hey, i read DCMK a long time ago (it even got me to give obx one more try) and always thought about it and finally rediscovered it! you're such a talented writer especially when it comes to bringing the characters to life and exploring complex emotions and making them relatable. do you think you would ever write a book? i think you would be really good at it
this is so nice thank you so much for stopping in to tell me this 🥲 as a writer this kind of message motivates me so much I really appreciate it
I would love to write a book, it’s one of my all time dreams! I tried with DCMK but honestly the story just sort of died out. Maybe someday I’ll finish it! I have a few others that I’ve outlined and started working on but I haven’t really dug in and tried it earnestly. Maybe this is my sign to start? 👀
in which i present to you rafe cameron x hypersexual!ditzy!reader headcannons!!
too many warnings to state them but lots of kinky things & not proofread.
hypersexual!reader who is absolutely insufferable about his hands, and not in a subtle way. she’ll stop mid sentence in a crowded room just to grab his wrist and examine his fingers like they’re a museum exhibit, turning them over and tracing the veins, murmuring “god, look at these.” under her breath while rafe tries to carry on a conversation with topper like his girlfriend isn’t openly ogling his knuckles. the obsession reaches a tipping point one lazy afternoon when she’s lying across his lap on the couch, supposedly napping, but instead she’s pressing soft, open mouthed kisses to his palm, his fingertips, the inside of his wrist. rafe lets her for a full minute, tension coiling in his gut, before he curls those same fingers under her chin and tilts her face up. “you got a problem?” he asks, voice already sandpaper rough. she blinks up at him, lip gloss smeared, and says with devastating sincerity, “just thinking about how good they feel inside me.” he has her bent over the arm of the couch within seconds, two fingers knuckle deep while she keens and babbles about how she knew they’d feel this perfect, she’s been thinking about it all day, and his hands are her favorite thing maybe ever. he makes her count each orgasm on those fingers after, holding them up, slick and shining, while she whines and loses track at three.
hypersexual!reader who talks during sex, genuine, unfiltered stream of consciousness rambling that should ruin the mood but somehow never does. he'll be balls deep, bottomed out inside of her, her back arching off the mattress, and she'll gasp out, "oh my god, wait, did i tell you what sarah said about the—oh—the party? she said kelce might not—right there, right there—bring a date and i said—" and rafe laughs against her neck, low and breathless, and says, "baby, baby. love you, but i swear to god i’m gonna need you to stop talking about kelce right now." and she'll blink up at him, dazed and flushed, and whisper, "m’ sorry. you just make my brain go all fuzzy." and then he's kissing her again because she's so unbelievably ridiculous and he puts up with it.
hypersexual!reader who has a habit of asking for the most unhinged things in the sweetest voice, like she's requesting a refill on her iced latte. they'll be lying in bed, post round one, her tracing patterns on his chest while he catches his breath, and she'll prop her chin on his sternum and say, "hey, rafey? can you choke me next time? like, not too hard, but hard enough that i feel it the next day?" and he just blinks at the ceiling for a solid five seconds before looking down at her with an expression somewhere between disbelief and desperate arousal. "you can't just say shit like that," he manages, voice wrecked, and she tilts her head like a confused kitten and says, "why not? you'd be so good at it! you've got such big hands." he has to take a moment. then he rolls her onto her back, wraps a careful palm around her throat, and watches her eyes flutter shut with a breathy little "finally." that makes him dizzy. she babbles through the whole thing about how safe she feels, how much she trusts him, how she knew he'd be perfect at this too, and afterward she's so blissed out she just curls into his side and murmurs, "told you," before passing out cold.
hypersexual!reader she has a habit of crawling into his lap during the most inconvenient moments, and rafe has stopped being surprised by it. movie night? she's sideways in his lap, legs hooked over the armrest, twirling her hair and whispering commentary about the film directly into his ear. family dinner at the camerons'? she's perched on his thigh like it's her assigned seat, passing him bread rolls and trailing her fingers up his forearm under the table until he has to excuse himself to adjust his pants. the worst, or best, depending on who's asking, is when he's on the phone with barry, pacing the driveway and trying to handle business, and she pads out in nothing but his button down, climbs onto his lap right there on the porch bench, and starts kissing his neck. "i'm on the phone," he mouths, but she just smiles against his pulse point and whispers, "i'll be quiet," in a tone that promises she absolutely will not. barry hangs up three minutes into rafe's increasingly distracted responses, and rafe doesn't even call him back.
hypersexual!reader who develops a pavlovian response to the sound of his belt unbuckling, which would be embarrassing if she had any shame left. it starts during a particularly tense fight that isn't really a fight, just him wound tight from a deal gone sideways, pacing his room like a caged animal, and she's perched on her knees on the bed trying to figure out how to help. he yanks his belt free in one sharp motion, more frustration than intent, and she just melts. visibly. pupils blowing wide, thighs pressing together, a tiny involuntary sound catching in her throat. he freezes, belt still in hand, looks at her with that slow, calculating head tilt, and pieces it together instantly. "oh, you like that?" his voice drops into something dark and curious, and she can only nod, glossy lips parted, completely caught. now he uses it against her constantly. will casually start loosening his belt in public just to watch her squirm, hooking his thumb in the leather with a half smirk while she completely loses her train of thought mid conversation. the first time he wraps it around his knuckles and uses the folded leather to tap her inner thigh, gentle, teasing. she makes a sound she's never made before, and he adds it to his mental arsenal.
hypersexual!reader who discovers a mirror kink by accident, or maybe not, because everything she does feels calculated in a way rafe is still learning to decode. they're in his bathroom, her freshly showered and perched on the marble counter in just a towel, him standing between her legs while she complains about having to move her nail appointment. he's half listening, more focused on the way her towel's slipping, when she glances at the mirror behind him and just stops talking. her eyes lock on their reflection, on the way his bare back looks, on her own post shower glow, and she breathes out a tiny "oh" that's all curiosity and zero shame. "wait," she says, pushing at his chest until he turns around, until she's facing the mirror with him pressed up behind her, "i wanna watch." and rafe gets so hard so fast he has to brace his hands on the counter. she watches herself with wide, greedy eyes the whole time, chattering away about how pretty they look together, how good he fills her up, how she wishes she could film it for later, and he comes harder than he has in weeks, face buried in her damp hair, rearranging his entire mental list of turn ons around this single moment. the mirror fogs up by the end, and she draws a little heart in the condensation with her fingertip, prints still smudged on the glass, and hums, "we should do that again tonight." and they do.
hypersexual!reader who gets it in her head that she wants to roleplay the classic "stranger at a bar" scenario, and rafe's initial reaction is a flat, unimpressed stare. "you want me to pretend i don't know you?" he says, leaning against the kitchen counter with a beer in hand, and she's already bouncing on her heels in a dress that barely covers her ass, nodding so fast her earrings jangle. "it'll be fun! you'll be all mysterious and broody—well, broodier—and i’ll be a ditzy little thing you pick up." he takes a long sip, eyes narrowing. "you are a ditzy little thing i picked up." she gasps, hand flying to her chest in mock offense, but her grin is pure trouble. "rafe! be meaner. pretend you don't like me yet." so he does. he slides onto the stool next to her with a cold, appraising look that sends a shiver down her spine, and orders a whiskey without breaking eye contact. she plays her part so well, twirling her hair, biting her glossed lip, asking if he comes here often in that breathy, clueless voice, that he almost forgets they've been together for months. by the time he's got her spawned out on the kitchen island, her legs on his shoulders and his name a wrecked chant on her lips, she's babbling about how he's so good at this, how she felt like she was cheating on him with him, and he just laughs against her throat, a low, surprised sound, and says, "you're batshit, you know that?" she hums, nails raking down his back.
hypersexual!reader who has a thing for waking him up with her mouth, which rafe discovers on a random tuesday when he blinks awake to find her already under the covers, working him over with the kind of lazy, unhurried dedication that says she's been at it for a while. "what the f—" he starts, voice wrecked with sleep, and she pops up from under the blanket like a daisy, hair a mess, lip gloss long gone, and beams at him. "morning baby. you just looked so pretty, i couldn't help myself." he stares at her, chest heaving, one hand fisting the sheets while his brain reboots, and she just ducks back down without waiting for a response. it becomes a thing after that, he never knows when he's gonna wake up to her mouth or her hands or her already sinking down onto him with a contented little sigh, murmuring about how she couldn't sleep and he felt so warm next to her and she just wanted to feel close. he starts going to bed earlier just to give her more time, not that he'd ever admit it. one morning she's so focused she doesn't notice he's awake until he's flipping them over and pinning her wrists, "my turn" against her throat, and she just giggles and spreads her legs wider and says, "finally! i was getting lonely up here."
hypersexual!reader who gets obsessed with the idea of being his "good girl" in the most literal sense, wants rules, wants praise, wants him to tell her exactly what to do and then reward her for doing it. rafe thinks it's ridiculous at first, this hyper feminine little thing asking him to "give her structure," but then she's kneeling on his bedroom floor with her hands folded in her lap, looking up at him with those big eyes, asking "how can i be good for you today?" and something in his brain short circuits. he starts small. she texts him her outfits for approval, asks permission before touching herself, waits for his nod before she orders at restaurants. and every time she follows a rule, she glows, preening under his muttered "good girl" like it's a standing ovation. the sex is unreal, she's so eager to please, so responsive to every command, melting into a puddle of breathless gratitude when he tells her she's taking him so well, she's being so perfect, she's the best girl. after, she's curled up against his side, tracing shapes on his chest, and she whispers, "do i get a gold star?" and he laughs so hard he pulls a muscle, then kisses her forehead and says, "i'll get you a whole sticker chart, baby."
hypersexual!reader who has a habit of saying the most unhinged shit mid bite of a salad, like her brain and mouth have zero filter between them. they're at lunch with sarah and john b, some tense double date thing rafe only agreed to because she asked, and she suddenly sets down her fork, tilts her head, and says to no one in particular, "i think i have an oral fixation. like, not just with food. with everything. rafey's fingers, his d—" and rafe chokes on his water so violently sarah has to thump him on the back. "what the fuck," he coughs, eyes watering, and she just blinks at him with genuine confusion like she forgot other people were at the table. "what? it's a real thing— i read about it." john b is staring at the ceiling like he's praying for death, sarah is bright red, and rafe is gripping the edge of the table with both hands, jaw tight, a vein ticking in his forehead. "we're leaving," he announces, throwing cash on the table, and she pouts the whole way to the car about how she was just trying to share, she thought they were all friends. he doesn't say a word until they're in the truck, and then he just turns to her with this wild, incredulous look and says, "you cannot say shit like that in front of my sister. ever. i fucking mean it." she crosses her arms, lower lip jutting out, and mutters, "fine. but you know i'm right." he drags a hand down his face, starts the engine, and doesn't speak for five full minutes. then, quieter "i know." and she beams.
hypersexual!reader who has a habit of absentmindedly touching herself while they watch movies, not even in a performative way, just idly slipping a hand between her thighs under the blanket while she’s curled against his side, eyes glued to the screen, breath hitching so subtly he almost doesn’t notice. the first time it happens, he glances down and sees the movement, the blanket shifting, her bottom lip caught between her teeth, and he goes still. “are you serious right now?” he asks, voice a low rasp, and she turns to him with those big, startled eyes like she forgot he was there. “oh! m’ sorry, just felt good,” she pouts, completely unashamed, but starts to pull her hand away. he stops her, wrist caught in his grip, guiding it back where it was. “don’t stop. let me see.” after that, movie nights become a gamble, she’ll either fall asleep on his chest twenty minutes in or end up straddling him with the credits rolling, both of them too wrecked to remember what they watched.
first time writing little blurbs/headcanons (???) like this and i luv theyre so fun and cute. i have a really good rafe fic idea and i got inspo from a video i’d seen on twitter so im excited😫 but i also wanna write a fic for the 4th but sooo undecided on if i should do rafe, garrett or dean ughhegsgshsg help & send ideas!!!! kisses to u all<3
hey, this might sound weird but do you perhaps have an account on ao3 with the same username? there's a fanfiction called Home For the Holidays - A Rafe Cameron Christmas Mini Series that hasn't been updated in over a year. i've been itching for the third chapter because it's a literal masterpiece.
I do! That's me! I may finish that story at Christmas if I feel the spirit but we'll see! Thank you for asking and for the love!!
would you ever consider picking back up on “DCMK”? i remember reading it in live time and was obsessed.
y'know, I've tried to pick it up several times and it just never feels right. If someday I wake up with inspiration and an idea of how I want it to end, I'll repost, but if I'm being honest I don't see that happening.
I love how much everyone loves it, thanks for stopping in <3
a/n: hi everyone, long time no see. not my usual obsession, but what can i say? i'm obsessing over daddy dean. hopefully this reaches the right target audience 🫡
The universe has a funny way of working. Sometimes it places people in your life for only a moment, and other times it keeps pulling you toward the same person until ignoring it becomes impossible. Maybe it’s timing, maybe it’s coincidence, or maybe some people are simply meant to find each other no matter how hard they try not to. And before you realize it, they’ve become part of your routine. Part of you.
The party was loud, well, Briar U’s parties were always annoyingly loud. She didn’t really want to come out, but in a way she felt like she should. She moved through the crowd, the smell of cheap beer lingering in the air as she said hi to a couple of people she recognized. The girls weren't here yet, and without them she almost felt out of place. She made it to the kitchen, her eyes wandering and deciding what to drink.
Logan approached her leaning in close “Hey, you. Thought you were staying home tonight!” Leaning in for a hug, as they talked for a few minutes.
And that was the exact moment he noticed her.
Across the kitchen Dean stood listening to Beau rave about the hockey game- well he wasn’t really listening to him. His focus eventually narrowed in on the girl with long hair and a bright smile as she talked away to Logan.
“Who is that?” Dean asked Beau, cutting him off mid-sentence, his words coming out quickly, “The one talking to Logan,” He clarified, keeping his eyes on her. He had never seen her before or maybe he had, but he told himself he was just curious. But the thing about Dean was that he was never curious. He was a playboy, along for the ride, he was never that curious about a girl.
It eventually became a pattern with late night hook ups that occasionally blurred into her spending the night. Sometimes it was just a quick and sloppy hookup, other times it turned into laughter and late night talking.
“We should really stop doing this…” She said against his lips. They were in his room this time, on top of him, her chest bare and her skin flushed from the heat of his mouth as he kissed down her neck. Grinding down against him slowly as his erection pressed up into her.
His large hands slid down her back, palms warm and slightly calloused, tracing her back, before settling on her hips, shivering at the way he touched her. "Hmm, why is that?" he mumbled against her skin, smiling as he kissed along her jaw just under her ear.
She moaned.. A little too loud. He always did this. He was always distracting her, clouding her judgment until she lost her train of thought.
His fingers dug into her hips, guiding her movement as he shifted, slipping one leg between hers until she opened wider for him. His hand came down, hooking his pointer finger to push her panties to the side. She gasped when he flipped her over onto her back, hooking her legs around his shoulder with one hand wrapping around her ankle to hold her into place. He lined himself up, pushing the tip in making her hips buckle “Didn’t catch that, you were saying we should stop?" His voice cocky with a smirk.
She shook her head no, her mouth falling open as she tried to form a sentence on why this was a bad idea. His thumb dragged to her mouth and pressed past her lips, and she sucked without thinking as she circled her tongue, her eyes on him. "Shit," he whispered, his head falling back for a split second before his eyes found hers again. His thumb slid out of her mouth with a wet pop, and his hand traveled down her stomach, eventually reaching down to press slow circles on her clit.
“Pretty fucking girl,” He mumbled.
The bell above the door jingled as she walked into Malone's, the familiar smell of beer, and greasy food. The diner was packed, hockey players filled the booths near the back, closer to the band that was playing tonight. Hannah was already waving over from a table near the jukebox, Allie sliding a menu toward the empty seat before she'd even sat down.
"Took you long enough," Hannah said, stirring her drink with a straw. "We already ordered fries."
"I had to change twice," she admitted, sliding into the booth. "Nothing felt right."
Allie raised her eyebrows but didn't push, and she was grateful for it. Because the truth was, nothing felt right because she knew he'd be here. The team always came to Malone's after practice and she'd spent forty minutes in front of her closet telling herself she wasn't picking an outfit for him.That she wasn't already counting the minutes until she'd see him again.
The night continued on. They both knew they were in the same room, and that simple knowledge made her heart pound in a way that was almost embarrassing. She could feel the weight of his presence like pressure against her skin, even from three booths away.
"Beer run," she announced, sliding out of the booth before the girls could ask for one too.
She made her way through the diner, weaving between tables, and time seemed to slow down. Dean was walking toward her and their eyes locked.
He was giving her that smile. The one that made his dimples poke out, that crinkled the corners of his eyes. And for a moment, nothing else existed. No noise. No crowd. Just him, looking at her like she was the only person in the room.
They passed each other quickly. His shoulder nearly brushed hers. Their hands didn't touch but she felt it everywhere.
She let out a breath and kept walking, her hands trembling slightly as she reached the bar ordering a drink as she watched the band play. She eventually turned her back to the room, facing the bar fully as she took a sip of her beer, hoping it would calm her.
And then she felt it.
Him.
Like a sixth sense. Like her body knew before her brain could catch up. A shift in the air, a warmth at her side, the faint scent of his cologne. Goosebumps erupted across her skin, trailing up her arms, raising the hairs at the back of her neck.
"YN," he said, looking straight ahead. His voice low and casual, like they were strangers making small talk.
"Dean," she said back, proud that her voice came out steady. She felt a smile creeping across her face—that stupid, giddy, excited smile she couldn't seem to control around him. She bit the inside of her cheek to contain it, but she knew he could see it anyway. He always saw everything.
Neither of them said anything else after that. He rested his arms on the bar beside her, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off him, and she kept her hands flat against the counter. And then she felt it. Her eyes flicked down for half a second, then back up, staring straight ahead, to try and seem like he didn't have an effect on her. Her breathing slowed and she looked down again at their hands.
His pinky had shifted. A slow, deliberate movement. It touched hers, barely grazing at first, just a whisper of contact. And then it pressed fully against her, warm and certain. He was looking straight ahead, casual, like he wasn't doing anything at all. Like his pinky wasn't tracing small, intimate circles against her skin, right there in plain sight where anyone could see.
Her heart was pounding so hard she was sure he could hear it.
But she didn't pull away, she pressed back.
“There you are,” She turned at the sound of his voice giving him a small smile, watching him as he pulled up a chair right beside her. She watched him sit down in the chair, manspreading, his long legs stretched out, watching his thighs clench as he shifted his hips up slightly to get more comfortable.
The boys had thrown a party to celebrate the end of the semester. Exams were done, bags were packed, and everyone was buzzing with restless energy that came before heading home for break. But she'd needed air and a minute to herself.
Things had shifted the last several weeks. She looked for him everywhere, waiting for his calls, staying close to him at all times, not just privately but publicly. She was becoming dependent on him. He felt it too. He was locked in, it was pathetic really. He watched the way she was kind to everyone she met, he loved watching her laugh, he loved the way she would study on his bed completely lost in an assignment as her brow furrowed in concentration. He loved to watch her. He was infatuated with everything she did and said. She was just special, special to him.
She lifted her legs up, draping them over his thighs and his hand came down to trace a slow path up and down her leg. He watched her take a long hit of the blunt, slowly exhaling the smoke as she passed it back to him avoiding his eye contact. His fingers brushed hers as he reached for it but stopped abruptly, not taking the blunt just hoping she would look at him.
“You spending the night?” He asked, still keeping his eyes on her as she continued to watch the fire burn, her shoulders shrugging.
“Maybe.”
His hand came to a stop on her thigh.
Maybe.
Maybe?
The word hung between them, echoing inside his mind almost taunting him. That word didn't exist in their vocabulary. She always spent the night. It was an unspoken, assumed, part of the rhythm they'd fallen into. She felt him staring at her, felt the weight of his eyes boring into the side of her face, but she couldn't even look at him. If she looked at him, she'd cave.
"Bullshit," he said, a small laugh escaping him, like he was trying to keep things light. But his smile dropped when she still didn't look at him, instead she bit her lip and stayed silent for a moment.
"I have an early morning," she said quietly.
"You always have early mornings."
She didn't answer him, because really the truth was harder than a lie. She needed to draw the line between them. She could feel herself becoming infatuated with him, craving the sound of his voice, his hands on her body.
She could see it in her periphery, the way his jaw clenched because he was starting to get frustrated that she was avoiding him.
"Don't feed me some bullshit about early mornings."
She swallowed hard, feeling small wanting to sink into the chair and disappear. She tried to move her legs off his lap, but his hand shot out, gripping her knee gently to keep her legs there.
“Look at me,” her eyes found him as he watched a tear fall down her face, he sat up straighter, stretching his arm out to wipe it away.
“Listen, I-, I’m not asking you to marry me,” a small, self-deprecating laugh escapes him.
He continued, “You've been in my bed more nights than you haven't."
He paused for a minute, taking her hands into his, giving her a small smile, slightly shaking his head, “I like that you steal my clothes even though your clothes are in my dresser, I like seeing your makeup and hair products scattered all over the bathroom, I like-” he paused,
His voice faltered, dropping his head for a moment, gathering himself, then looked up at her again. “I like you,”
“I like us,” he added quickly.
Silence.
She didn't know what to say. Her brain had locked up and all she could hear was the thumping of her heart in her ears. She could feel her eyes watering again, she wanted to tell him she felt the same way but her adrenaline was pumping and she just froze, her throat closed with her lips pressed together.
He wasn’t angry at her lack of response. He wasn’t mocking her or pushing her into saying something she wasn’t ready to say, because he understood that she was scared.
"Okay," he finally said, his voice barely above a whisper, his hand went back to her thigh, back to tracing that slow, familiar path up and down. ”Just stay tonight.”
summary 𓂃 when you admit you’ve never been on top before, dean decides there’s no better place to learn than his bed.
warnings 𓂃 18+ mdni, explicit smut, established relationship, insecurity, first time riding, protected sex, praise, dirty talk, boob play, clit stimulation, missionary, soft aftercare.
word count 𓂃 3,468.
── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──
You'd been pretending to watch the movie for at least fifteen minutes.
Dean had been doing a terrible job of pretending he wasn't staring at you for just as long.
It was a terrible performance on both sides, especially considering the laptop was still playing some action movie at the end of his bed, and neither of you could've named one thing that'd happened in the last ten minutes. You were tucked under his sheets in one of his old Briar shirts, the hem brushing soft against your thighs because your underwear was the only thing you'd bothered putting on after your shower, and Dean was lying beside you with one hand behind his head and the other low on your hip like he was trying very hard to act like a gentleman.
He was trying to behave, which was sweet, really, but not exactly successful.
"You're staring again," you murmured, not even bothering to look away from the screen.
Dean's thumb moved in a slow circle over your hip. "You're in my bed wearing my shirt. You can't really blame me."
"You gave it to me," you pointed out, like that was supposed to make him less smug about it.
"I know." Dean's mouth curved like he'd been waiting for you to say exactly that. "Great decision, honestly."
You rolled your eyes, but the smile breaking through kind of ruined the effect. "You're impossible."
"Yeah." Dean leaned in, his lips brushing your shoulder through the fabric of his shirt. "But you like me anyway."
"Sometimes," you said, though your smile made it sound a lot less convincing.
"Right now?" he asked, his voice dropping just enough to make your stomach flip.
You turned your head to answer, which was apparently all the invitation Dean needed, because then he was kissing you, slow and warm, one hand sliding up your side beneath the fabric like he'd planned the whole thing. It was easy to melt into Dean like that, a lot easier than you'd ever admit out loud. Dean kissed you like he knew exactly how much time he had, which apparently meant he had no problem spending it dragging every little sound out of you to see how much trouble it got him into.
His fingers slipped beneath the hem of the shirt, warm against your waist in a way that shouldn't have made you gasp as quickly as it did.
Dean smiled against your mouth, entirely too pleased with himself. "There she is."
"Don't start."
"I didn't even say anything."
"You were about to, and we both know it."
He laughed, low and entirely too pleased with himself, before rolling onto his back and tugging you over him like he already knew you'd follow. And you did, because apparently thinking was no longer part of the plan, one knee sliding across his hips until you were straddling his lap.
Then you froze beneath his hands, and Dean felt the change in you immediately.
His hands settled on your waist, thumbs brushing over your sides in a way that was soft enough to make your chest ache a little. "Hey."
You swallowed, suddenly very aware of the fact that you were in his lap with your thighs spread around his hips, his hard length pressing up beneath his sweatpants, and somehow his shirt still covering you didn't make you feel any less exposed.
"This feels like a lot of responsibility," you said, aiming for a joke and landing somewhere embarrassingly close to panic.
Dean's brow lifted like he wasn't sure whether to laugh or be concerned. "Responsibility?"
"I just..." You looked down, your fingers curling into the front of his shirt like that'd somehow make the words easier to get out. "I've never really done this before."
His expression softened, though that amused little spark in his eyes didn't go anywhere. "Been on top?"
Your cheeks warmed, which was annoying because Dean absolutely noticed. "Not really."
"Not really?" Dean repeated, thumbs still brushing over your waist like he was trying very hard not to look too pleased about that.
"Dean," you said, dragging his name out like a warning, even though the warmth in your cheeks made it pretty hard to sound threatening.
He smiled a little, his hands giving your hips a gentle squeeze like he'd decided to behave for once. "Okay. Not really."
"It's not a big deal," you said quickly, which was unfortunate because saying it that fast made it sound like it was definitely a big deal. "I just feel like I'd look stupid, or I wouldn't know what I was doing, and then you'd have to pretend it was hot, which is a very nice boyfriend thing to do, but also something I'd never emotionally recover from."
Dean stared at you for a beat, then laughed in this soft, disbelieving way that only made your face feel warmer. "Baby, I'm hard because you're sitting on my lap in my shirt. You could sneeze right now, and I'd find a way to be into it."
You blinked because, annoyingly enough, it had worked. "That was weirdly comforting."
"I'm great at comfort."
"You're absolutely not."
"I am when you're half-naked on top of me."
You tried to bite back a laugh, but it came out as this breathy little sound instead when Dean's hands guided your hips down, showing you exactly how slowly he wanted you to move over him. The pressure caught against your clit through your underwear, warm and steady enough to make your thighs tense before you could stop them.
Dean's eyes darkened like he'd felt the way your body reacted. "Does that feel good?"
You nodded, your thighs still tense beneath his hands.
His mouth curved. "Words, sweetheart."
"Yes," you breathed, because apparently that was the only word your brain had left to offer.
"There you go," Dean murmured, his voice soft enough to make your stomach flip.
The next kiss was messier, mostly because Dean kept guiding your hips over him like he had all the patience in the world, dragging it out until your underwear was damp, clinging to you, and making it pretty impossible to pretend you weren't affected. At first, the sounds you made were small and half-swallowed against his mouth, but Dean noticed every single one like he'd been waiting for them.
"Don't do that," he murmured.
You blinked at him. "Do what?"
"Hold back." His fingers tightened on your hips like he was making sure you couldn't pretend you didn't know what he meant. "I like hearing you."
Your stomach flipped, which was annoying because Dean absolutely felt it, and then he kissed you again until the friction dragged a moan out of you that you finally let him hear.
Dean groaned, as if he'd heard you'd done something terrible to his self-control.
That helped more than anything else could have.
By the time Dean had pushed his sweatpants down and rolled on a condom, your underwear was shoved to the side, your hands were planted on his chest, and the shirt was still hanging over you like a very pathetic attempt at feeling covered. Dean didn't try to take it off, which somehow made your chest feel tighter. He just held your hips, eyes fixed on your face as he guided himself through your wetness.
"Slow," he murmured. "Take your time."
You lowered yourself carefully, trying to take your time like he'd told you to, but your mouth still fell open the second the head of his cock pressed inside you. The stretch was familiar and different all at once, deeper like this, more intense because you were the one in control, which sounded nice in theory and felt a lot more terrifying with Dean watching your face like that. You sank inch by inch, trying very hard to look like you had any control over yourself, but the second he filled you, your fingers curled against his chest, and a shaky whimper slipped out before you could stop it.
Dean's jaw tightened. "Fuck."
You froze immediately. "Bad?"
His eyes snapped to yours as you'd just said something insane. "Are you joking?"
"You made a face."
"Yeah, baby, because you feel so good, I'm trying not to embarrass myself."
Your cheeks warmed, which was embarrassing enough on its own, but the praise still settled low in your stomach like your body had decided to enjoy it before you could overthink it.
"You're not just saying that?"
Dean's hands slid up your thighs, grounding you in a way that made it annoyingly hard to spiral. "Move once, sweetheart, and see if I sound like I'm lying."
So you did, moving slowly at first.
Your hips lifted, then sank back down, and Dean's head tipped against the pillow with this rough, helpless groan that made it pretty hard to believe he'd been lying about any of it.
"Oh," you breathed, and the second you moved again, it turned into something closer to a moan.
Dean's eyes opened, heavy and dark, like he'd been waiting for exactly that. "Yeah?"
"Feels good," you said, already sounding a little wrecked.
His hands squeezed your thighs. "Then keep going, sweetheart."
Your movements were awkward at first, mostly because your brain wouldn't shut up long enough to let your body figure it out, too busy worrying about the rhythm, whether you were doing enough, and whether you looked ridiculous hovering over him in his shirt with your thighs trembling.
Then Dean's hands tightened on your hips like he could feel you spiraling. "Stop thinking."
"I'm trying."
"No." His voice dropped, rough around the edges but still gentle. "You're trying to look good, which is insane, because you already do. Just move how you want."
The words hit harder than you'd expected, mostly because Dean sounded like he meant them, so you tried to believe him.
You rolled your hips instead of lifting so high, chasing the angle that made your clit catch against him every time you sank back down, and the moan that left you was loud enough to make Dean's cock twitch inside you like he was having a very hard time staying calm about it.
Your eyes flicked to his face, and Dean looked so wrecked that it made it pretty hard to keep worrying about whether you were doing it right.
His lips parted, jaw tense, and his hands kept flexing on your hips like Dean was having the world's hardest time remembering he'd told you to move how you wanted.
"You like this?" you asked, and even though your voice shook, it still came out bolder than before.
Dean laughed once, rough and breathless, as the question had actually offended him. "Like it?" His hips jerked up into you, dragging a gasp out of your mouth. "Baby, I'm trying not to lose my fucking mind."
That did something to you, mostly because Dean sounded like he meant it, and apparently, your body liked knowing you could mess him up that badly.
Your next movement was smoother, more confident, and the moan that came out of you wasn't even close to quiet, which Dean clearly noticed because his hands tightened on your hips immediately.
"Dean—fuck," you moaned, and the way his eyes darkened made it pretty clear he'd liked hearing his name like that.
"That's it," he murmured. "Let me hear you."
You rode him slowly at first, then a little faster once you realized your body had apparently figured out what your brain kept trying to overthink, your hands sliding up his chest as his shirt rode higher over your thighs. Your cunt was soaked around him, every movement making it easier, wetter, and a lot harder to feel shy about, especially when Dean looked down to watch where you were taking him and groaned as he'd just lost whatever was left of his self-control.
"God," he muttered, hands tightening on your hips. "You were worried about this?"
You tried to laugh, but it came out closer to a whimper when he helped you grind down harder. "Maybe."
Dean looked like that answer personally offended him. "You're killing me."
His fingers tugged at the hem of the shirt, and you slowed immediately, like your body had decided to panic before your brain could tell it not to.
Dean noticed immediately, because, of course, he did, his eyes lifting back to yours, as if taking the shirt off suddenly mattered a whole lot less than making sure you were okay. "Can I see you?"
Your stomach fluttered.
His hands rubbed up your thighs, warm and steady. "You can keep it on if you want."
You hesitated for only a second before lifting your arms, which felt a lot braver than it probably looked.
Dean pulled the shirt over your head and tossed it aside, leaving you in your bra and still moving over him like your body hadn't quite figured out whether to be nervous or proud. His eyes dragged over you slowly, and for once, Dean Di Laurentis had absolutely nothing to say.
That made your chest tighten, mostly because Dean looking at you like that was a lot harder to handle than any stupid comment he could've made. "What?"
His hands slid up your waist, warm and certain. "You're so fucking pretty."
Your breath caught the second his palms covered your breasts through your bra, thumbs brushing over your nipples beneath the thin fabric, and your rhythm faltered immediately, because apparently, Dean touching you there made moving and thinking at the same time impossible.
"Oh—Dean."
His mouth curved, entirely too pleased with himself. "No, don't stop."
"You're distracting me."
"Good." His thumbs circled again, making you clench around him like your body had decided to prove his point. "Keep riding me anyway."
You moaned louder this time, hips rolling as his hands played with your tits through your bra, and every touch made you stutter in a way Dean very clearly noticed. Every bit of praise made you wetter, every look on his face made you a little bolder, until the embarrassment started slipping away as your body had finally decided to stop fighting him.
"Tell me," he said, voice rough. "Tell me what feels good."
You swallowed, still moving over him because apparently stopping would've been the worst idea. "Your hands."
"Yeah?"
"And your cock." Your voice was breathless enough to be embarrassing, but you said it anyway, and Dean's eyes went so dark that it made the embarrassment feel worth it. "Feels good when I move like this."
You rolled your hips harder to show him, and Dean's head dropped back as you'd just ruined him on purpose.
"Fuck," he groaned. "Don't stop doing that."
Hearing Dean sound like that ruined something dangerous to your confidence, mostly because it was a lot harder to feel embarrassed when he sounded like he was the one barely holding it together.
Your hands moved behind your back, unclasping your bra before your brain could show up and ruin the moment. It slipped down your arms and fell somewhere between you, and Dean stared as you'd just done something genuinely unfair to his ability to breathe.
"Look at you," he breathed, and the way he said it made your whole body feel warm.
The words made your chest warm in a way you weren't sure what to do with.
Then his mouth was on you, lips closing around one nipple while his hand covered your other breast, and you cried out so quickly it would've been embarrassing if Dean hadn't groaned like it'd done something to him. Your fingers slid into his hair, hips moving faster now as pleasure started building low in your stomach.
"Dean, I'm—" Your voice fell apart into a whimper when his thumb found your clit, because apparently your body had no interest in letting you finish a sentence. "Oh my god, right there."
"There?" he asked, smug in a way that would've been annoying if he didn't sound so wrecked.
"Yes. Fuck, yes."
He rubbed slow circles over your clit while you rode him, his other hand on your hip and his mouth moving from your breast to your throat like he wasn't already making it impossible to focus. You were close, so close your thighs had started shaking, but the rhythm was getting harder to keep, your moans turning messier and needier as frustration tangled with the pleasure your body kept trying to chase.
Dean caught it instantly, like every little shift in your body was something he'd been waiting for.
"Come here," he murmured.
Before you could even think about arguing, Dean rolled you beneath him and pulled the sheets over both of you, settling between your thighs without slipping out like he'd decided you'd done enough thinking for one night. The new angle made you gasp, your legs wrapping around his waist as he pressed deeper.
Then Dean caught both your hands and laced your fingers together, pinning them above your head so gently it made your chest ache a little.
Dean kissed you, slow and messy, like he had every intention of making good on that promise. "Let me finish what you started."
"Please," you whispered, and it came out a lot needier than planned, which Dean absolutely noticed.
Dean's expression flickered. Then his hips started moving. Slow, deep, steady thrusts that had you moaning into the space between you, thighs locked around his waist, your hands crossed with his over your head. The sheets tangled around your legs, heat building under the blanket, his body heavy and warm over yours.
"You did so well," he murmured, his mouth brushing your jaw like he knew exactly how badly the praise was getting to you. "Looked so fucking good on top of me."
"Dean," you whimpered.
"I know." His hips rolled deeper, pulling your back into an arch. "I've got you."
His hand slipped between your bodies again, thumb finding your clit like he already knew exactly what you needed, and your whole body tightened around him.
"Oh—fuck, don't stop," you gasped, which was probably unnecessary considering Dean looked like stopping would've killed him.
He groaned anyway. "Wasn't planning on it."
The pleasure snapped through you suddenly, hot and sharp, and your moan broke against Dean's mouth as you came around him. Your thighs locked around his waist, fingers tightening in his above your head like you needed something to hold onto while your body shook beneath him.
Dean followed right after, his thrusts going uneven as he'd finally lost the last of his control, face buried in your neck as a rough groan broke out of him while he held you close and came.
For a while, neither of you moved, both of you too warm and tangled beneath the sheets to do anything other than breathe.
"You okay?" he asked softly.
You nodded, still trying to catch your breath. "Yeah."
His grin appeared slowly, which was never a good sign. "So."
"No."
"I didn't say anything."
"You were about to."
"I was just gonna say you're definitely not bad at being on top."
Your face warmed, and you turned it into the pillow like that might somehow save you. "You're so annoying."
"And you were so loud."
"Dean."
"I liked it," he said, kissing your cheek like he hadn't just made you want to disappear into the mattress. "A lot."
You tried to glare, but it came out pretty weak, especially when he slipped out carefully and disappeared to clean up like he hadn't just ruined your ability to function. When he came back, he helped clean you with a warm towel, gentle when your thighs twitched, before pulling his shirt back over your head as it belonged there.
"Putting me back in this?" you asked, glancing down at the shirt.
"Obviously." Dean climbed into bed beside you and pulled you into his chest, looking far too pleased with himself. "It's my new favorite thing now."
You laughed softly, settling against him while his arm wrapped around you like he had no plans of letting you go anytime soon.
For a minute, Dean only rubbed slow circles over your back like he was trying to make sure you'd fully melted into him. Then his voice came again, softer this time, though obviously still teasing because it was Dean.
"So..." His mouth brushed your hair, and you could hear the grin in his voice before he even finished. "You wanna do that again sometime?"
You pinched his side, which only made him laugh because apparently even that wasn't enough to make him less pleased with himself.
Dean laughed and pulled you closer, sounding far too pleased with himself for someone who'd just been pinched. "I'll take that as a yes."
tags: 18+ mdni, explicit sexual content, set during dbba s1, daredevil spoilers, dbba s1 spoilers, roommates to friends to lovers, unrequited love, doomed situationship, no use of y/n, slight canon divergence (kinda), wlw, hurt/comfort, angst and smut
notes: i created this fic for my fellow bi/pan homies who couldn't tell if they wanted to be dex or karen in that one scene. chapter 1 only features mentions of dex but don't worry, there will be more of him.
summary: following foggy's death, karen moves to san francisco to grieve and get away from matt, and finds an extremely compelling reason to stay. reader is karen's roommate. unrequited love/doomed situationship ahead. this can be read as a one-shot but will be part of a longer fic.
Even her grief couldn’t hide the take-no-shit determination you saw in her that first day she walked into your apartment. She woke up, got ready, went to work, came home, ate dinner, and went to bed. Day after day after day, like it was a cleansing ritual. You knew some shit had gone down that she was running away from.
You were no stranger to running away.
You wanted to know every single thing about her, but she was guarded. She was haunted. So instead you began spending nights on the couch together watching movies, eating snacks and talking about nothing in particular. But to you, it was everything. And you hoped that when she was ready, she would open up.
One night, a few months in, she says she wants to tell you about her life in New York.
“If I tell you this, you’re in danger. Even though I left, there could still be people who’d use you to get to me.”
“I still want to know. But you don’t have to tell me, if you don’t want to. If you’re not ready, I understand.”
She stares out into the apartment for a long moment, that same determination on her face that was there the moment you met her.
“I can’t hold onto it alone anymore,” she finally says.
You would listen to anything she had to say, no matter how dangerous. It was worth it.
So she tells you about her brother’s death, about getting out of Vermont.
About Union Allied, Daniel Fisher, and being framed for murder.
Matt and Foggy, and how the three of them were inextricably linked from the day they met.
Wilson Fisk and how she helped put him away (twice).
Ben Urich and Mitchell Ellison and how much she loved her job at the Bulletin.
She tells you about killing James Wesley.
She tells you briefly about Frank Castle, though you can sense there is more to that story.
She tells you what it felt like when Matt told her he was Daredevil.
How Sister Maggie and Father Lantom hid her at Clinton Church while a psychotic murderer named Ben Poindexter hunted her down. How Poindexter killed Father Lantom. How he killed Ray Nadeem. How, years later, he walked up to Josie’s Bar and shot Foggy in the heart.
How everything inside of her began to wither from that moment and hasn’t stopped.
When she’s done, you sit in silence for several minutes. You wait to make sure there is nothing else she wants to say as you take everything in.
“The worst part is, I lost Matt too,” she says as tears stream down her face. “I lost myself. All three of us, gone.”
“You’re here,” you say. “I promise you’re still here. You’re here with me. I’m not going anywhere.”
She cries harder. “Hey, hey,” you say, rubbing circles around her back.
You take one of her hands in yours and set them on your lap as she cries, stroking her knuckles with your thumb. If you could bottle that moment forever, you would. Not because of her sadness but because of the possibility. The knowing that you were nearing the edge of a cliff that you'd willingly launch yourself off. Even though you knew Karen wouldn’t follow. Even though you knew you would die on impact at the bottom.
But the free fall would be glorious.
So you held her, and you tucked her hair behind her ears, and you wiped her tears from her cheeks with your thumbs. Her lips found yours first. A single small press. And then another, and another. Wet from her tears, and so soft and sweet.
You pull back the tiniest bit, and her eyes are wide when you meet them.
“Sorry—“ she starts.
“Please don’t be sorry. Please,” you plead, still inches away from her lips, because you can’t stand for her to think even for a second that you don’t want her. You trace her eyebrows and her cheeks and her jaw with your fingers.
“I just want to make sure you won’t regret it.”
She searches your eyes. She puts her hand on your hip. “You’re here,” she echoes you like it’s the first time she’s realizing it. “You’re here with me.”
And then she’s kissing you fully, with that same take-no-shit determination you know her for. She reaches out her other hand to your other hip and holds on like you’re an anchor she’s found after months of being tossed around at sea.
That night, you explore each other slowly, sweetly. Neither of you is wearing a bra. You never do at home. You've imagined many times what her tits would feel like cupped in your hands, but in reality it’s so much better. You push her back into the couch and lift her shirt up, gently pulling at her nipples. “Fuck,” she whispers, like she’s shocked it feels so good, and you’ve never felt prouder of anything in your entire life. She puts her hand on the back of your head as you lean down to swirl your tongue over one bud, then the other. You are on fire. She grabs at your shirt, helps you pull it over your head, and for a moment she just stares at you. She is the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen, face flushed, lips swollen, breathing heavy.
She grabs your hand and stands up, pulling you to your room. “Get on the bed,” she says, and it doesn’t occur to you for one second not to comply. You sit on the edge of the bed. She kneels down between your knees, and you help her pull down your shorts and panties. Her hands start at your feet and slowly make their way to your calves, your knees, the tops of your things. Her light touch is excruciating, but you try to keep it together, for her. After an eternity, she pushes your thighs apart on the bed. The cool air hits your pussy and you know you are wet as fuck.
“Jesus Christ. You’re fucking dripping,” she huffs. There is no way your brain can formulate a response. You just whimper lightly, trying to stay still. “I didn’t quite hear that,” she says with a smirk. You whimper louder and begin to squirm. She gives you a small smile before dipping her head to kiss up the inside of your thighs. She intends to move slowly but it’s like she can’t hold herself back.
When her lips finally meet yours, you whisper out a long “fuuuuck.” She kisses you a few times before sliding her tongue up your slit, splitting you before landing at your clit and spending a long time there. She swirls her tongue, licks, sucks, and you writhe and squirm under her. She’s making a mess. It’s all too much. You try to close your legs around her but she holds your thighs open as she keeps working. She pushes against you with the flat of her tongue and you ride her face, holding her head to you as you come harder than you have in years, possibly ever.
When she finally lifts her head up, you pull her on top of you, tasting yourself on her lips, kissing her, open-mouthed and filthy. You pull her shirt off, shove her shorts off. She’s not wearing panties and you’re already squirming again. There’s nothing slow or gentle about the way you reach between the two of you to cup her pussy, sliding two fingers through her wetness before settling them inside of her. She lets out a desperate groan as you begin to stroke her. The sounds she’s making drive you fucking insane. You flip her over so she’s under you on the bed and plant your thigh between her legs, pressing up against her. She starts to grind automatically. You lean down and take her nipple into your mouth, pinching the other between your fingers. She’s getting close, and it feels like the most important task you have ever undertaken to make her come. She grabs your waist, and you let out a laugh as she brings your cunt to hers. Her grinding becomes desperate, and cries out as you feel the moment she comes undone. She's shaking, still grinding, chasing her orgasm while you bite her nipple hard enough to bruise. You don’t take your mouth from her until you’re sure she’s got nothing left.
Over the next few months, you manage to fuck in every room of the apartment. You get each other off on the couch. She fucks you with your favorite toy in the shower. You eat her out on the kitchen counter. And, almost every night, you end up in your bed like this: legs tangled together, arms reaching out for each other. You hold her every night like it's the last time, because you know one night it will be.
There was the time she went up for that fucker Poindexter’s trial. You were worried sick that she would get to New York and decide to stay there. That the magnetic pull to Matt and to her city that you knew would eventually win out would finally become too strong to fight. But she came back. She found you waiting for her by the door. She pushed you up against the wall and kissed you, hot and frantic. She slid one finger through your soft core and brought it up between your lips and hers. She took a long taste before reaching back down and spreading you, moving between your clit and your center like she just needed to make sure you were there, you were real. Then she fucked you on the living room floor.
Today, you wake her up with a kiss to the corner of her mouth. She always was a light sleeper, completely unlike you. Once you were out, it took a lot to wake you up. Karen had proven how far she was willing to go to achieve that on more than one occasion.
You knew she would leave for good today. You'd both been keeping up with the news. New York was ready to blow. You'd opened your phone to about a hundred notifications that all said one of two things: Poindexter had broken out, and Matt Murdock had taken a bullet for Wilson Fisk. This was it. This was the final pull, the one you knew Karen couldn't fight.
She stirs at your kiss and looks her blue eyes up at you with the closest thing to love she can offer. It breaks your heart.
"Hey," you say, stroking her hair, messy from sleep. You etch this moment into your memory, because you know the next thing you say will take her away from you. "There's news."
The slightest shift in her expression, and you know you've lost her. She was never really yours to begin with.
Clark Kent x Female!Reader Sweet & Spicy Masterlist
Galentine's Party Collab hosted by @wildflowersandvibranium & @pinksplace
Expect soft devotion, playful indulgence, and heat that escalates from tender to explicit
✧ 18+ | MDNI
✧ Few set within my Mrs. Kent Diaries series — no prior reading required!
✧Full-Length Fics (3k-5K fics)
✧ Romantic, Domestic, & Filthy (bc I'm indecisive😜)
Updated: 03.04.26
main masterlist | Mrs. Kent Diaries masterlist
divider by @uzmacchiato
🖼 Golden Hour | "You look so beautiful like this." 🌶
Van Gogh spent his life chasing light with a brush. Clark just needed one look at you. 18+, mdni, smut, p in v Soft!Clark, Romantic!Clark
wc 2,5k
🌙The Promise | Ring Box/ kiss on all their favorite parts 🍒🌶️
A quiet date night takes an unexpected turn with an unintentional fake-out. That night, Clark makes amends, starting with a kiss to your ring finger. The rest follows. Fluff/angst/smut 18+ mdni, tender lovin, brief female oral & p in v (unprotected), body worship Romantic!Clark, soft!Clark
🪞Anatomy of a Visage | funny faces / "Is this okay?"🍒🌶️
After three years of being desk-mates and friends, Clark's learned all of your faces. One spontaneous date dinner changes everything. He finally sees an expression you’ve never shown anyone else. The one you saved just for him.
Clark-centric, Fluff, Smut (p in v, unprotected) Soft!Clark, Yearning!Clark, Idiots in Love, confessions
🍎Garden of Eden | Apple picking / "Are you just going to stare?"🍒🌶️
A quiet return to Smallville sets the stage for something long overdue. Beneath the branches of a late-summer orchard, truths bloom. Clark's not the only one with a secret. You’ve got a couple to share.
Clark-centric, Fluff, 18+, mdni, dry humping against a tree, aaaand just the tip, Soft!Clark, Romantic!Clark, Mutual yearning, longing, & horniness, overdone tattoo trope, identity reveal, confessions, Martha Kent plays match-maker(brief)
🍓Sugar Rush | "Nothing feels as good as coming home to you."/ Strawberries and chocolate🍒🌶️
It started with one strawberry. One chocolate. One kiss. While Clark was called away for Superman duties, you indulged. Now, you’re in the bath aching, breathless, and burning waiting for his return. Smut p in v (unprotected), Accidental Aphrodisiac, Bathtub Sex, Underwater Oral (f receiving, Clark my celetial munch), Praise Kink, Size kink, Dirty Talk, Reader acting stupid horny as hell
💦 Friday I'm In Love | You don't make it to dinner🌶️
You knew you had dinner reservations at seven. You also knew better than to let Clark have his way with you before then. This was the consequences of your actions. 18+, mdni, aftercare, hyperspermia, you are leaking like a faucet, Smug!Clark, Smartass!Clark, married idiots in love, married banter, happy friday
👨🏻🍼Hot Dad | good parent + "It's so hot when you talk like that."🍒🌶️
A quiet night turns contemplative when Clark asks a question that lingers longer than expected. What follows is reassurance 18+, mdni, Dom!Clark (kinda?), reader on top bby, pussy talking, orgasm delay, its poetic bc I couldn't bring myself to finish the full smut, married idiots in love, brief talks of pregnancy/parenthood, insecure!Clark, breathe if you think Clark's a DILF
🍷 Cheri Cheri Lady | Going to a wine tasting, one of you gets silly drunk / “I want you so badly it hurts to hold back."🍒🌶
You went to a vineyard for the wine. Turns out, Clark was the most intoxicating thing there. (silly drunk + I want you so bad it hurts). Fluff, Implied sex, nothing explicit. Exasperated!Clark, married idiots in love, alcohol use, DownBadNoFilter!Reader (truly, my self-insert)
😈Master (Rage)baiter | Lingerie🌶
You knew better than to tease your husband when he was at work. 18+, mdni, smut, masturbation (f), sexting, piv, a teeny bit rough sex, standing doggy, Ragebaited!Clark, Mutual horniness, Menace!Reader
💆♀️Darling, If You Only Knew | Accidental "I love you." 🌶
You missed your massage appointment. Clark offered to help, his strong hands warm, careful, and familiar. Somewhere between the coconut oil and the moan of his name, you whispered it. Clark's a wreck that night. 18+, mdni, masturbation (m), detailed fantasy sequence, Clark cums thinking about you, Accidental Confession, Sexuallyfrustrated!Clark. Yearning!Clark, mutual pining, mutual yearning, cliffhanger-ish?
🌹 Starcrossed Lovers | Flowers/ Recreating a book or movie scene together🍒🌶️
A forbidden love blooms in secret between a Luthor and a Kent, rooted in devotion strong enough to defy legacy and blood. smut, fluff, angst, 18+, mdni, oral (f receiving) piv, breeding kink if you squint, creampie, Romeo & Juliet References, Forbidden Love, Romantic!Clark, Soft!Clark, Reader can be interpreted as adopted
📞The Less I Know The Better | swapped: I'm not done with you🌶️
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. 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
🛏️Talk So Sweet, Doing Bad Things | breakfast in bed/ only one bed 🍒🌶
The morning after Valentine's finds you tender, well-loved, and staring down the latest casualty of being married to Clark: your one and only bed. He tries to make amends. 18+, mdni, smut, fingering, cockwarming, piv, creampie, hot and heavy make out, minor praise kink, overstimulated from the night before and Clark is the consent king, Downbad!Clark, Smug!Clark, Romantic!Clark, Mutual horniness, Clark breaks the bed and is prideful, HATES when you're mad
🎶Give It To Me | swapped "I can hardly wait to put a ring on that finger." / Getting handsy on the dance floor🍒🌶️
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. 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
Pairing David!Clark Kent x Female!Reader
Summary A quiet date night takes an unexpected turn with an unintentional fake-out. That night, Clark makes amends, starting with a kiss on your ring finger. The rest follows. (ring box + kiss favorite parts)
Tags 18+, mdni, very brief smut - female oral, p in v (unprotected), Is this body worship?, Angst, Fluff, Soft!Clark, Romantic!Clark
WC 3k
struggled with this a lot, only bc I took inspiration from personal experience. i'm sorry it's not the best. tomatoes are at the door
Galentine's #2 by @/wildflowersandvibranium & @/pinksplace | Mrs. Kent Diaries
The apartment rooftop was still warm from the day, its concrete edges basked in evening sun.
The picnic blanket was a little lopsided, the sandwiches were from a bodega that messed up your order more than they got it right, and the cheap string lights Clark strung along the railing blinked like fireflies.
This impromptu date was perfect.
You leaned back on your elbows, wine glass empty beside you, cheeks flushed from laughing too hard at whatever dumb thing Clark had just said. He sat close, Metro U crewneck sleeves rolled up to his forearms. You could see his watch tan line on his wrist. You could smell him, a comforting clean cotton, fresh air, aftershave, and maybe, just maybe, the faintest trace of nervous sweat.
He shifted beside you, clearing his throat, "Hon, I uh… got you something."
You sat up and turned your head, the glow of the string lights catching in the slope of his cheekbone.
His hand slid into the back pocket of his jeans.
You froze, sobering quickly.
Something about the motion. The obvious cube shape you hadn’t noticed until now. The pause. Your stomach tightened, breath catching somewhere between your ribs and your throat. It wasn’t like you were expecting it, not tonight, not here, but Clark had been weird lately. More than usual. More giddy and soft in a unique way. Like he had a secret, bigger than Superman, and he couldn’t wait to share.
Your mind went faster than your heart. Faster than reason. Faster than it should have.
Your voice was light when it came, practiced in its casualness: "Clark Joseph Kent," you teased, half-grin blooming like a dare. "Is that a ring box in your pocket or you just happy to see me?"
His hand stilled.
You raised your eyebrows.
He blinked, once, slow. Like he’d just registered the weight of your words, and with the kind of unhurried, maddening deliberation he always used when opening a gift or untying your dress, he pulled something out. A small, black velvet box.
Your heart vaulted to your throat. Your breath caught. Your eyes began to burn, but you couldn’t blink. The string lights flickered behind him, and the world narrowed to that little black square in his palm.
He opened it.
Earrings.
Just earrings. Well, no. Beautiful earrings. Small, delicate, expensive, earned on a reporter’s salary. Your birthstone held in a tiny gold setting, warm and winking up at you like it didn’t just break your heart a little to see it.
"Oh," you exhaled. Your voice didn’t crack, but you felt the tremor anyway.
Clark, bless him, was still beaming. "You mentioned you lost the pair you liked. These reminded me of them."
He looked so proud of himself. Like he’d nailed it. Like he’d known this would make your night. And it should’ve. It did. It would have, on any other day.
You took them. You grinned back, fighting the urge to sniffle as your fingers curled around the velvet. You threw yourself on him in a tight hug, kissed his lips, and thanked him.
Because you were still grateful. Still loved him. Still adored that your incredible boyfriend’s brain remembered the little things like what you’d lost three months ago and how you’d muttered about it under your breath while brushing your hair back behind your ear before turning in for the night beside him.
But God, it had felt so real for a second. That heartbeat of possibility. That lurch in your chest of forever with Clark almost in your grasp.
So you socked him in the arm. Not hard. Just enough.
"Oh, you absolute jerk!"
He flinched dramatically, stunned and l laughing. "Ow! What was that for?! What did I—what’d I do?!"
"Did you see how that looked right now?!"
"I really didn’t! Not until five seconds ago," he insisted, wide-eyed and pouting. "I swear on Ma’s pies, I just thought you’d like them!"
And you did. Love them in fact the longer you stared at it.
You even put them on right in front of him, sliding one into your left ear, fingers trembling just a little as you fastened the back. He watched you do the same to the right ear, blue eyes alight with awe and adoration.
But the quiet that followed told a different story.
The laugh faded too quickly. Your smile dimmed too fast.
Because something continued to pinch your chest tight. Because it had felt so real for a second. The setup. The box. The way his hand lingered daramtically upon reveal. You weren’t in a rush—not really. Not in a way you’d ever say aloud. But the hope you hadn’t known was waiting to be lit, and now it was snuffed out just as quickly.
Clark’s eyes caught your expression instantly, some flicker he knew better than anyone else because he’d grown up with it, soothed it, and now, caused it. His hand found yours on the blanket, his calloused thumbs soothing out the tension in your knuckles. You hadn’t realized you were wringing your fingers on the gingham fabric.
"Sweetheart," he started, quieter now. You looked at him. God, he looked worried. Like he already knew what you were about to say. "I’m sorry."
"No, no! What are you sorry for?" You shook your head, trying to smile through it. "You are too good to me. I was prepared for just a nice urban picnic with my favorite person. I was being dumb. I wasn’t expecting anything. Honestly."
"You kind of were."
You didn’t deny it, because he was right. Because he knew you too well. Because this exact kind of moment, golden-lit and private and just the two of you tucked into your own little world would’ve been the kind of place he’d do it.
He brought your hand to his lips and kissed your knuckles and then your palm. Held it there longer than necessary, warm breath lingering against your skin like a drawn-out apology. Your fingers curled against his cheek, thumb catching on his stubble.
"Clark, I’m not upset. Please believe me. I was being dumb," you urged. "It’s just—You know how I get with gifts, moments like this. Truly, thank you."
You swallowed hard, leaned into his touch, and kissed him soundly.
And even though the night carried on with quiet laughter as you both wrangled the blanket under the night breeze, and the winding down of something almost-magical, there was a tender weight in your chest that hadn’t been there when you first sat down.
Not heavy. Not bitter. Just a hum of something left unfinished.
.
The walk back to the apartment was quiet.
Clark held your hand the whole way, his thumb brushing over your knuckles every few steps. Neither of you said much. There was a strange kind of familiarity to the silence, a wordless understanding that stretched between you like a thread.
He opened the door for you when you got to the apartment. Let you step into the warmth of home first. You toed off your shoes with a sigh, tucked the picnic blanket and empty wine bottle on the kitchen island, and padded toward the bathroom with a tired hum. Clark followed, slow and quiet, like he didn’t want to startle whatever quiet thing was blooming between you now.
He watched you in the mirror as you removed your makeup.
He didn’t mean to stare, but the way your eyes softened when you wiped your mascara away, and the way your lips parted just slightly when you concentrated on getting your eyeliner off made his chest ache. You were always beautiful. But like this? Bare-faced and blinking slowly, wearing the faintest flush from the wine and the laughter and the disappointment you’d tried to bury?
He would’ve given you anything.
You caught him watching. Raised your brows. He looked down at the sink.
"I can’t help it," he shrugged, a lazy, insincere apology. "You’re just really pretty."
You snorted, dabbing at your cheeks with a cotton pad. "Pretty gross."
"Nope, really pretty."
He brushed his teeth alongside you like always, shoulder to shoulder, nudging his elbow into yours when you started humming that old song you both hated. You made a mess with the mouthwash, and he cleaned it up without a word. You laughed when he accidentally spit too hard into the sink. He pretended not to beam at the sound.
The shared shower was more about teasing than getting clean.
Clark followed you in like a magnet, warm skin crowding yours beneath the stream. He didn’t try anything. Didn’t push. Just stood there behind you while you lathered shampoo into your scalp, fingers sliding through your hair to help rinse it out. When you rinsed, he kissed your shoulder. When you bent to grab the body wash, he groaned under his breath.
"You trying to kill me, sweetheart?"
You turned, soap suds on your jaw. "For what ever reason, babe?"
He just raised a brow. You kissed him then. A little slow. A little smug.
He still didn’t push it. Not yet.
By the time you were both towel-dried and yawning, the lights in the apartment were dim. Clark stood at the foot of the bed in just his boxers, hair curling and damp, glasses gone, skin golden from the lamplight. You pulled one of his oldest T-shirts over your head: faded navy, a rip in the hem, the Daily Planet logo cracked like old paint. It hit just below your hips.
You climbed into bed, and he followed, curling his body around yours like every night.
And still, even after you’ve cut the lamp, snuggled into the sheets, he kept watching.
Like the words he wanted to say were too big for his mouth. Like every version of I’m sorry and you deserve more and I love you so much it’s killing me and I need to tell you the truth had lodged somewhere in his chest and hadn’t worked free yet.
"Clark," you whispered, turning to face him in the dark. "You okay?"
He looked at you like he could’ve cried from it: your face, your voice, the way you still sounded like you still wanted him beside you, even after what he’d unintentionally did tonight.
"I am," he replied, voice just as quiet as yours. "Just… stuck in my head."
"Still about tonight?"
He nodded once, then shifted until he was leaning over you, elbows pressed into the mattress, right hand finding your left in the quiet. You blinked up at him, watching him bring it up to your lips. He kissed the pad of your index finger. Then your middle next. Then finally, the one beside it, your ring finger.
"It’s real," he whispered, soft and hoarse. "The ring. I’ve had it for weeks."
Your heart skipped with the confession, but remained silent.
"I should’ve told you then. On the roof. You looked so beautiful. I could've grabbed the box and just done it. And doing it now, it'd feel...I…" He exhaled. "I overthought. Like I always do."
You stayed quiet, letting him go on.
"I keep thinking about the moment," He continued, lips brushing over the skin just beneath your knuckle. "How I want it to feel. What I want you to remember. Not a joke. Not a bodega sandwich and blinking lights. I wanted you in a dress you love. With music. And the sky. And flowers."
The tears were a surprise. Actually, you weren't even real crying. Just felt prickle of pressure behind your eyes, the kind that came when you’d been holding something in for too long and someone, like Clark, always Clark, touched it gently.
"And I forgot," he added, voice breaking. "That you probably think about it, too."
"....I do, Clark. I think about forever with you a lot." You paused. Swallowed your ache. "I didn’t mean to joke about it, make things awkward. I just hoped—"
"I know," he cut in immediately, still gentle. "I know. You hoped. I'm so sorry."
Your chest tightened. "Babe, you know I don’t need a perfect moment. I just want you."
His thumb stroked the inside of your palm, cradling your hand tighter.
"I know, but I want you to look back on that moment and know how much care. That I didn't settle with just giving you 'just enough'."
He looked at you then with that earnest, devastating softness. "So soon. It’ll be right here where everyone can see it, and there’ll never be a second where the world doesn’t know how much I love you."
Eyes wet, you nodded, breathing through the confession, letting the truth of it settle between you.
He moved next to your temple, pressing a kiss deep into your hair.
"I love you," he repeated. "Love your mind. For how fast you move through the world, even when I’m the one with super speed. You make connections I don’t see coming. I love that you challenge me, make room for me in there despite all you carry."
You laughed, watery and breathless. "You’re the only one I want in here. though"
Smiling against your skin, he pressed another kiss. "Yes, I've heard."
Then he kissed your lips. Long and open-mouthed, with the weight of everything he wasn’t saying just yet. His palm slid across your cheek. His thumb brushed the corner of your mouth.
"Love your lips, your mouth, your voice," lips ghosting over yours. "For the way you say my name, talk to me, take interest in me. Make me feel like I belong."
He kissed the corner of your jaw. The line beneath your ear. The side of your neck, where your pulse jumped the moment he exhaled there.
"Right here, love this, too," he breathed against your galloping pulse. "Because I like knowing how fast it goes when it’s me. And sometimes I swear it’s the only thing keeping mine steady."
His hands slid up the hem of his old shirt, gathering the fabric slowly. You lifted your arms, still quiet, still stunned. He peeled it over your head, letting the fabric fall somewhere beside the bed, and looked at you like he was seeing the earth for the first time.
He admired your breasts first, palms cupping them gently before he leaned in, kissing the swell of each one slow and open-mouthed, thumb circling one nipple until it peaked under his touch.
You turned your face away, heat blooming. "I always wished I could do something about these. Make them nicer."
His head lifted. His brow furrowed.
"Don't ever say that to me again," he said firmly, scolding. "They’re yours. Which means they’re perfect. I love knowing every mark."
He then dipped his head to kiss the small beauty marks atop your right breast. Then he kissed another. Then another. Then one he’d only ever seen in the soft glow of early morning.
"I never forget a single one," he whispered.
He moved lower, mouth tracing the center of your sternum, over your ribs. Your stomach rose and fell with each breath, and when his lips found the area just above your navel, you sighed, long and slow, threading your fingers into his hair.
Clark paused.
He thought about all the quiet mornings when you’d pressed his hand to your belly and joked about feeding you too well. All the conversations you’d had about someday. About names. About tiny sweaters. About how scared you were to try, and how much you wanted to anyway.
"I think about this part. More than I should," he murmured, blue eyes piercing through the moonlight. He kissed the softness of your stomach again, slower this time.
"When you're ready. When we are I think about your beautiful body changing, and the way you’d look carrying something we made. I think about how much you’ll love them. How lucky I'll be to witness it."
You curled your fingers tighter in his hair, a silent, mutual: yes, someday.
His hands slid down your waist next, anchoring at your hips. He kissed the inside dip there, just above your hip bone. Then again, on the other side.
"You drive me out of my mind," he breathed, almost like he was scolding you for it.
Then he kissed your thighs. First, the left. Then the right. Then higher, and higher, until your knees fell open for him.
"This part," he exhaled, in awe. "where you open for me, where you trust me. I love this, too. But you probably figured that out."
And then he kissed your clit.
You gasped, sharp and sweet, your hand tightening in his hair as his tongue followed. He was slow and precise, savoring you like he had all the time in the world, like he had no greater purpose than to unspool you with his mouth.
He held you open with both hands on your thighs, his shoulders braced between them, nose pressed into your folds, and lapped you until you were shaking. And then, only when your thighs trembled, and your breath came in broken, desperate fragments, and your whole body felt like it might dissolve into stardust—
Then he pulled back, chin wet, pupils blown.
Then he crawled up your body, kissed your lips again, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.
"I love you," he breathed your name. "So much, it makes me do silly things."
You smiled, already trembling. "I love you, Clark. It’s not even fair how much."
He kissed you again. And again. And again.
Finally, he slid into you, slow, thick, unhurried. You cried out softly, back arching as he filled you all the way. He didn’t move at first. Just stayed there, buried deep inside and feeling you adjust, forehead pressed to yours.
His eyes never left yours. You felt the weight of him everywhere—his hands, his chest, his gaze, his heart. All of him, pressed into you, wrapped around you, like you were his home and his vow and his lifeline all at once.
Then his left hand found yours, fingers interlaced. He pressed your joined hands into the pillow above your head. Ring finger curled tight with his.
His gaze dropped for a beat, caught by the glint off the tiny gold earrings in the moonlight.
"I promise, sweetheart," he whispered, honest and eyes full of everything you’d ever loved about him. "The real one’s coming. You’ll have the ring. The name. Every piece of me, for as long as you want it."
You nodded, breath catching, mouth parted. "I already do."
And when he began to move, rocking into you, it wasn’t about rhythm, urgency, or making you come again.
It was about proof.
It was about the way he kissed you with each thrust, the way he caressed your fingers, the way he breathed your name like it was the only word that ever mattered.
It was about making sure you knew: he was already yours and you were already his.
And soon, the rest of the world would know that, too.
.
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