He feels so good, he always does. You swear his fingers alone are bigger than a few of the guys you’ve slept with. The first time you told him that Clark made you cum three times with just his hand. From Afternoon Delight (A Very Professional Lunch Break)
Word Count: drabble, 1-1.5k (god forbid I write something long form)
Warnings: size kink!! fingering, reader has a personality and is implied to be shorter than Clark, nothing descriptive other than that though, cursing, mentions of Clark Kent’s gargantuan cock, mentions of cockwarming, overstim if you squint, 🤞 <- keep this in mind
Clark Kent x Fem! Reader (no use of y/n)
Clark is a big man.
You (and his tailor) know this with certainty.
The first thing that you ever noticed about Clark was his height, towering over everyone he passed on his morning commute. The ache you felt in the back of your neck after every conversation with him.
You still remember the first time you really noticed it though, it was a hopelessly mundane moment. You were flirting with him at the coffee station, and your eyes just happened to drift down and clock how his hips ended just where the counter-top began. You're only human, it's not your fault your first thought was about how easily he could fuck you while you sat on it.
You couldn't look him in the eye the rest of the day.
His size became even more obvious after you started dating.
"You know when I was a kid, my Ma signed me up for piano lessons." Clark says, his voice casual, like he's not knuckle deep in your cunt. Clark is sprawled on the couch beneath you, looking pretty as ever. His lips glossy and swollen from your kisses. You had done all the typical third date things, nice dinner, pretty dress, prettier lingerie underneath. He'd walked you home, taken up your entire door way and acted like he wasn't silently begging to come inside.
You were less patient, grabbing him by the lapels and pulling his lips onto yours.
You can hardly breathe, his finger curling inside as he speaks. "Really?" you ask, voice breathy. You knew his hands were big, you'd seen them hold his phone and make it look like a toy, watched with fascination as he struggled to hold the little teacups they gave you at the Chinese restaurant (first date).
Looking at his hands was a lot different than having them inside you.
You had rolled eyes when he talked about preparing you. ‘Not a virgin Clark’ you’d murmured against his lips.
Clark had hummed, pulling back to bag those pretty lashes you. ‘Gonna feel like, unless you let me open you up.’ He argued.
You scoffed, reaching for his belt but Clark grabbed your wrist. He fixed you with a look, or more accurately a warning. Then he dragged your hand down past his belt and planted it firmly on his bulge.
Oh.
‘Can I please finger you?’ Clark asked, his blue swimming with want. You could drown in them.
You swallowed, trying to save face. ‘Yeah.’ You croaked, voice cracking.
Which brings you to now. “I wasn’t into it.” Clark explains. His thumb is working your clit in slow circles, helping ease his finger out to the tip and then side it back down until he reaches the knuckle. “But one of ladies in town got it into head, kept telling her I had piano fingers.”
“What does that even mean?” You ask, fighting back a moan, doing your best to seem unaffected. Your body betrays you, a gush of wetness seeping down and drenching Clark’s palm.
“You’re so wet baby.” He coos, sliding another finger in. “Means I have big hands.” He continues, “Long fingers.” He curls them, for emphasis of course.
“Fuck.” You gasp. You feel yourself clenching, your hands gripping his shoulders and feeling nothing but steel, absolutely no give.
Clark makes a shushing noise, his thumb picking up pace and he drags his fingers in and out, over and over. His lips plant wet kisses along your neck, sucking on your pulse point as you whine.
He’s deeper inside you than you’ve ever been able to get with your own fingers, deeper than any of your exes ever reached. Forget about length, they’re thick too. You make a note to ask him about his ring size later, for reference.
“I got you, it’s okay.” Clark whispers into your mouth, his fingers picking up speed, his thumb increasing its pressure.
You already feel like jello, between his lips, and his fingers, and the coil pulling tighter and tighter in your stomach you didn’t stand a chance.
“Clark.” You moan, then force yourself to swallow the next one “If these are your fingers-” you gasp as he curls his fingers, as if on cue. Your thighs twitch around his hand, your train of thought completely lost.
Clark hums, his eyes are reverent, his free hand reaches up and cups your face, catching it as you try tuck into his neck. “What was your question pretty girl?” He asks, guiding your head so your forehead rests against his.
Despite the fact that it’s your world getting wrecked, Clark’s forehead is sweaty, his eyes glistening as they study your every reaction. You whimper, hips frantically grinding down onto his fingers. Clark curls them again.
“How big is your dick?” You pant.
Clark chuckles, and then because he can, he twists his fingers together inside you and thrusts them again.
“Let go baby.” He tells you, and you nod, your stomach burning with pleasure, so close. “Let go and I’ll show you.” He promises.
With one more hard pass over your clit, Clark is catapulting you over the edge. His fingers still wrapped together inside you as you squeeze him like a vice. He can’t wait to feel it again when he’s inside you.
In the meantime he helps you ride it out, letting your head fall into the nook between his neck and shoulder. Your entire body shakes with the force of your orgasm, your thighs clenched tighter than tight around his wrist.
After what feels like an eternity, you stop shaking, your breathing finally levels out. “Oh my god.” You groan into his neck.
Clark presses a to the side of your head, his dry hand stroking your hair. The other is still inside you. “That’a girl.” He whispers.
You squeeze his fingers, body reacting before you can tell it not too. The fucker smirks, surely filing that reaction away for later.
You kiss him, hard, hoping to distract, to finally get your hands, or better yet you, around what you want.
Clark groans into the kiss, matching your force with fervor. His tongue dances alongside yours, tracing the top of your mouth, doing his best to swallow you whole.
Then his fingers start again.
“Clark.” You protest, pulling away.
Clark tries to follow you, leaning off the couch and chasing your lips. You manage to stay just out of reach. “What?” He asks.
You pout, but grind down onto his hand nonetheless. “Thought you were gonna fuck me.” You whine.
Clark doesn’t answer, instead he takes the opportunity to unbuckle his belt (one handed- after all the other one is still busy). He only unzips enough to free himself.
You watch, silent, and stare at it. Clark ever so patient, takes your wrist, and this time he wraps your hand around him.
Once again, Clark Kent has made you feel oh so small.
He doesn’t break eye contact, but he makes a noise low in his throat that has you gushing around his hand again, for the umpteenth time tonight.
“Okay you can finger me a little more.” You say, as if it’s actually your idea, “If you really want.”
authors note: look at the scenes of him holding a phone and tell me I’m WRONG, anyway idk how I feel about this one so everyone tell me their thoughts! I insist
I totally understand not shipping wincest like okay maybe fictional incest is not your cup of tea and I get that
what I can't understand is when they act like we're fucking insane and there's nothing wrong or weird in sam and dean's relantionship like BE FOR REAL
even if they're not fucking they're still obsessive and codependent and WEIRD about each other, their love and attachment RUINS them for anyone else, that's why they're only able to have serious romantic relantionships when the other is away or fucking DEAD
they're AT LEAST emotionally incestuous like please
Tbh the gentrified perversion aesthetics is really tiresome because you can tell that the people in question have internalised a sense that being a pervert is what the cool kids are doing now, but they have done zero unpacking of any neuroses around sex whatsoever, so you get endless annoying posts about sex as cannibalism and sex as violence and blood and a specific kind of post reclaiming puppy play from the spectre it was five or six years ago, but then they'll lose their minds the moment you bring out real pervert guns (basic ass Freudian incest stuff; extremely basic cnc and rape fantasies vv nancy friday) and then you have to be like well how the fuck do I demonstrate to other real give no fuck perverts that I am a give no fuck pervert.
