He rocked into you again, a rough, possessive surge in energy.
"Right here." He kissed your left ring finger where it lay against his neck. "You’ll wear it to work. In the shower." Another sharp, deep thrust that made you cry out. "In bed when I’m making love to you. You’ll never take it off."
"No, never," you breathed, the promise a vow.
You could feel another orgasm building, a fast, deep, internal tightening sparked by his words, by the feeling of him still moving inside you, by the sheer, overwhelming rightness of it all.
"God, baby…don’t stop…please don’t stop—"
"I’m–not," he panted, his pace gradually increasing again, finding a new, deeper rhythm. "I’m never gonna stop."
He thrusted into you with a new, devastating force, losing all rhythm, becoming pure, driving need. His eyes held yours for a moment, a blue flame in the dim light. You could see the moment his control shattered.
"I’m gonna—hon, I’m —" he choked out.
"Do it," you gasped through your pleasure-fogged brain, your body clamping tight around him again. "Fill me up. Give it to me, baby!"
With a final, deep, grinding thrust that seated him impossibly deep, he came with a guttural moan, stifled against your shoulder and by the pounding club music.
You felt it, the hot, sudden flood inside you, an abundant rush that seemed to go on and on. A thick, spill began to seep out around the tight join of your bodies, a slow trickle down your inner thigh onto the floor.
The feeling of being so utterly filled, claimed, was profoundly satisfying, and triggered another climax out of you.
Both of you trembled in the aftermath, clinging to each other, your foreheads pressed together, breaths mingling in ragged, syncopated pants, sweet nothings, and kisses.
His softening cock slipped from you with a wet, soft plop, followed by a trickle of his release down your thighs. You shuddered at the sensation, the explicit evidence of what you’d just done in the dark corner of a high-end club.
.
Slowly, carefully, Clark lowered you until your heels touched the floor again. Your legs buckled instantly, and he caught you, his arms a steady band around your waist.
For a long moment, neither of you really spoke. There was only the sound of your breathing, yours uneven and his not much better, and the distant thump of the next song being remixed.
He pressed soft, scattered kisses to your forehead, your cheeks, your swollen lips. His hands, so rough and firm moments before, were gentle as he tugged your dress back into place, smoothing the tabric over your hips. He reached in his back pocket, offering your thong.
You stared at it for a moment, and instead of taking it, you stuffed it back in his back pocket, a smug, wicked grin gracing your lips.
Clink blinked once before turning away to laugh.
"You’re impossible!" he exclaimed, though the fondness directed at you gave him away completely.
He lifted both hands to your face, thumbs swiping carefully under your eyes where your mascara had smudged.
"Hm, mascara’s a little… dramatic," he murmured, his voice hoarse but tender. "Very punk rock. A little incriminating."
You let out a shaky, breathless laugh, and leaned your forehead to his chest, listening to the strong, gallop of his heart slow to something recognizable again. His hand came to the nape of your neck, massaging lightly.
"I meant it, you know," you murmured.
His hands stilled. "Hm? Meant what?"
"The husband part. All of it," you whispered, the vulnerability sharp after the intense physicality. "Wanting to be your wife."
A soft, wondering sound escaped him.
"Oh." He took your left hand, lifting it between you. He pressed a slow, gentle kiss to your ring finger again, his lips warm and lingering on the bare skin.
"Well I meant it, too." he murmured against your skin. He glanced up at you then, not teasing or cocky. Just earnest in that infuriatingly sincere way that made your heart skip a beat.
"We can talk more about it at home, but," he added quietly, thumb tracing the base of your finger, "you’ll have something right here soon. And nobody’s ever going to question it again."
"Sounds like a plan," you sighed before tugging him down for another kiss, open and steady, a kiss of aftermath and promise.
You pulled back first, reality quickly seeping in as the corner of your eye caught the neon red EXIT far down the abandoned hall.
"Shit!"
You scrambled, reaching for his phone in his other back pocket, ignoring his confused protests. You blinked at his phone screen lighting up your face with dawning horror.
"Oh no."
"What? What’s wrong?" he asked immediately, alert again in a completely different way.
You turned the screen toward him sharply. He squinted against the brightness, straightening his glasses has mouthed his notifications: seven missed calls. Twelve texts. A group chat notification exploding with dramatic punctuation from Lois. One from Jimmy that simply read: dude, u guys alive?
Clark winced, sucking a sharp breath between his teeth. "Oh, uhh…hm. Yikes."
You glanced at the timestamps. Your jaw dropped. "Clark!"
"We’re still here, aren’t we?" he reminded weakly, words pitched high. "We kept our promise. Not total jerks!"
"We did not promise to disappear for almost an hour!"
"Eh, more like forty-seven minutes," he corrected.
"You are not helping!"
He lifted his hands in surrender, except he was smiling now, that infuriating, dimpled, boyish smile that meant he absolutely was not sorry.
"Okay," he began, tipping his head slightly, as he raised an index finger, "but for the record… I wasn’t the one who asked to be taken somewhere first."
Your eyes widened and your jaw dropped. "You are unbelievable."
He shrugged, crossing his arms. "Just stating facts."
You swatted his shoulder. "Stop that!"
He caught your wrist easily, laughing louder this time, and tugged you closer so the scolding couldn’t gain any real traction.
"You said you needed me," he murmured, quieter now, not entirely teasing. "Who am I to deny my beautiful girl?"
You tried not to melt. "Well, you didn’t have to agree so enthusiastically."
"Oh, I think I did," he replied, completely unapologetic.
You both stared at each other for a second, then down at his phone, truly feeling like teenagers caught sneaking out.
"We’re never gonna live this down, are we?"
"No, never," you bemoaned, smiling back despite yourself.
You were a still a mess—makeup smeared, dress wrinkled, evidence of your lovemaking warm between your thighs—and you had never felt more perfectly, completely his.
Clark slipped his phone out of your grasp and into his pocket and reaching to take your hand in his again.
"C’mon, Mrs-Eventually-Kent," he sighed deeply, nudging his shoulder against yours, squeezing your hand once. "Let’s go face the music."
And together, still a little breathless and entirely too pleased with yourselves, you walked back toward the party you had absolutely, undeniably flaked on.
Again.
.
Thank you for reading! Likes, comments, and reblogs especially are forever appreciated. Keeps me motivated!
Pairing David!Clark Kent x Female!Reader
Summary The morning after Valentine's finds you tender, well-loved, and staring at the latest casualty of being married to Clark: your one and only bed. That's bed chem, babes (Breakfast in bed + Only One Bed)
Tags 18+, mdni, smuuut, fingering, cockwarming, piv, creampie, hot and heavy make out, minor praise kink, overstimulated from the night before and Clark is the consent king, aftercare, Downbad!Clark, Smug!Clark, Romantic!Clark, Mutual horniness, Clark breaks the bed and is prideful/smug, but HATES when you're mad
WC 4k
I'm still so hot looking at this gif, thanks @maiamore
a prequel to The Bed Budget
Galentine's #13 by @/wildflowersandvibranium & @/pinksplace | Mrs. Kent Diaries
Sunlight, a persistent and golden intruder, slipped through a curtain gap and painted a bright stripe across your eyelids, warm as a hand and smug as a reminder.
Clark’s unique, clean-sunshine smell, chocolates, and oddly enough, dusty wood lingered in the air.
A groan that scraped from the very bottom of your soul left your chapped lips. Every muscle in your body felt tight and sore as you stretched. Between your thighs was a distinct, sticky, intimate dampness that told you exactly what had happened, and was still happening, hours after the fact.
Memories of your eventful Valentine’s Day came in a hazy, sensual montage.
Clark’s large, warm, and gentle hands caressing the back of your head as you sucked him impossibly deep. His mouth, worshipful and demanding, left a trail of tingling skin and a constellation of tender marks blooming. His enthusiastic praises, words that made you blush even now, complimented every thrust. The feeling of being utterly, thoroughly loved, stretched to a breathtaking limit that only he could reach.
And the bed. The stupid, beautiful, now-broken bed.
Realization cut through the pleasant fog of afterglow. You shifted, and the mattress sank. Not the usual give of memory foam, but a structural, groaning wrong. A small, distressed sound of wood complaining followed your movements. A metallic tink as a loose bolt gave up its post.
You faintly remembered the headboard splitting sometime around round three. Or was it round four? You weren't sure…time got slippery right when Clark had your ankles almost to your ears and held you still while he filled you. Again.
A slow, simmering irritation began to heat your blood, chasing away the last vestiges of sleep. There were no words profound enough to convey how much you loved him, but you were so damn tired of Superman-strength defeating human engineering!
You took a slow, deliberate breath, preparing to turn and deliver the glare of the century to your sleeping husband, but the space beside you was already empty, the sheets cool.
Then you heard it.
From the kitchen.
The sounds of someone moving, given from the soft clink of a mug, the gentle scrape of a pan, topped off with carefree whistling.
Plus the unmistakable smell of bacon, eggs, and something sweet. Pancakes?
Oh, he already knew!
Of course, he knew. He probably heard the wood splinter in real time last night and had spent every second mentally drafting his excuses right after.
Footsteps approached the bedroom door with quite a pep.
The door creaked slowly, and Clark appeared, a vision of domestic bliss.
He was shirtless (damn him), his sleep pants slung low on his hips (damn him again), and he raven hair was a glorious, chaotic mess (no comment). He looked less like an icon and more like your husband, rumpled and warm from sleep.
You finally pushed yourself up on your elbows, letting the sheet pool to your waist. The cool air kissed your bare skin, raising goosebumps. You didn’t bother to cover yourself.
Let him see. Let him witness the consequences (if he cared).
His brilliant blue eyes, so full of a love, flickered over your face first. They lingered on your mouth, where he’d kissed you there, slow and deep, for what felt like hours. His gaze traveled down, tracing the love bites on your neck, over the slope of your bare breasts, then lower, to the space between your covered thighs, and his expression softened with a possessiveness that made your stomach flutter.
Then his eyes found the bedframe.
His face changed. The softness evaporated, replaced by pure, unadulterated amusement. Like he’d taken one look at the split slat and thought, Yeah. That tracks. Like the evidence didn’t horrify him so much as… satisfy him.
His mouth twitched. His shoulders lifted in the barest shrug.
He looked like a man being shown photographic proof of his own crime and deciding the prosecution had a point, but the defendant also had excellent taste.
"Good morning, my love," he greeted (oh, he's laying it thick), pitched a tad higher than his usual morning rumble. eyes bright with that sunshine-dimples softness that always got him in trouble. "I was, uh…making breakfast. For you!"
A beat, like he was testing the waters. "How was your sleep?"
You just looked at him. Let the silence stretch.
He cleared his throat, clapped his hands once like he could reset the morning, and pointed vaguely in your direction as if you were a problem he could solve with enthusiasm.
"So. I—" he started, then stopped, eyes flicking back to the broken slat. The grin tried to come back, smaller now. "I heard a noise last night. Felt it. And I’m sure you did too. I was going to…" He trailed off, then rushed in with the only coping mechanism he trusted: fixing. "Hon, I can fix it. Right now. Two minutes. I’ll get my tools."
He took a step back, already turning, already reaching for problem-solving.
"Clark Joseph Kent."
Your voice stopped him cleanly. You kept it calm. The kind of calm that suggested you were being very generous—so far.
"I am sore," you said evenly. "I am… leaking." A small pause, just long enough to be a warning. "I am not supervising carpentry while you try to redeem yourself."
You gestured vaguely to yourself, to the sheets, to the bedframe that had sacrificed itself in the name of your marriage.
Clark turned back, and the amusement flickered. His eyes went wide with that devastating, boyish sincerity like he’d rather take a kryptonite-laced bullet than have you upset with him.
He crossed the room in three strides with long-legged urgency, and knelt on the floor, bringing his eyes level with yours.
It was such a deliberately humble posture, your heart gave a treacherous squeeze.
No! Be strong, woman!
"I’m sorry," he said, but there was a warmth in it that betrayed him. "I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I got carried away. I didn’t mean to—" He exhaled, helpless, honest. "I should’ve been more careful. Especially the last round."
The smugness faded the moment he saw your expression hold. Like a switch flipped. Like your irritation mattered more than his pride ever could.
His hand hovered under the sheet over your knee. "Can I?"
Polite. Devout. Still hints of smugness underneath.
You narrowed your eyes, letting the silence linger a beat too long on purpose, but eventually gave a tiny nod.
His hand settled on your knee, his thumb beginning those slow, circular strokes. His touch was warm, gentle. It was the kind of touch that said I’m sorry in a language he trusted more than words.
His eyes scanned you, not with his x-ray vision, but with a hyper-focused, husbandly concern that was somehow more intense. He was taking inventory, checking for any reason to blame himself harder than necessary.
"Are you hurt?" he asked, his voice dropping to a whisper. His other hand came up, his fingers tracing the edge of a love bite on your shoulder with a feather-light touch. "Here? Does this hurt?"
"No," you murmured. "It’s just a mark."
His fingers drifted to another on your collarbone. "Here?"
"Clark, I’m not broken." You caught his hand gently, holding it still. "I’m tender. And I’m a little annoyed. And I’m also absurdly in love with you, which is honestly making the annoyance worse."
That flicker of smugness tried to rise again—hopeful, delighted—before guilt drowned it, immediate and sincere.
"I’ll take care of this," he said quickly, like he could undo inconvenience with effort."I’ll buy a commercial-grade one. Like… hotel level. From a supplier. Or I’ll build one." His voice picked up speed as his brain launched into problem-solving golden retriever. "Gary and I can come up with something. Reinforced frame, steel supports, center beam, and I’ll sleep on the couch until it’s done."
Of course, his solution included exile.
"No!" you hissed, sharper than you meant to be.
Clark blinked, and because he was still, deep down, a farm boy with a martyr complex, slapped his forehead dramatically. "Geez. How careless of me." He pointed at the couch like it was a dungeon. "You take the couch, I’ll take the floor."
The idea of him banished anywhere was unbearable. You weren’t punishing him. You weren’t trying to prove a point. You wanted him close. Always.
"Oh my God, Clark! That’s not—" you cut yourself off, half-laughing, half-exasperated, because he was already trying to make himself smaller in the face of your inconvenience.
He paused, trying to look contrite, but his mouth kept threatening a smile.
"I’m making a sacrifice here!" he exclaimed.
"You’re being ridiculous."
He softened instantly, because you were laughing and exasperated and he hated that more than he liked being smug. "I’m trying to make it right."
"You can make it right by staying next to me," you said, half-laughing, half-commandeering. "You’re not sleeping anywhere that isn’t next to me." Then you added: "I’ll be mad for real."
His face crumpled in relief so profound it made something warm twist under your ribs.
"We only have one bed," you explained, edge leaving your voice entirely.
"Yeah, I know," he whispered, bringing his forehead to your knee, and he sounded so wistful it almost made you laugh. You stroked the back of his head.
"So maybe," you continued, drawling it out, "we stop treating it like a… like a launchpad."
You saw the struggle in his face. The way his cheek muscle twitched as he fought another laugh. He bit the inside of his cheek, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He failed. A small, helpless chuckle broke through.
"It’s not my fault you make it really hard to control myself," he mumbled, ducking his head.
You couldn’t help it. A snort of laughter escaped you. It broke the remaining tension in the room like a sunbeam through cloud cover.
"Ohhh, so it’s my fault?"
"Wait, no, that’s not what I—" he was thoroughly horrified by his implication. "No, of course not. It’s the bed’s fault. It’s shoddy craftsmanship. It’s…" He looked at the broken slat again and grimaced. "It’s me. I got carried away, because I always underestimate how much I love my wife."
He said it so simply, so earnestly, that your breath caught in a way that had nothing to do with passion and everything to do with the sheer magnitude of your husband’s heart.
You reached out then, your fingers tugging into the soft cotton at his hip. "Oh, come here, you."
He moved carefully, bracing his weight on his arms, knees sinking into the mattress at your side, making the frame groan another soft protest. You slid your hand up, over the warm, solid plane of his stomach, to his chest. You could feel the steady, powerful beat of his heart under your palm.
"I’m not mad about the mind-blowing, toe-curling sex," you whispered. "Obviously."
"Obviously," he echoed, also agreeing with a pleased shrug.
"I’m kind of—" you rolled your eyes at yourself, because it was ridiculous to admit, but he deserved to hear it, "I’m kind of obsessed with it. That you can’t help but still get carried away with me because you’re you, and God, it drives me crazy sometimes."
"I’m mad at the adulting," you continued, tipping your chin toward the broken frame. "The calls, the measuring, the delivery window, the money. The whole production. That’s what I don’t want to deal with."
"Then I will," he promised, like it was nothing. "All of it. I just want you comfortable."
You sighed, instantly melting. "God, you’re such a good man," you blurted, pouting a little. "It’s actually unfair. Do you know how hard it is to stay annoyed at you when you’re like this?"
His thumb brushed your cheek tenderly, another wide grin already forming. "Okay. Well, I’m not sorry about that."
"Better not be, mister!"
You tilted your face up and kissed him. It was a slow, press of lips that was more reassurance than passion. The I’m-so-in love-and-I’m-just-dramatic kiss. He melted into it, his body easing against yours, his hand coming up to cradle your jaw.
When you pulled back, you shifted slightly, and the movement sent a fresh, warm reminder of last night’s activities sliding through you. A small, involuntary sound escaped your throat, a soft, breathy oh, Clark.
He paused. His eyes, which had been bright with relief, darkened instantly. The blue seemed to deepen, to focus. His gaze dropped to your mouth. He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing.
"Hon," he whispered, a little husky from restraint, "I’m trying to be good."
"I know you are." You brushed your thumb over his lower lip, gentle and taunting, and watched his lashes flutter. "But there are… other ways to be close."
The look he gave you was one of pure, undiluted worship.
"Tell me," he breathed. "Tell me what you need."
You bit your lip and nudged his shoulder lightly, guiding him enough to lean away. You kept your eyes locked with his as you slowly pushed the rest of the sheet away, baring your body fully to the cool morning air and his heated gaze. The sunlight painted your skin in gold, highlighting every curve, every mark and claim he’d left. You saw his chest expand with a sharp inhale.
"You’re so beautiful," he praised. "Every time. It still… it takes my breath away."
"Careful," you teased, breathy. "Flattery gets you in trouble."
His mouth twitched. "I think I'm already there."
You reached for him, your hand sliding down his chest, over the ridges of his stomach, to the waistband of his pants. You hooked your fingers in them.
"These," you drawled. "Want ‘em off."
He didn’t need to be told twice. He stood, just for a moment, and pushed the pants down his legs, kicking them aside. He stood before you, fully revealed, and the sight of him—all that powerful, sculpted muscle, the sheer size and strength of him, hardened by his need for you—made a fresh wave of warmth pool low in your belly. The contrast never failed to thrill you: his immense, capable form, so completely at the service of your pleasure.
"Don’t look at me like that," he scolded lightly.
You smiled, sweet and smug. "Like what, baby?"
"Like you’re… proud of yourself."
"I am," you admitted simply.
He snorted. "Yeah. I figured."
He climbed back onto the bed with exaggerated care, distributing his weight, avoiding the broken spots. He stretched out beside you, propped on one elbow, his other hand coming to rest on your hip.
"Now, kiss me," you whispered with a smile, turnibg onto your side to face him, closing the small gap between you.
The kiss started tenderly. A soft meeting of lips, a gentle exploration. You sighed into it, your hand coming up to slide into his hair, your fingers tangling in the soft, thick strands. He made a low, approving sound in the back of his throat, his arm sliding under your neck to pull you closer.
"Wow," he murmured against your mouth, as if praising you for breathing.
"Stop that," you whispered, laughing quietly between pecks. "You’re making it worse."
"I’m not doing anything," he lied softly, resumed his affections.
The tenderness gradually bled into something more urgent. His lips parted, and your tongue met his in a slow, languid dance. The kiss deepened, grew wetter, hotter. You lost yourself in the feel of him, in the familiar taste and scent that was uniquely your Clark. His hand on your neck slid down to the small of your back, pressing you flush against him. You could feel the hard, thick length of him against your thigh, a persistent, heated pressure.
You broke the kiss, gasping for air. "Clark…"
"I know, sweetheart," he murmured, his lips trailing down your jaw to your neck, over your breasts. He didn’t suck, didn’t leave new marks. He just pressed soft, open-mouthed kisses along the sensitive skin, his breath hot against you.
"Just kissing. Just touching. Making my wife, my beautiful, perfect wife feel better."
Your chest tightened. Because he meant it. Because he always meant it.
"Such a saint," you purred, breathy with teasing.
He huffed a laugh against your throat. "I’m not a saint."
"No?" you whispered, smug. "Could’ve fooled me."
His hand, which had been resting on your back, began to move. It slid down, over the curve of your ass, then around, his fingers tracing the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, which you swore was egging you to misbehave.
He stopped short, his fingertips brushing along the outer swollen lip, not entering, just resting there, a teasing, coaxing, maddening presence as he toyed with the slick evidence of his last visit.
"Okay?" he asked, a rough whisper against your ear.
Nodding, whimpering as your hips gave a tiny, involuntary jerk towards his touch.
"Need to hear you," he insisted, his fingers stilling. "After I broke our bed. After I made you so sore you can barely move. Need to hear what you want from me now."
He was offering you control, even as he held you utterly in his thrall. It was a delicious, maddening contradiction.
"Touch me," you pleaded, the command urgent and clear. "Please, it’s okay. Just… touch me again."
That was all the permission he needed. His touch was exquisite in its gentleness. He knew your body, every fold, every secret place that made you tremble. His fingers moved with a slow, deliberate expertise, circling, stroking, applying just the right amount of pressure along your well-adored clit and still-slicked cunt.
"Oh, hon," he breathed, more to himself than to you. "You’re still so full. I did that to you, huh?"
Your body arched into his touch, gasps of pleasure escaping your lips as your eyes locked with his, sharing the moment's intensity. His other hand slid under your thigh opening you wider.
"That’s it," he whispered, his own breathing growing uneven. He watched your face, his eyes tracking every flutter of your lashes, every parting of your lips, every beat of your pulse. "You feel so good. Look so beautiful lying here for me."
His praise washed over you, amplifying every sensation. You craned your head, seeking his mouth again, and he met you in another searing kiss, swallowing your moans. His fingers continued their work, the rhythm building, coiling a tight, sweet tension low in your core. Your thighs trembled in his hand, your fingers clutching at his shoulders.
"Oh, s-shit... I’m… I’m close," you gasped against his mouth.
"I feel you," he murmured, pulling back just enough to lock his eyes with yours, a blue blaze through his dark lashes. "Eyes on me, yeah? Wanna watch you."
Your eyelids fluttered open, pleasure blurring your vision as you locked eyes with him. The intensity in his blue gaze—love, lust, devotion—felt like a tidal wave pulling you under. You clung to it, to him, your body shaking as his fingers worked their magic.
"C-Clark!" you gasped, your voice breaking, "I love you, fuck—I love you!" the words spilling out in desperate, breathless chants as the tension coiled tighter.
You held his stare, refusing to look away, even as your body arched, even as the first wave of your orgasm crashed over you and tore a series of moans and cries from your lips. Your eyes squeezed shut for a fraction of a second before you forced them open again, determined to let him see you, feel you, as you came apart.
The pleasure crashed through you, hot and endless, and you watched his face soften with awe, his lips parting as he whispered, "I love you too."
As the tremors subsided, you collapsed back onto the ruined mattress, boneless and gasping. He slowly, carefully withdrew his hand, bringing his fingers to his mouth, his eyes still held yours with rapt fascination, and cleaned them with a slow, deliberate swipe of his tongue.
"Taste so good. Taste like us. Like last night."
You let out a shaky laugh, still dazed. "You’re...you're ridiculous!"
Then you tugged him by his bicep, guiding him completely over you. The bed creaked as he went willingly, bracing his weight on his forearms, his body caging you fully. The hard, hot length of him pressed against your stomach. You wrapped your jello-like legs around his hips, locking your ankles at the small of his back.
"I want you, I—" you swallowed, at a loss for words. "Need you."
"Yeah?" he whispered against your lips. "Tell me how. I’ll be good. I’ll—" a swallow. "I’ll be gentle."
"Just stay still," you whispered, "Inside."
Clark understood, shifting carefully, a controlled power that made your heart race. He positioned himself, buckling lightly at the press of his cock, and then he was pushing in, so slowly, so incredibly slowly. There was a faint, slick shhh of wetness.
You were still sensitive from your climax, still stretched and tender from last night, and the feeling of him filling you, inch by delicious inch, made a fresh wave of slick form. A sharp, sweet ache bloomed into a deep, full pressure below your navel. You gasped, your nails digging into the hard muscles of his shoulder and biceps.
"Still alight?" he breathed, his forehead damp with sweat, his entire body tense with restraint as you adjusted.
"Y-yes," you managed. "Move, baby."
He sank the rest of the way in, until he was fully sheathed, until you could feel him everywhere. He collapsed onto his forearms, his face buried in the crook of your neck, his breath coming in hot, ragged gusts against your skin. He didn’t move, as you requested. He just held himself there, deep inside you, letting you adjust, letting the feeling of connection settle over you both.
This wasn’t about taking. This was about being. About closeness. About aftercare in its most primal form. You could feel every throb of his pulse within you, a steady, insistent rhythm. You slid your arms around his broad back, holding him as tightly as he was holding you.
"I-I love you," Clark said through gritted teeth, the words muffled but fervent. "I love—If I loved you less I might be able to—"
"—talk about it more," you finished with a helpless grin, turning your head to press a kiss to his temple.
Despite your own rules, you rocked your hips, just a tiny, subtle shift, and felt him shudder against you. "God, Clark. You romantic dork. You’re gonna kill me."
"Think you're gonna kill me first," he groaned, but he didn’t pull away. He pressed closer, if that was possible.
You both floated there, suspended in the quiet morning. The only sounds were your mingled breathing and the occasional, soft groan of the compromised bedframe beneath you. Sunlight warmed your tangled legs. You could still smell the coffee from the kitchen.
After a long, peaceful while, he stirred. He lifted his head, his eyes searching yours. "How do you feel?"
"Never better," you managed a weak nod, your body humming, every nerve alight. The annoyance was a distant memory, burned away by the warmth of his body and the depth of his care.
He smiled, that soft, boyish one with twin dimples. He began to move then, not with the driving, bed-breaking force of last night, but with slow, shallow rolls of his hips. It was barely movement at all, just a gentle, rocking connection that sparked fresh tendrils of pleasure, coiling around the deep, satiated ache. You met his rhythm, moving with him in a lazy, effortless sync.
His eyes never left yours. The eye contact was more intimate than before, a silent conversation that flowed between you with each slow thrust. You could see the love there, the devotion, the faintest shadow of guilt, and the blazing heat of his desire.
You could also see the moment his control began to fray. His breathing hitched, his movements growing slightly less measured.
"I can’t think when you—look at me like that," he confessed, voice strained with brutal honesty. "Sweetheart, I’m losing it."
Your smile turned slow and wicked, even as your breath came faster.
"Thought you wanted to see me," you panted. "S-say it again. Tell me you’re losing it."
His lashes fluttered, jaw tightening. "I’m—" a shaky exhale, "—I’m losing it. Your fault, definitely."
"Oh, I know," you breathed, and the praise was a match to gasoline. "You’re doing so good for me."
"I-I’m close—can’t—You’re making me lose it," he warned, his voice strained. "G-gosh, hon—I—where–where do you—?"
You tightened your legs around him, walls fluttering as you drew him in even deeper.
"I-Inside, always," you moaned urgently, raking your nails across his back as if coaxing him. "Come for me, baby. Come for your wife again."
It was all the encouragement he needed. His rhythm broke, his hips stuttering against yours. His eyes widened, his pupils swallowing the blue, and you watched, mesmerized, as pleasure overtook him. A low, guttural moan tore from his throat. He was beautiful in his release, his face a mask of vulnerable ecstasy.
You felt the hot, sudden, familiar rush of him inside you, a profound, flooding warmth that seemed to go on and on, a testament to the unique biology of the man you married. You clenched around him repeatedly, milking every last pulse, holding him through the waves.
Clark was careful, even in his exhaustion, to keep most of his weight off you as he collapsed, utterly spent. He nuzzled into your neck, pressing soft, damp kisses to your skin. He mumbled sweet nothings between uneven breaths, the words slurred with satisfaction and devotion. Your fingers combed through his damp hair with each kiss, soothing, indulgent.
Eventually, he lifted his head. His eyes were lovestruck and lazy, that gooey, boyish look that always made you want to be insufferable about it.
"Y’know," he murmured, "Valentine’s didn’t end at midnight for me."
You made a sound that might’ve been a disbelieving scoff. "Oh?"
"It’s still happening," he said, and the corner of his mouth quirked. "As long as I get to be here next to you."
You snorted, muttered ‘Geez, you big ol’ mush’ under your breath, and caught him in a final slow, sweet kiss. When you parted, you nodded towards the kitchen, then blinked up at him sweetly.
"So, I believe there was talk of breakfast, Mr. Kent?"
His laugh vibrated through his chest into yours.
"Right! Stay put, hon. I got you!"
He withdrew from you slowly, both of you wincing at the loss and the fresh, slick evidence of your joining that followed. He fetched a warm, damp washcloth from the connected bathroom quickly, and tended to you with utmost tenderness, listening carefully to your every sigh and sharp breath.
Only once he was satisfied with the way the sheets covered you, did he tug on his sweats and vanish into the kitchen.
You lay there, alone in the broken bed, surrounded by sunlight and the smell of sex and, still, coffee.
Proof of a marriage that was shamelessly, wonderfully alive.
Clark returned minutes later with a tray meticulously arranged like a peace offering and a love letter.
Fluffy waffles covered with exactly the right amount of syrup, scrambled eggs, a bowl of yogurt with honey, a small pile of strawberries, coffee in your favorite mug, and a tall glass of water.
He even brought a bottle of ibuprofen and your heating pad.
He set the tray aside for a moment, helped you sit up, propping pillows behind you. His hands were checking without hovering—here, there, too much pressure?— making sure you were comfortable.
You let him fuss, because watching your Clark —your Superman—go soft and domestic with caretaking was its own kind of seduction.
Once you were settled, he placed the tray across your lap and gingerly climbed onto the bed beside you.
The bed creaked once more.
Clark paused mid-motion.
You lifted a brow.
He gave you the smallest, most unapologetic smirk (still worth it) and then immediately sobered, sliding closer with the gentleness of a man who worshipped your comfort more than his pride.
He watched you take the first bite of waffles, his eyes scanning your face.
"Well?" he asked.
"To die for," you complimented was an exaggerated moan, mouth muffled full of food. "As always, Chef Kent. Thank you."
He nodded and picked up a strawberry, holding it to your lips. You took a bite, the sweet juice bursting on your tongue.
"At this point," you said after swallowing, leaning your head against his shoulder, "we should just get a mattress on the floor."
Clark paused, his coffee mug halfway to his lips. He peered down at you, a mischievous look spread across his face.
"That’s actually not a bad idea," he said slowly, all serious. "You’re brilliant!"
You laughed, bright and happy in the sunlit bedroom. "I was joking."
"Well, I’m not." You could see the gears turning in his head, the plans formulating. "Sturdy foundation. Low center of gravity. No frame to break." He nodded once like he’d solved world hunger. "I mean, it’s the perfect solution."
"Ah, so the great Man of Steel admits defeat not by kryptonite, but by a bedframe," you teased, nudging him with your elbow.
He set his mug down slowly and turned to you, his expression soft and earnest again. He cupped your face in his hands, his thumbs stroking your cheeks.
"Defeated by the thought of you being uncomfortable," he corrected gently. "Conquered, completely, by you."
He kissed you then, a sweet, lingering kiss that tasted of coffee and strawberries. When he pulled back, he kept his forehead pressed to yours.
"We only had one bed," he whispered.
"Just this one," you agreed. "We'll be slumming it like broke college kids for a while."
"And somehow," he started, pursing his lips, "you still choose it. You still choose me."
"Every day, baby," you promised, smiliing against him.
"Every day," he echoed, words filled with a wonder that never grew old.
The coffee cooled on the tray. The broken bed leaned on, a silent, ridiculous witness. In the warm pool of sunlight, wrapped in the careful, protective embrace of the man you loved—your sweet, prideful, impossible husband—you knew there was nowhere else you’d rather be.
.
Thank you for reading! Any likes + reblogs and comments especially are forever appreciated, and keeps me motivated!
pairing David!Clark Kent x JournalistWife!reader
summary After a day spent teasing Clark across the bullpen, one last stop in the archives room proves to be a very bad idea. Or a very good one. An inevitable one.
tags pwp, 18+, MDNI, smuuuut, hot n heavy make out, fingering, brief oral (f receiving as always), creampie, mild manhandling, overstim, workplace fucking, Yearning&Horny!Clark, the skirt and stockings stay on
wc 4.75k
trying to get my sparkle back, inspired by this photoset because boy. could not bring myself to edit this. pretend there is life to this and that this made sense. wanted clark to bang me on a table after-hours, HR look away
Mrs. Kent Diaries
The evening sun filtered through the Daily Planet’s tall windows, laying long bars of gold across empty desks. Your and Clark’s computers were the last pools of artificial light, stubborn little claims against the day’s end.
By the time you saved your latest draft, the janitor’s cart and the fluorescent hum overhead had become the loudest things in the room.
You sat back with a long exhale and flexed your fingers, feeling the aftershock of typing through your wrists. Your shoulders ached. The base of your neck throbbed. Your eyes burned from too many hours spent squinting at quotes, budgets, and the kind of bureaucratic evasiveness that only made you more certain you were right.
Across the bullpen, Clark was apparently proofreading a digital layout sheet.
He’d been at it for the better part of an hour, one thumb drumming against his desk, glasses slipping too far down his nose and not caring enough to push them back up. Every so often, his attention would drift to you with all the subtlety of sunlight through open blinds.
Then he would glance back down at the screen as though he might still salvage the illusion of productivity.
It had been like that all day.
It started that morning while getting ready together. You stood in front of the mirror, smoothing your hands down the line of your new skirt you had bought for no reason other than the fact that it made you feel damn good. The perfume had been new, too. Expensive. Indulgence, one little polished necessity in a job that so often required blood in the water.
Naturally, you had not put either of them on with the intention of ruining your husband’s entire day.
Not consciously, anyway.
Still, you’d caught Clark’s reflection in the mirror, his toothbrush frozen in hand while he watched you, lingering on that small patch of skin just below your ear that he was always kissing when he passed behind you or fucked you from the back.
“You smell…” he’d trailed off, his voice still unused from sleep.
You met his eyes in the mirror. “I smell…?”
His eyes had lifted to yours in the mirror, very much awake now. “Good, sweetheart. Look beautiful, too.”
That had been all.
The warmth in his voice followed you into the rest of the day somehow, something you kept feeding with every polite interaction.
It was nourished in the space between your desks, quiet and constant. In the way he kept finding reasons to stand at your elbow. In the heat of him at your back when he leaned in to “borrow” a pen from your desk despite having one clipped into breast pocket. In the deliberate care when he set a fresh coffee on your desk, his fingers brushing along your shoulder in passing.
In the glances — God, the glances — that landed not with the casual appreciation of a man noticing his wife looking nice, but the distinctly more dangerous attention of a husband trying very hard to remember he was in public. At work, no less.
And because you were only human, and Clark was your husband, and because it was a thrill to do this to him you had not exactly helped.
You crossed and uncrossed your legs slowly under your desk. Leaned forward just enough to give him a glimpse of the lace edging of your bra when your blouse gaped slightly during lunch, and the expression that crossed his face over his salad had nearly lost your own train of thought.
Clark was so beautiful when he was trying to behave.
More to the point, you knew exactly what he looked like when that effort was beginning to fail.
Now, in the hollow silence and the encroaching darkness from the setting sun, the tension ripened into something palpable.
You stood, the chair rolling back with a soft screech that made Clark look up immediately.
“Okay, I’m tapped out,” you announced, stretching. “Just need to pull that old Metropolis Water Board file from two years ago before we go. The source list should still be in archives some—”
Clark was on his feet before you finished the sentence. “I’ll help you.”
“Babe.”
He was already rounding his desk. “What?”
“You don't know where anything is in archives.”
“What? That’s not true.”
“Clark.”
“Okay,” he admitted, coming closer anyway, so transparently eager it made you laugh. “I don’t know where most of anything is in archives, but I’m still coming with you.”
He held his hand out for yours as if that settled it. Which, with him, it usually did.
You slipped your fingers through his, and that soft expression on his face made your heart flutter. Sometimes, you had no idea what to do with the fact that this man, this extraordinary, impossible man, could look at you like holding your hand was the best part of his day.
The walk to the archives room was a study in charged silence.
Most of the lights had been cut for the night. What was left came in patches – the dim wash from the bullpen behind you, the red blink of an EXIT sign ahead, the low institutional gloom of a building trying to sleep for the night.
Your heels click-clacked a neat, sharp rhythm on the polished linoleum, a counterpoint to Clark’s near-silent tread of his longer strides and occasionally whisper of fabric when his trouser leg brushed your calves on a final turn.
Swiping your badge, you unlocked the archives room. The door groaned on its hinges as Clark pushed it open.
The air inside felt immediately different from the hallway—colder by a few degrees, dustier, carrying the brittle, papery scent of things left undisturbed too long. You flicked the light switch; a few overhead lights sputtered to life, casting a weak, yellowed glow over the room. Floor-to-ceiling metal shelves crammed with bankers boxes and bound volumes of old newspapers lined the walls, cutting the space into narrow, canyon-like aisles.
“Hm. Maybe I should’ve saved this for tomorrow,” you muttered, more to yourself, reluctantly turning into the nearest aisle to see the job through anyway.
Clark didn’t answer.
You noticed that instantly. Clark was rarely this quiet with you. Usually, he filled silences with a passing thought, a joke under his breath, interest in your notes, always some soft domestic thing carried with him even into the office. Here, there was only the faint scuff of his shoes trailing behind you and the steady sense of his attention pinned squarely between your shoulder blades.
Sighing and tipping your face up toward the faded labels, you blinked against the strain that had settled behind your eyes hours ago.
Without much thought — or patience — you stepped onto the bottom shelf brace for leverage and reached up for a grey archive box just within arm’s reach, sore fingers curling over the cardboard lip—
—but then you felt it.
A solid, undeniable presence directly behind you, close enough to lift the fine hairs at your arms before contact ever could.
You startled so badly your heel slipped on the metal rung, the box tipping with you. The next thing you knew, you were pitching backward into the solid wall of your husband’s chest. His hands closed around your waist immediately, catching you before the stumble could become anything worse. A mess of dust, loose papers, and folders fanned out at your feet, punctuated with a heavy thump that echoed through the room.
“Oh shit—”
“Sweetheart!” His voice came quick and concerned, half-muffled by the fact that his face had dipped instinctively toward your neck. “Are you okay? Does anything hurt?”
“No, I’m good,” you squeaked, heart still climbing its way back down from your throat. You felt him take one slow breath where you had spritzed your perfume that morning and swallowed. “Just startled. I’m okay.”
Clark’s hands lingered at your waist, as if apologizing and confirming that you really meant it. Then he eased you upright, gave you one last searching look, and dropped into a crouch to start gathering the scattered papers because of course he would.
You stood there for a second longer than necessary, watching him straighten bent corners, stack pages neatly, brush dust from the top sheet with the side of his hand before setting it aside. Even now, even visibly distracted, he handled everything with that same care.
Then, because he glanced up at you at the right wrong moment and because you were not made of stronger stuff than anyone else blessed with a husband who looked like that, you toyed with the hem of your skirt.
Just a thoughtless-looking little adjustment. A smoothing, innocent motion that drew his attention anyway.
Your other hand slipped into his hair, fingertips passing through the soft dark strands at his crown as you spoke, easy and teasing, “You know, for someone who volunteered to help, that whole shelf situation could’ve been avoided.”
From where he knelt, Clark tipped his head back to look at you, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly.
“I’d have to disagree,” he shuffled a few more folders into a neat pile. “Seems like seeking out trouble’s been the pattern all day.”
“Oh, really?” You shifted, and your skirt rode a touch higher against your thighs. “That’s a bold accusation, Mr. Kent.”
A faint rosy flush began to gather high across his cheeks, his eyes flicking down before he could stop them. To your knees. Your thighs. The neat line of your skirt. Something in his face gave. A fine, visible crack through all that Martha-Kent-taught self-control.
Clark stood to his full height with a quiet exhale, one hand full of loose papers. He set them on the shelf beside you slowly and carefully, as though buying himself a second. Then he stepped in close and braced one arm against the metal beside your head, caging you in.
“Well, Mrs. Kent,” his gaze seared into yours and made your pulse skip. “You have been making my life difficult since breakfast.”
Pressing a hand to your chest, your jaw dropped, feigning offence with very little effort to sell it. “Oh my God, your life?”
“My concentration,” he corrected helplessly, eyeing the line of your throat and down to the peak of your cleavage before returning to your face. “My professionalism. Honey—” He exhaled once. “My general ability to act like I have one coherent thought in my head that isn’t you.”
That made you laugh, loud, delighted, and reckless, because here was your husband, Pulitzer winner, Kansas gentleman, Superman, standing in a cramped, stuffy aisle looking one breath away from total collapse.
“Damn,” you mock-sympathized, biting the inside of your cheek to rein in your grin. “That bad, huh?”
“That bad.”
You tilted your head. “Then I suppose you’ve only yourself to blame.”
That finally pulled a real reaction out of him. A quiet, argumentative huff, but it vanished almost immediately under the weight of the look he gave you next.
It belonged to your apartment on slow Sunday mornings. To your kitchen when he passed behind you with a hand at your waist. To nights when he was tired enough to drop his forehead to your shoulder before speaking. Warmth, wanting, affection so deep.
His hand lifted, and for one second, you thought he might touch your face.
Instead, his thumb brushed the inside of your wrist, the one still pressed to your chest, sweeping away a streak of dust from the fallen box. It was such a small gesture. Such an unmistakably tender Clark gesture.
“Clark,” you whispered, and this time the tease in your voice dissolved completely.
His eyes searched your face. Still waiting. Still giving you the chance to step around him, to pick up a file, to tease him once more, and walk back into the hallway like neither of you had spent the entire day edging toward this.
You didn’t do any of that.
Instead, you lifted your chin just slightly.
A silent invitation that Clark eagerly accepted.
He kissed you the way he always loved you—firm, deep, with a focused intensity that made your knees weak. His mouth moved over yours with the surety of long practice, of years spent learning exactly how you liked to be kissed, exactly how long to linger before deepening it, exactly what kind of pressure made you melt into him.
Your answer was just as certain, your hands coming up to fist in the soft cotton of his shirt at his chest, pulling him down until the narrow strip of air between you disappeared.
One of his hands left the shelf to cradle the back of your neck, fingers massaging the day’s tension away and holding you steady in his exploration. The other slid from your wrist to your waist, his broad hand spanning your side, thumb pressing just above your hip.
The textures of the room imprinted themselves on your senses—the cool metal of the shelf against your back. Dust in the air. The faint papery smell of old files. Clark’s aftershave, softened by the long day and tangled with coffee and your perfume. Somewhere above you, the lights buzzed faintly. Closer still, you could hear the way his breathing had changed.
Your hands moved, one sliding up to clutch at the back of his neck, feeling the powerful muscles corded tight with tension. The other toyed with his tie, pulling it completely loose. The fabric slipped free, your fingers going to the open collar of his shirt, feeling the frantic beat of his pulse under your palm.
Clark broke the kiss just far enough to breathe, forehead dipping toward yours. His glasses had gone slightly crooked, the lenses faitnly fogged. You straightening his glasses on instinct, smiling up at him.
“See, trouble,” he winked, grinning back as his hand on your waist slid to the curve of your ass.
His fingers dug in, pulling you firmly against his hard, thick arousal straining against the front of his trousers. It pressing insistently against your lower belly, and a soft, desperate gasp escaped your throat.
“Nuh-uh,” you protested weakly. “S-seems like you’re the one making trouble here!”
That drew a light laugh from him as he guided you backward without a shred of resistance. The backs of your thighs hit the edge of an old worktable. Papers and folders were nudged aside with a sweep of his arm, some fluttering to the floor. Then his hands were back on your waist, lifting you with an effortless strength that your insides melt.
The wood felt cool through your stockings.
Clark stepped between your knees guiding them apart to make room for himself. Your skirt rode up, exposingthe lace tops of your stockings and a teasing glimpse of your lace panties. His eyes drank in the sight, his gaze so hot you felt scorched.
He leaned in, capturing you in a searing kiss, one hand coming up to cup your jaw. His other palm massaged your exposed inner thigh, trailing upward, fingers tracing the edge of your panties.
“H-hey!” you gasped against his lips, arching into his touch.
“I know, sweetheart,” he cooed shakily. “I know. Let me… just wanna feel you.”
You reached for his jaw, thumb brushing the faint stubble. “T-that bad?”
“Worse.”
Oh, Clark, honest as ever. The answer pulled a pleased and helpless sigh from you. “You poor thing.”
His fingers tugged the fabric to the side, the slick heat greeting his touch with a soft, audible squelch.
“Gosh,” he groaned. “Couldn’t wait for home either?”
Shaking your head, your eyes fluttered shut as his thumb pressed down on your sensitive nub while two of his fingers slid lower, gathering slick between your folds. He teased, finger spreading your own arousal over your swollen lips.
Two long, thick digits finally pushed deep inside you with a smooth, wet glide. You cried out softly, your hips jerking off the table. Curling his fingers, Clark found that perfect spot inside you with infuriating ease, and set a slow, relentless rhythm.
In… out…In…out….The steady shlick-shlick-shlick filthy, wet, and sloppy.
“Feel good?” he breathed against your skin, his own in ragged pants. You clutched at his shoulders, nails digging into the fabric of his shirt. Little moans escaped with every thrust. “I know, hon. You’re doing so well for me. So beautiful like this.”
The praise hit just as hard as the expert curl of his fingers, You could feel the coil of your orgasm tightening behind your navel, and you were sure Clark felt it, too.
Given from the way he kissed your temple. Your cheek. The side of your lips. Ending on your forehead, all tender things you loved while he made a mess of you. His thumb continued to massage your clit in quick circles, the dual sensations tipping you higher, faster.
Soon you were babbling, a stream of desperate filthy words.
His gazed down where his fingers disappeared into you. “C-close?”
You nodded, unable to do much more than that.
Without breaking momentum, he ducked his head beneath your skirt and felt a lick up your clit, and the sensation of a third finger being added. It stretched you wider, thrusts grew faster, and the delicious burn almost sent you off the table.
“Holy shit! Ah—ah—C-Clark! Just like that, feels so good—”
“That right, hon? Gonna come?” he urged, muffled as he sucked and lapped your clit. “Let me feel you.”
It was too much.
The stretch, the friction, the filthy, wet sounds from a familar tongue lapping your cunt, your husband’s whispered tender praise. Your back arched as a series of long-drawn moans escaped your throat as your orgasm finally ripped through you. Your thighs drew in together as your walls gripped and fluttered around his fingers, hips rutting rhythmically as wave after wave of blinding pleasure washed over you.
Clark easily held your thighs apart and kept his fingers inside you, moving them slowly, gently, as you trembled through the aftershocks. The overstimulation was intense, a mix of unbearable sensitivity and lingering pleasure that made you squirm and cry.
“Shh, I’ve got you,” he soothed, coming back up to you to swallow your moans in open, lingering kisses. You tasted yourself on his tongue when you kissed him back, and the intimacy of it sent another shiver through your already overworked body.
As you came down from your hgih, panting and boneless, your hand slipped between your bodies. You palmed him through his slacks, feeling the rigid length of his cock, the damp spot of precum already staining the fine fabric. He exhaled, his hips bucking involuntarily into your touch.
“Please,” you whispered, still a little dazed. “Baby, I need more.”
He looked into your eyes, his own blown wide, his glasses slipped low again, faintly fogged at the edges.
“Now?” he asked after clearing his throat, a final, shaky check-in. “Here? Like this?”
“Mmhmm.” You swallowed, then cleared your throat, “It’s bad.”
"How bad?”
A weak laugh escaped you. “'I'd drop dead right here if you don't fuck me' bad, Kent.”
In moments like this, Clark was never a man who needed much encouragement where you were concerned.
With frantic, clumsy hands, he undid his belt and the button of his trousers, fumbling once, breath catching when your hand brushed him again, muttering something soft and under his breath that sounded like, “Hon, you’re not helping.”
You smiled, dopey and fond all at once.
By the time he pushed his slacks and briefs down just enough to free his cock, he was breathing harder than before, cheeks faintly flushed. You glanced down in anticipation and your mouth instinctively parted.
It stood out proudly heavy and full and utterly demanding. You reached for it, wrapping your fingers around the hot, silken-steel length, and he groaned, his head falling forward.
“Don’t do that either,” he warned, and it would have been more convincing if hisvoice had not crack halfway through.
“Do what? Admire the most handsome man I’ve laid my eyes on? Who also happens to be my husband?”
“Exactly,” he stressed hoarsely. “Not… not gonna last if you do that.”
You didn't apologize.
Instead, you hooked your trembling hands behind your stocking-clad knees and pulled them up, opening yourself wider for him.
“C’mere,” you whispered, crooking a finger in a ‘come-hither’ motion.
Clark braced one hand against your hip, bunching the fabric of your skirt, while the other guided himself to your entrance. The broad, wet tip of his cock nudging against your soaked, sensitive folds.
He teased slowly, dragging the crown up and down your slickness, smearing your combined wetness over your clit and lips. He eased away, then back again, easing through the slick warmth he’d already drawn from you until the friction had your whole body tightening in anticipation.
You could have cried from it, from how unfair it was, how deliberate, how clearly he knew exactly what he was doing to you.
“Clark,” you hissed, half plea, half warning. “Stop messing around!”
His forehead dipped briefly to yours, grinning at you teasingly. “I’m not messing around!”
“Yes, you are!” you argued, slowly lowered your legs, nudging your skirt back down. “If this is you getting back at me about today, then maybe we shouldn’t—”
“Hold on,” he kissed your pout away with a quiet laugh, already reaching to draw your knees back up. “I'm sorry. Just wanna take my time with you.”
Then he leaned back just enough to look at you properly.
That was what always undid you most. Even now, half out of his mind, he wanted your eyes. Your attention. To have yoy feel his gaze as equally intense, loving, and utterly consumed.
“Gosh, like I said: trouble.”
He pushed forward for real, and stretch drove the fight right out of you. You scrambled to grip his forearms, your mouth falling open as your body gave way around his cock by aching degrees. Clark went still almost immediately.
“Okay?” he murmured, his thumb stroking your hip, watching your face with such concentrated care.
“Y-yeah, want m-more,” you begged. Then, needier, “Give me more, baby.”
Clark withdrew an inch, then pushed back in, sinking another inch deeper. The slow, gentle penetration was agonizing. You could feel every adjustment as he filled you, stretching you wider, deeper. The wet, sucking sounds grew louder. Each shallow thrust scooped more of your slickness out, making the slide easier, wetter.
He kept going, little by little, his eyes locked on yours, watching every flicker of pleasure and discomfort on your face. When he was finally fully sheathed, his hips flush against yours, his balls tight against your ass, you both let out a shuddering, simultaneous breath.
Partly from the intimacy of it, with the fact that no matter how many times you had done this, there was still always that moment of stunned adjustment where your bodies had to remember how to belong to each other again.
“I love you,” Clark said first, because of course he did. Because apparently that had to be the first thing out of his mouth while he was buried deep inside you in the Daily Planet archives. “Gosh, you feel— hon, you feel just like heaven.”
You laughed softly, though it came out more like a broken exhale. “That’s one word for it.”
He kissed you for that — quick, helpless, fond — then began to move.
It started as a slow, deep rocking of his hips, pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in to the hilt. The drag of his thick cock along your inner walls lighting up every nerve ending. Your hands flew to his back, clutching at his shirt, feeling the powerful muscles of his shoulders and back tense under the fabric.
Your frantic pawing spurred him. His thrusts became harder, deeper, driving you back against the table with each powerful surge. The table scraped against the floor with a rhythmic thump-thump-thump. His hand left your hip to settle in your hair, gently but firmly tilting your head back to expose your throat to his hungry mouth. You yelped as he kissed and sucked at the skin there, surely leaving marks.
“T-too much?” he asked immediately, words strained enough to suggest he was asking through gritted teeth.
You tightened your legs around him, intentionally clenching your cunt. “N-no, never.”
He grunted, and filthy and loving praise spilled out in fragments.
“You're so beautiful. Love when you drive me crazy.”
“She’s mine. All mine. Squeezing me so tight.
"She’s so pretty, just like you.”
“That’s it, my wife.”
You were coiling tight again, the overstimulation from your first orgasm blending with the deep, penetrating fullness to create a pleasure so intense it bordered on pain. You were moaning and crying out with every thrust, and he swallowed the sounds with his kisses.
“Clark, fuck, you feel so good,” you sobbed, your legs wrapping around his waist, your heels digging into his ass, trying to pull him even deeper. “I’m gonna— baby, I’m gonna come again—”
“I–I know,” He pulled back just enough to look at you, glasses crooked, face flushed, mouth parted. “I feel it. I’m right there with you. I’m right… there.”
The rhythm was as gone as you felt, with hard thrusts becoming punishing, slamming into you with a force that rattled the table. The motioned pulled a helpless sob from your throat, kissed away at once.
Your second orgasm exploded through you, stronger than the first.
Body going taut, back bowing off the table, your mouth opening on Clark’s name as your pussy convulsed around his driving cock in helpless, milking pulses.
The sensation of your tight walls clamping down on his cock was the final trigger.
With a choked swear, Clark buried himself deep and came.
The force of his release made his whole body go rigid for a beat. Then his hips gave one more unsteady thrust, and another smaller one after it, like his body was still trying to chase the feeling of emptying himself. The warmth of his spend filled you, a shocking, intimate heat no matter how many times you’d shared it.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of your ragged breathing. He stayed inside you, his weight settling partially on you, his face buried in the curve of your neck where your perfume still lingered faintly beneath sweat and the dusty smell of the room. You could feel his heart against your chest, a thundering echo of your own.
Then, a sound. Voices.
Muffled, distant, but unmistakable. One of the janitors, maybe, starting their rounds.
Clark went utterly still. Every muscle in his body locked tight, a statue of tension. You felt it—the instant shift from spent lover to hyper-alert protector. His head lifted, eyes, still glazed with bliss, fixed on the door.
He didn’t move, didn’t pull out. He just… listened.
Eventually, the voices passed. A cart wheel squeaked quietly against the tile. A garbled conversation faded away. Then nothing.
The pause, the spike of adrenaline, seemed to ignite one last, slow burn in both of you.
Clark let out a long, shaky breath, the air warm against your sweat-dampened skin, and began to move again. Just a slow, gentle roll of his hips, still buried deep within you. The sensation was overwhelming, a tender claiming in the aftermath.
“Clark!” you whimpered, oversensitive and full of him.
“I’m done, I’m done,” he promised, apology and affection folded together.
Kisses were scattered along your throat, as if in apology for that too, before he leaned back and eased out of you. A trail of his release followed, warm and wet against your thighs, soaking into your ruined panties, skirt, and stockings.
Clark took a moment to look at you again—sprawled across the old table, skirt wrinkled up around your waist, blouse disheveled, lips kiss-swollen, blinking up at him with his marks already blooming on your throat.
A look of awed, affectionate wonder softened his features, as if no amount of time or marriage or shared domestic routine had made him any less startled by the fact that he got to have this with you.
Very gently, he tugged your skirt back into place.
Palms smoothed the fabric over your trembling thighs, rose tenderly to adjusted your blouse, fingers deftly buttoning a few buttons that had come loose along the way.
Next, Clark put himself back together with quick, practiced movements — tucking his softening cock away, dusting his trousers, fastening his belt, and dragging a hand through his hair only to make things worse. He retrieved his tie from the floor and looped it back around his collar without bothering to straighten it properly.
Then he came back to you immediately to cradle your face. With his thumb, he wiped a smudge of dust from your cheekbone, then leaned down to kiss you— softly, sweetly this time. It was a kiss of profound tenderness, a world away from the desperate passion of moments before.
“You,” he whispered against your lips, full of disbelieving fondness, “are going to be the death of me, you know that?”
You managed a weak, breathless laugh, and held your hand up. “That bad, Kent?”
“The worst.”
“Eh, call me the devil then.”
Laughing under his breath, Clark held your hand and helped you slide off the table. “Sweetheart, if this is what the devil feels like, I’m in serious trouble. Don’t tell Ma.”
You laughed harder at that than your body appreciated, and the sharp little ache that followed made you wince, which didn’t go unnoticed.
“Hey, easy.” One stong arm circled your waist as you sat up, then slide carefully off the table. Your legs almost buckled, a vivid, aching reminder of what had just happened with every step.
“There you are,” he said softly. “I’ve got you.”
The archive box sat where it had been abandoned, half-open, papers and files still slanted everywhere in the aftermath of your disastrous attempt at reaching it.
Clark glanced toward it, then back at you, and something amused flickered across his face.
“Hang on.”
He crossed the aisle in three steps, crouched, rifled briefly through the mess with the sort of efficient certainty that suggested he had, in fact, been paying more attention than he let on, and came up with a faded manila folder.
He held it out with a little flourish. “Metropolis Water Board file? Can't forget what brought us here in the first place.”
You took it from him, absurdly aware of how normal the folder felt in your hands compared to everything else that transpired.
“Gee,” you nudged his side, rolling your eyes. “Thanks. Couldn’t have found this without you.”
"Hey," he snorted. "Told you I'd be helpful."
You made an affronted sound that only made him grin wider.
Together, you slipped out of the archives room and back into the dim newsroom, both of you trying with equal lack of success to look as though nothing had happened.
Every step reminded otherwise — the lingering warmth of him, the ache between your thighs, the way your skin still felt too hot. Your hair was a mess. Your mouth still tingled. The marks at your throat were beginning to darken, and you could feel heat rush to your face every time you thought about how little distance there really had been between that table and the hallway outside.
Clark walked beside you, no less compromised. Though he looked calmer now, there was still something unmistakably dazed about him, like part of him was back there in the archives with you, still trying to recover.
At your desk, you tucked the folder away for tomorrow with as much dignity as you could manage under the circumstances, and gathered your belongings.
Clark’s hand found the small of your back again, thumb brushing slowly over the line of your spine before absentmindedly fiddling the tiny zipper at the back of your skirt.
You turned your head enough to look at him over your shoulder.
“Can I help you, tiger?” you raised an amused brow.
His thumb froze over the zipper, then flattened briefly at the base of your spine once more.
“It’s nothing,” he shrugged, though his tone gave him away immediately. “Just thinking.”
“Oh, that’s dangerous. About what?”
"That for the record,” he leaned in, “I don’t think the devil’s ever touched anything the way you do.”
You went still, lips parting.
Clark affectionately pressed one last kiss to the corner of your swollen mouth, reached for your bag, then for your hand like this was any other evening, and not one you were both going to carry home to bed and into the following days.
.
Thank you for reading! Likes, comments, and reblogs FROM THE ORIGINAL POST are forever appreciated. Keeps me motivated!
Pairing David!Clark Kent x Female!Reader
Summary You knew better than to tease your husband when he was at work. (Lingerie)
Tags 18+, mdni, smut, masturbation (f), sexting, piv, a teeny bit rough sex, standing doggy, Ragebaited!Clark CrashOutClark, Mutual horniness, Menace!Reader
WC 3.8k
Galentine's #9 by @/wildflowersandvibranium & @/pinksplace | Mrs. Kent Diaries
Clark didn’t lose his temper easily.
Did he get frustrated? Yes. Flustered? Often. Quietly, almost politely indignant? Always. But true, jaw-clenched, restraint-fracturing anger? That was rare.
Kindness was his default. Patience, muscle memory. Self-control came as easily to him as breathing, as sunlight, as knowing the weight of the world and choosing not to let it crush anyone else.
Which was exactly why it was so satisfying to take it apart.
You see, there were a few things in the world that could make Clark Kent absolutely heated. Just a few. And you? You were at the top of the list.
Specifically: you in red-laced lingerie.
You knew the pressure points by now. You’d studied them—committed them to muscle memory. Knew exactly which seams to tug, which smiles to flash, which casual poses made his breath catch just behind his ribs. Knew how to bait a man who could bench press a building, but who still lost every last ounce of composure when you spread your thighs and looked at him like he was the only man in the world.
.
It started small. Always did. You were so generous offering the strongest metahuman the illusion of a fair fight, giving him a few soft warnings before you pulled the pin.
A message waited for him on the bathroom mirror, scrawled in your red lipstick right across the glass, the curve of each letter playful and practiced. Beside it: a perfect kiss-mark, glossy and shameless.
Have a good day at work, babe.
I love you!
A pair of your panties, red mesh, tiny silk hearts stitched along the waistband, was "accidentally" left half‑folded in the sock drawer he opened every morning without fail. You knew that he knew you better than that. You didn’t leave things out by accident.
None of these breadcrumbs were enough for him to fully wake you as he leaned in to say goodbye before work, but it was enough to make him kiss your lips longer than usual. Slow. Lingering. Like a man already bracing himself for war.
You had an inkling that he barely made it out the door.
.
The first photo went out at 9:14 a.m.
Nothing obscene, just enough. You stood in front of the bedroom mirror, Clark’s flannel unbuttoned and hanging loose from your shoulders, sleeves falling just past your wrists, the red straps of your lingerie cutting neat, precise lines across your skin like you were gift-wrapped: bare legs, bare throat, morning light slipping in through the window, and the corner of your smile just visible in the reflection.
You could picture it perfectly: him at his desk like the perfect employee he always was, blissfully typing away on his keyboard, coffee halfway to his mouth. You could see the exact second his phone lit up. The pause. The way his fingers stilled. His eyes flicking downward. The quiet inhale. The shift in posture. His glasses sliding slightly down the bridge of his nose.
You knew the timing. Knew his tells.
The reply came two minutes later.
Clark:
Good morning, my love
You're being unfair right now. Beautiful, but unfair.
Have a good day!
You smiled. He was always so damn sweet.
At 10:36 a.m., the second photo followed.
Same set. Different angle. The flannel was gone now, leaving nothing between you and the mirror but skin and red lace, cut high on the hips and dipping low between your breasts, the sheer mesh hugging your ribs in a way you knew made his mouth go dry. The satin bow sat tidy at the center of your sternum, a little too innocent for what you intended, tied just tight enough to make him wonder if he’d get it undone with his hands or his teeth.
Your thighs were parted, just a little. This time, you added a caption that gave him no room to breathe:
You:
Thinking about how long it’s gonna take you to get this off me.
I knotted this pretty tight.
His response came faster than you anticipated.
Clark:
Sweetheart, you look incredible, but I’m at work?!
You sent back a heart, and nothing more. Let him sit with it.
At 11:12 a.m., you sent a brief a video this time. Switched it up, because why not?
Silent, unfiltered, back turned to the mirror. Your ass in motion, hips swaying slow. The straps were so thin they might as well have been floss, cutting over your ass as you shifted your weight from one foot to the other. One leg bent. Head cropped. Nothing but ass and lace and implication.
He left you on read this time.
Which was telling. Because Clark always responded. Even if just with a heart emoji or a flustered "you’re trouble." If he didn’t? It meant he couldn’t. It meant his hand was clenched so tight around his phone he couldn’t trust himself to type. Meant he’d flushed from throat to cheekbone and ducked into the Planet stairwell to cool off. Or he’d taken a lap around the roof. Around the city. Maybe around the atmosphere.
By 12:17 p.m., his reply finally came, and it was obvious he was unraveling.
The texts were shorter. Less punctuation. The fact that he stopped trying to scold you, and started asking questions instead? Ha!
Clark:
did you buy that
just for today
how long have you been wearing that
You answered with audio.
"Since you left," you murmured, soft, breathy, and barely above a whisper. "Been thinking about you all morning Clark. Been missing you."
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again. Then nothing.
The next few hours were a study in escalation.
A photo of you kneeling on the mattress, back arched, ass up, cleavage spilling down beneath the delicate straps of the set.
A close-up of your fingers grazing your inner thigh, dragging slow, gliding higher, just high enough to hint without showing.
Another voice note, this one needier. A soft, whispered "Clark" said with just enough air, just enough ache, that you could practically feel him falling apart in real time.
By 4:07 p.m., the damn broke. Your poor Clark was done pretending he was okay.
Clark:
tryn to focus
ur making so difficlit
DIFFICULT
Please tell me you're waiting for me, honey. Just one more hour.
It wasn't often he truly begged, but that last message was so damn close.
And you, his sweetheart, menace, wife, North Star, had the nerve to read it and not reply.
You waited until 5:02 p.m., letting that last message sit and ache, let Clark stew in it as you took your time setting up what you already knew would end his entire day.
The Kill Shot took longer to record than the others.
You were reclined against the headboard, pillows shoved behind your back, thighs spread wide and unapologetic, red lace pushed damp and dark between them from hours of teasing that had left you tender and buzzing. The phone was propped at the end of the bed, poetically against a careless stack of Clark’s unironed dress shirts.
"See what you do to me, Clark," you sighed softly when you hit record, your hand drifting down your stomach, fingers slipping beneath the red lace. You hissed quietly when you touched your already swollen, already too sensitive clit, hips rocking without permission. "I’m so wet, baby. Soaked. All day. Just from teasing you."
Your ring finger circled your clit slowly, deliberately, letting the slick and sound gather. A raspy moan slipped out of you as your back pressed harder into the pillows.
"Hope you’re not mad," you added, breath hitching, almost laughing through it.
You slid one finger inside yourself, then another, the stretch making you gasp as your thighs trembled. Your head tipped back, chest lifting as you tried to make it feel right.
"It’s not the same," you whined, frustration threading your voice honestly now. "It never is without you."
You lifted your free hand into frame then, holding up the bright blue, ridged Superman vibrator. Absurd. Thrilling. Purchased originally as a joke, now deployed with intent.
"I even tried this," you lamented.
When you turned it on, the low buzz filled the room, vibrating straight up your spine. You pressed it to your clit and jolted hard, a broken sound tearing out of you as your hips jerked helplessly.
"Oh—oh God—" You sucked in a breath, fingers curling inside yourself. "It doesn’t—fuck—it still doesn’t touch me like you do."
You dragged it away almost immediately, breath ragged, shaking your head like you were offended by it.
Your fingers thrusted as deep as you could, scissoring, stretching, searching. Ultimately failing.
"They’re not big enough," you babbled, voice going soft and needy now, slick sounds growing louder as you rocked against your hand. "They don’t reach like yours. They don’t—God, Clark, they don’t feel like you."
You brought the vibrator back, pressing it against your clit again while your fingers worked inside you, the buzz climbing as your body arched and your knees drew up, lace biting into your hips. A shaky laugh fell from your mouth, half‑wrecked, half‑desperate.
"This isn’t fair," you whined as you lifted your head, eyes flicking to the camera now, unfocused but locked on him all the same. "You always make it feel so good. Your hands… your mouth…"
You writhed openly, unashamed, thighs trembling, red lace soaked through as you chased something you knew you wouldn’t quite reach.
"It’s not your thickness," you breathed. "Not your heat."
Your fingers slipped out, then back in, curling deeper this time, trying to find that spot he always hit so effortlessly, like your body had been built for his hands alone.
"I need you, Clark," you panted, eyes fluttering. "Need your fingers and your mouth between my legs. Need you telling me to relax—telling me how pretty I look when I fall apart for you."
The vibrator buzzed louder, dragged teasingly once, twice—and then you pulled it away again, breath shuddering.
"And your cock," you added, voice breaking into a whine. "I need you to show me how it’s supposed to feel. Need you to stretch me the way you always do. Need my husband to fill me up because this—"
You gestured helplessly between your thighs, fingers slick and shining, breath uneven. "This isn’t enough. It’s never enough without you."
You lifted your gaze to the camera one last time—wrecked, honest, ruined by want.
"Come home soon, Clark," you whispered, biting your lip.
And then you stopped. Didn’t finish. Wouldn’t dare.
You ended the recording with your chest still heaving and thighs still shaking. You redressed slowly, washed your hands and the toy with care, and hit 'send' as you went to start dinner.
As if nothing at all was about to explode.
.
Twenty minutes later, the apartment was drenched in the scent of garlic and thyme, steam curling from the pot like a love letter in vapor.
Clark's favorite, beef bourguignon, simmered low and rich on the stove, sweet and buttery and slow. You made it only on special occasions: birthdays, anniversaries, nights you wore lingerie beneath an apron and didn’t pretend otherwise.
You stood barefoot, thighs still trembling faintly from earlier, the red lace set damp beneath one of his softest, most lived-in aprons with Kansas Corn Festival logo faded on the front and the fraying strings you always tied in a neat bow at your lower back.
Your lip gloss was fresh. Your hair was a little too tousled, a little too knowingly mussed. You looked like you’d been fucked senseless and then pulled halfway back from the edge. Which was, of course, exactly the truth. Just not by him. Yet.
You stirred the pot once more, slow and thoughtful, then licked the spoon just as a sonic boom tore across the skyline.
The windows rattled.
You didn’t even flinch.
The burner clicked off, and you turned just in time to hear the familiar thud on the balcony. Something weighty and male and exasperated had landed with purpose.
Clark Kent, god among men, paragon of restraint, and utterly fucking done with you, stood just outside, flushed from throat to hairline, chest rising and falling like he was seconds from combusting.
He opened the balcony door too hard. Shut it harder.
You didn’t flinch. You smiled instead.
"Hi, baby!" you greeted sweetly, licking the last of the spoon and setting it down like nothing was melting between your legs. "How was work?"
Clark mouth opened. A strangled sound came out. Nothing formed. He looked like a man who had rehearsed a speech the entire flight over, one with bullet points and moral high ground, and lost all of it the second he saw your bare thighs and dazzling smile.
"You—" he tried, pointing one finger squarely at your chest, not moving.
You tilted your head. "Moi?"
"Honey," he began, dragging a hand down his face, voice pitched somewhere between desperation and disbelief. "One: hi. Work was fine. Two: dinner smells delicious. Three: what you pulled today? That was beyond cruel."
You leaned back slowly, bumping your side against the edge of the kitchen island with a little bounce. He followed without thinking. Close enough to trap. Close enough to breathe you in.
"You liked it," you sang, tugging at one of his belt loops.
"No, I loved it," he ground out, hands already on your waist, gripping just tight enough to send a shiver up your spine. "That’s not the point."
"Oh?" you asked, lashes low, lips pouty. "What’s the point then?"
He huffed. Actually huffed. Then, defeated, he pulled off his glasses and set them carefully on the counter beside you. Pinched the bridge of his nose like he could still slow this trainwreck down with rational thought.
"The point is—" he tried again, swallowing, visibly recalibrating. "I have been trying to be good all day."
"So have I. Guess we both failed."
Clark exhaled, running a hand through his already-ruined hair. Pushed it back only for it to fall limply forward again.
"Sweetheart," he hissed, blue eyes sharp now. "I had to sit in a meeting with Perry after I listened to you moan my name. You—" He pointed again, but his hand dropped halfway, like touching you would end this too fast. "You sent me audio. While I was on lunch with Jimmy. I could barely look him in the eye."
"That sounds like a you problem," you murmured, one leg brushing between his.
His hands tightened on your hips. You gasped.
"And then," he said, lower now, voice going dangerous, "you sent me a video of you—Gosh—spread out across our bed, touching yourself with that silly little toy—"
You shrugged, too pleased with yourself to be sorry.
"Superman didn’t save me this time."
His laugh was broken. Unhinged, like he couldn’t believe you’d just said that. He stepped until the kitchen counter pressed cold against your spine as he crowded into your space, chest brushing yours, arms braced on either side of you like a cage made of heat and muscle and something wild beneath the surface.
There was nowhere to go—not that you’d ever want to—his presence wrapping around you like steam, wrapping around your waist, sliding down your thighs.His breath kissed the curve of your cheek, then your jaw, then lower, his mouth dragging down your throat like he needed to taste how hard your pulse was pounding for him.
"You have any idea what you did to me?" he rasped.
"You say that like it’s not your favorite thing about me."
A strangled moan escaped him as he leaned closer, forehead touching yours. His cock was already stiff and twitching, the thick press of it unmistakable against your stomach even though layers of slacks and lace. You gasped, fingers tightening in the soft cotton at his elbows just to stay upright.
"Every second of your video," he growled. "Saying your fingers not being enough—" A long breath. "How empty you still felt. Using the toy."
You shivered. The air between you went heavy.
"Clark—" you warned, already trembling.
"I haven’t even said hello properly," he muttered darkly.
Without warning, he kissed you like a man who’d just run halfway around the world and needed you to catch him. No restraint. No finesse. Just tongue and heat and need, his mouth slanting over yours in wild, open-mouthed hunger, one hand sinking into your toussled hair, the other pressing low on your spine until your bodies aligned, hips flush, your thighs parting on instinct.
You whimpered into it, clawing at his shoulders, overwhelmed by the rush of him finally, finally being here. Being on you.
"Been waiting for this," he whispered, mouth trailing along your jaw, your neck, nipping at the places he knew would make you gasp. Losing my mind since the first photo."
His hand spread low on your ass, tugging you harder against the thick ridge in his slacks. It ground into your clit with every breath, every shift of his hips, and made your knees buckle, a cry caught in your throat as your body begged for more friction, more weight, more.
That heady, perfect mix of power and affection and worship and want coursed through you.
"You’re unreal," he panted between kisses. "You were made to drive me insane, huh?"
A quiet laugh caught in your throat, lips brushing his jaw.
"What’s unreal is this bow," you hummed, tapping your chest, where the ribbon peeked just above the apron’s neckline. "Knotted it way too tight. Think you can get it off, baby?"
His eyes darkened, gaze zeroing in on the apron tied at your back. That innocent cotton thing cinched tight around your waist like some symbol of sweet domesticity. A disguise. A mockery.
He wouldn't take the bait. Not this time.
"No," he said firmly. "Not yet. You’re gonna stay in that pretty little set, sweetheart. The one you spent all day tormenting me in."
You blinked, caught off guard by the edge in his voice.
Clark’s gaze dropped to the apron. That innocent cotton thing, cinched around your waist like a mockery of domesticity, as if it hadn’t been hiding the filthiest tease he’d ever seen in his life.
"Though this?" he muttered, fingers curling into the bow behind you, "Is a problem."
Before you could answer, he tugged sharp and hard, and the apron came loose, slipping off your shoulders and crumpling to the floor.
The sight of you underneath?
His breath left him in one long, shattered exhale.
The red fabric shimmered under the kitchen light, clinging damp to your chest, your hips, your thighs, every inch of you hot and glowing and desperate for him. He stared for a long moment, jaw tense, hands twitching at his sides like he was debating whether to worship you or simply scream and combust.
In one fluid, impossible motion, he spun you around to face the counter. Your hands flew out, bracing against the cool granite with a yelp. His body pressed against your back, the hard, unmistakable ridge of his erection straining against his trousers, digging into the cleft of your ass through the lace.
"This," he hissed in your ear, one large hand splaying across your stomach, holding you firm against him. "This red lace. It’s been haunting me all day. A glimpse here. A shadow there." His other hand came up, his fingers tracing the intricate pattern over your breast, teasingly tugging on your bow, then sliding down your ribs. "It’s all I could see."
"Clark," you moaned, voice cracking with lust.
"Payback," he whispered, his hands now on your hips, yanking the damp panties down your thighs in one rough pull. The cool air hit your exposed skin, followed immediately by the blistering heat of his palm as he cupped you from behind.
"Still wet?" he leaned over you, mouth to your ear as he buried his fingers in your soaking, messy cunt slowly. "Still aching for me, hon?"
"Y-yeah, been a-all day," you choked out, thighs knocking against the kitchen cabinets with each twitch. "Since the first photo. Since I woke up and ruined my lipstick for you. It's all for you."
A rough sound tore from his throat. Unfastening his belt with a desperate frantic flick, he pushed his slacks and briefs low enough to free himself. The hot weight of his cock pressed against your bare ass, solid and heavy and so real
"See what you do to me, sweetheart?" he growled, echoing the opening line you’d whispered into your last video as he teased the swollen, pre-cum slick head between your puffy folds.
You whimpered, barely able to breathe as the head caught on your clit the same time his teeth nipped the edge of your earlobe.
"F-fuck! That—oh god, that feels—Clark—please, I need it—need you—"
"I know," he whispered, kissing behind your ear. "I’ve got you."
With one powerful, driving thrust that silenced you, he buried himself inside inch by glorious inch.
Your eyes rolled back, feeling every ridge, every vein, every pulsing heat and maddening pressure.
The air left your lungs in a punched-out cry. He filled you, stretched you, exactly as you’d whined about. The difference was profound, overwhelming. It was his heat, his thickness, the perfect, devastating fit of him being enveloped by your quivering, gummy walls.
You felt impossibly full, stretched to a sweet, burning limit, and any remaining coherent thought was knocked clean out of your head.
"G-gosh," he groaned, feeling a new wave of slick coat his length. "You’re so–so tight like this, beautiful. Still fluttering around me—"
You answered by clenching tight, rocking into him slowly. "S-stay right there—just—stay."
He kissed your shoulder, the top of your spine, the back of your neck, mouth open and reverent.
Clark set an increasingly deep, relentless rhythm, pounding you hard up against the kitchen counter. Each drive of his hips slammed you into the cool granite edge, a counterpoint of pleasure and slight pain that made your vision blur.
His hands gripped your hips, surely leaving faint bruises, holding you in place for his taking. The sounds were filthy—the wet, rhythmic slap of skin on skin, your ragged cries, his guttural groans near your ear.
"You like that?" he gritted out, pressing hot kisses on your neck, your cheek, the corner of your mouth. "You like making me lose it? Making me fly home like a madman?"
"Y-yes! Yes!" you cried, words slurred, hips bucking back into his as your fingers scrambled uselessly over the cool countertop, dinner long forgotten. "Wanted this—wanted you—"
He grunted, one hand slipping down to rub your clit as his thrusts turned punishing, precise. Your body jolted with every snap of his hips, legs shaking, pleasure rising so fast it blurred everything else.
All the while, Clark kissed you, really kissed you, with one hand on your throat as he pulled your face back to his, tongue sliding into your mouth, your moans swallowed between breathless gasps and cracked, whispered I love you's and You drive me crazy's.
Okay, so you ragebaited Clark: masterfully, deliberately, without shame and without mercy.
And now?
Now you were going to spend the rest of the night helping him cool off, one deep, punishing thrust at a time, your body bent beneath his as he finally gave in to everything you’d spent the day dragging out of him.
There are only a few things in the world that could make Clark Kent come undone.
Only a few things that could burn through all that patience and kindness and quiet self-control.
And you in red-laced lingerie had always done it best.
.
Thank you for reading! Any reblogs, comments, likes are forever appreciated, and keeps me motivated!
