Making out with Clark while he cooks for you and the food burns.
Summary: The title speaks for itself
Warning: fluff, heated make-out session, grinding, Clark in a horny crisis. NSFW 18+ only
A/n: I thought of this while writing another Clark x reader fic and needed to get it out because it wouldn't leave my head. This was also supposed to be just cute fluff, it didn't turn out that way. Oops. 🤭Enjoy!
Soft music fills your small apartment's kitchen, intertwining with yours and Clark's conversation. The city is winding down for the day as evening settles. Lights from nearby buildings and the small soft ones that litter your apartment make your place one of comfort. ‘Anything but the big light’ as you say.
Clark stands at your stove top, wearing his charcoal slacks; however, his tie and blazer are missing, and he's popped a few of the top buttons on his white dress shirt as well as rolled up the sleeves to avoid getting them in the sauce. A dish towel slung over his shoulder.
He's trying out a new recipe that he's been meaning to test and hasn't had the proper time actually to make it, until now.
As he stands in front of your stove, seemingly taking up the whole kitchen with his large frame and broad shoulders, mixing something that has your stomach growling, you sit within arm's reach of him on the counter, drowning in an old shirt of his that you have personally declared yours, and a pair of underwear. Your reason for being so close was so you could hand him spices, of course. And not because his hand hasn't left your thigh once.
And frankly, it's kinda hot.
Clark begins adding oil and spices to some vegetables he chopped in record time and placed them on a sheet pan before popping it in the oven to cook, talking casually about why he got out of bed so early in the morning (cutting your heated makeout session short) because some guy had begun wrecking the streets of Metropolis.
“Gosh, darling, he had something against cars, I swear. He was throwing them like toys in every direction. I'm lucky no one died.” He said, closing the oven door and setting a timer, absent-mindedly squeezing your thigh. Doing so has you quickly going insane, since you have been pent up all day because of how you were cock blocked by a car-throwing maniac.
“That's good. Not the damaged city, but that nobody died-” smiling as he gave your cheek a quick peck “-and nobody got seriously hurt?” You asked as he lowered himself down to kneel in front of you so he could grab a pot to begin boiling water for the pasta. Which just so happened to be the cabinet you were right above, meaning his face was eye level with your clothed heat that had been aching for him all day.
Yet, he was too caught up in telling you about his day and cooking to notice your labored breathing and the slight squirm of your hips.
On any other day, you would be perfectly content with this. You loved talking with Clark and spending time with him. Letting the day's stressors melt away with every peck on the cheek and one too many taste tests of his cooking, it really just tasted too good. (Blame Ma Kent for teaching Clark how to be a wizard in the kitchen)
However, you were horny. And as hungry as you always were for Clark's cooking. You were craving something else.
Much to your chagrin, Clark had to briefly take his hand away from your thigh to walk over to the sink so that he could fill the pot with water. “Thank goodness no, I stopped him before things got out of hand,” he replied, walking back over to the stovetop, where his hand fell back casually on your thigh. “And what about you, darling, are you ok?” he continued, looking at you as he salted the water and turned the heat on to boil it.
You were too wrapped up in the feeling of Clark's thumb rubbing circles on your inner thigh to register what he fully said, “Hm, what?”
Clark added some bay leaves to his sauce before covering it and letting it simmer. “I can hear your heart, darling. It's racing. And you're” he pauses, turning to you. “more tense than normal. Did something happen at work today?”
You go to speak, tell him all is well, and continue with his story, but your words catch in your throat. Clark takes the dish towel that he had resting on his shoulder and wipes his hands clean with it before setting it down and stepping closer to you, and closer, eventually he's between your legs. His hands move to your hips, lifting up his old Smallville High t-shirt on you to feel the warmth of your skin.
He has nothing but concern in his eyes. Clark studies your face and body; you could see the thousand gears turning at once in his head, trying to figure out what is wrong. For having the best eyesight in the galaxy, Clark could really be blind.
“Did something happen?” He begins, “Did someone hurt you?” Clark's look of worry turns to panic as he speaks
“Clark,” you say, your hands moving up to his face to try and calm him and his racing thoughts.
“Was someone rude to you at work? Was it your stupid manager again?”
“HR needs to do something about her.”
“Clark,” you say a little louder
“Or was it that creepy customer again? Did he cross the line again? Did he not take ‘no’ for an answer? Did he touch you!? because swear if h-”
“Clark!” You practically have to yell in order for him to stop.
His gaze is instantly on you, his brow furrowed. “Work was fine, Clark, nobody did anything.” You reassure, your thumb rubbing his cheekbone.
He sighs, relaxing his shoulders before leaning his face into your touch. Clark always had a soft spot for your touch, like a moth to light. However, as he kisses the inside of your wrist, a simple gesture of love, he stops short, his gaze landing right back onto you. His hands tighten ever so slightly on your hips before sliding you closer to him on the counter. Effectively bringing the two of you face to face, forcing you to part your legs wider to accommodate the size of his hips.
Your breath hitches as you wrap your arms around his shoulders to play with the hairs on the back of his neck. Now it was your turn to be confused at the sudden shift. He leans down and presses a soft kiss on your forehead before kissing down to your cheek, then your neck, finding your racing pulse point. It melts you embarrassingly fast. Closing your eyes and leaning your head to the side to give him more room before he speaks into your skin, his voice now low and not the same one you were talking with ninety seconds prior.
“Then tell me why your heart is still racing, sweetheart.”
You could feel his smile on your skin. And you would have swatted him for his teasing, told him to wipe that pretty smile off his face; however, unfortunately, your body does the talking for you before any coherent words could form. Your hips squirm before Clark puts a firm yet gentle stop to it, as he pulls you another inch forward, crowding you against him as if he can’t stand even the small space between you.
“Don't make me say it, Clark.”
He pulls away from your neck, his forehead meeting yours as he gives a small peck to your nose. “Tell me what you need.”
Touch me, you want to say, remind me that I'm yours only, make me lose myself until I can only remember your name. But nothing comes out but a shaky breath. Clark has done nothing and has been able to reduce your brain to a pile of mush. He stands patiently, thumb rubbing circles on your hips as he looks down at you.
You swallow thickly before speaking, “You’re cruel.”
He lets out a small huff, shaking his head. “Darling, I'm just trying to make you dinner, you're the one who is sitting so pretty with underwear I know is soaked.”
You can't help but groan and let your head fall to his chest; you can feel the rumble of his laugh in his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin from under his shirt, and suddenly, there are too many clothes. You pull back to tug at the buttons of his shirt, needing to feel the skin of his chest. “Dinner can wait,” you say once you have enough buttons undone to press a series of kisses from his collar bone to his rigid abs, which never fail to leave you impressed. If somebody were to tell you the day you met Clark at the coffee shop in the Daily Planet, who tripped over his words while ordering his coffee and bagel, and always ran into a chair or a person on his way both in and out, look like he was carved straight out of marble and was a 250 pounds of muscle under his wrinkled oversized suit, you would probably laugh in their face.
His laughter fades as you make it your personal agenda to get him as naked as fast as possible. You make your way back up to his jaw, pressing kiss after kiss to his neck. “Gosh, you’re going to be the death of me," he groans, his hands squeezy your sides just a little tighter.
He's holding back, you know he is. Fighting the only fight he can't seem to win. That's when you pull back and look up at him through your lashes. Putting on a faux pout, you know Clark can't risk keeping on your face. “Please, Clark, I need you.”
Clark closes his eyes and sighs it's heavy and deep; you see the way his jaw flexes. He's giving in, and you know it. “Clark p-” You're instantly cut off by his lips smashing into yours. He's everywhere all at once. His kisses are hot, urgent, and full of need. Hands slide up and under your shirt, tugging it up, feeling every available inch of skin he can, smoothing over your waist as if he can’t decide which part of you he needs most.
Dinner melts away from your mind as you are much hungrier for something else. His shirt falls to the floor as you finally get the last button undone and off his shoulders. You fist your hands in his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan into your mouth, and god, that's a sound you're sure you won't get tired of. His chest is heavy against yours as he devours you whole. You can feel him straining against his slacks, and his restraint in how tense his shoulders are.
“You're ruining me, you know that, darling?” he says against your jaw. He pulls your hips close so you're able to grind against his bulge.
You're breathless and shamelessly grinding down onto his now clearly wet pants. But nothing seems to matter outside this moment, each roll of his body pulling an embarrassing moan out of you. Not that you could care. The air is thick, fevered, and you are so close to tipping over the edge, all you need is j-
Suddenly, Clark stops abruptly and pulls back. His brow furrows like he's focusing on something. You're about to ask him what's wrong before the smell hits you. Acrid, smoky, burned.
“The vegetables burned," Clark states the obvious as he pulls out a tray of vegetables that are beyond saving. He sets them on the stove, bites his lip, and looks at you like he’s fighting the most ridiculous war: dinner or you.
You, on the other hand, have a hand covering your mouth to suppress a fit of giggles; you know you won't be able to stop if you let them happen. He looks at the sauce still simmering and the overcooked pasta, then back at you, then back at the vegetables. That's when something in him just…snaps.
“Forget it, you're right, dinner can wait.”
Before you could even react, you’re swept off the countertop and into his arms, legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as he carries you out of the kitchen and down the hall like it’s nothing. He sets you down onto the bed and takes off your shirt before his lips land on your once again. “I’ll feed you later,” he murmurs, voice low, lips brushing your ear before his lips make a path down your body till his mouth is right between your thighs. “Right now, I need you.”
