hey hey it's me

And yes, your heart had been doing something stupid-reckless in your chest by the time you heard the key turn in the lock, like some part of you knew that this wouldn’t end in pasta and wine and candlelight, but on your back in the living room, with your legs around his waist and his voice rasping low filth against your neck.

You’d both been busy all week. Late meetings, early mornings, half-finished conversations shouted between doors, and this dinner was supposed to be your chance to slow down, to breathe, to finally have him to yourself without interruption.

You were in love, and that always made you stupid.

Clark walked in like he always did, shoulders broad beneath the soft fall of his suit jacket, tie already loosened with that careless tug he did when he was tired and distracted and had no idea what you were about to do to him, and he hadn’t even made it halfway through saying "Honey, I’m home!" before you were grabbing him by the collar and yanking him down into you, all mouth and need and relief. 

And then his slacks were on the floor.

And then you were on the floor.

And...well.

Dinner had become… irrelevant.

Which brought you here.

Twenty-something minutes later, still flushed and sticky and trembling, you braced yourself against the edge of the bathroom counter with what little strength you had left. Cheeks burning, thighs slick, every inch of you ached in the most humiliatingly damn good way.

All the while, your kind, earnest, dorky husband knelt between your legs like he wasn’t the reason you couldn’t walk straight.

There was a slow, steady trail of his cum running down your thigh like a goddamn leaky faucet, warm and wet and completely unrelenting. You didn’t want to think about how many towels you’d already soaked. You didn’t want to think about how long it had been since he finished and that your body still hadn’t recovered. 

You were trying to reclaim a shred of dignity, to gather yourself up enough to maybe salvage the night, maybe re-apply your lipstick and find your heels and pretend like you hadn’t just taken your husband on the living room rug with a desperation of a repressed Catholic nun. 

At least, Clark tried to look apologetic. Operative word: tried

He tried not to laugh at you, his cum-dazed wife. You could tell. He was doing that thing with his mouth where he chewed on the inside of his cheek, tried to look serious, concerned, remorseful, but yet there was a sparkle in his eye and a dimple threatening to show, and it made you want to kick him in the chest just a little. Or kiss him senseless again.

Hard to say.

This is your fault, you almost said, but you knew it would come out too breathless, too whiny, too fond, and you weren’t really mad anyway.

How could any real anger survive when your body ached in the loveliest way? Limbs still boneless. Your thighs still trembled. Skin still buzzed like static. You were sore and wrecked and deeply, profoundly in love with—

"Clark, baby," you hissed through gritted teeth, fingers tightening around the counter. "It’s not stopping."

"I know, I know," he lamented so softly it almost qualified as a coo. The third warm washcloth of the evening made its apperance, pressed gently between your thighs, knowing it was a losing battle. "I didn’t think—I mean, I did, I just didn’t think it’d be that much—"

You whipped your head down at him, eyes narrowed.

"Babe. Be for real. It’s always that much."

He winced, shoulders curling a little. At least he had the decency to look sheepish.

"Okay. Yes. But you were so—Gosh, you looked so beautiful waiting for me in this new dress, and I missed you all day, and that way you pulled me down! Oh that kiss! Whew, that was A Kiss! And I missed you so much—"

You slapped your palm over his mouth before he could spiral any further.

He kissed your palm once. Then again. Then once more for good measure. "I’m very sorry, my love."

"You’re not sorry."

"I’m a little sorry," he mumbled, and you could feel the smile blooming wide under your hand. "And I did miss you. A lot."

Your throat went a little tight from the way his voice cracked, the honest, desperate way he confessed. You sighed, hand slipping from his mouth to his cheek instead, brushing your thumb just beneath his eye.

"I missed you too, Clark," you admitted quietly. "Obviously. I mean—we wouldn't be here like this if I didn't, right?"

His grin softened, blue eyes twinkling.

You shook your head fondly, tipping it back as you stared up at the ceiling like maybe, if you prayed hard enough, you’d get swapped with a version of you wearing underwear and sipping wine instead of holding in your husband’s third orgasm like it was a contest.

"The reservation was for seven," you sighed, and tapped your phone with the counter. "It is now… seven twenty-eight. I’m still leaking. Any underwear I put on will be soaked. My heels are probably somewhere behind the couch. There is no saving this evening."

He gently nudged your thighs open again, oh so careful.

As if he hadn’t been the one who’d folded you in half earlier, and pounded you almost into your downstairs neighbor's living room.

As if pressing a fresh, warm cloth between your legs would magically fix things this time.

"We could call the restaurant?" he offered, hopeful.

You made a non-committed sound, shrugging.

"Ooorrrr I could carry you there," he suggested, like it was s perfectly reasonable option. "You could sit in my lap the whole time. I’ll keep everything in."

You blinked at him. "Clark. No. That's weird."

"Hey! Other people might really like that!"

"Are you married to 'other people'?"

"No!" He held up his hands. "No! Fine, you’re right. That’s too left field for both of us. Don't want to be known as That Couple," he agreed, though he was fighting a grin now, mouth twitching. "But hear me out—"

You gave him a look. The look. That withering, wife-coded, don’t test me when my legs don’t work look.

He pressed his lips together, throwing a two-finger salute, and nodded like a man receiving a battlefield command. "Understood!"

You breathed in. Exhaled, tried to reset. Looked down again.

Another warm, sticky pulse slid out of you slow and obscene, and you had to bite back the strangled sound it pulled from your throat. You braced your elbows on the sink and breathed into your hands instead.

Clark tilted his head, thumb brushing your knee. "Hey, you okay? Are you hurt?"

"Oh, no, I’m fine," you mumbled into your palms, mortified and aching and too in love to stand upright. "Just—Good God, Clark!"

He rose to his feet slowly, broad and warm and so calm about it all. His hands found your hips, thumbs brushing soft arcs over your waist as he leaned in to press a kiss to your temple, then another to your cheek, then lower—to your jaw, your neck, the crook of your neck, pausing to nose along the top of your dress where he tugged it down earlier in a fit of desperation, and then back up again to your temple.

"I promise I’ll get you cleaned up, sweetheart," he murmured, so sincere and impossibly sweet, full of that maddeningly gentle affection he never lost, even when he was the reason you were in this predicament. "Really cleaned up this time. We can still try the restaurant. Make up a story, charm our way to a table. I have some experience doin’ that. Or…"

You looked at him, still dazed. "Or?"

He grinned a little now. "I could make us breakfast."

You blinked. "Breakfast?"

"For dinner," he confirmed, proud and hopeful in equal measure. "Pancakes. The good kind. The fluffy ones Ma would make us. I'll even warm the syrup! Maybe eggs too, if I didn’t ruin your appetite completely."

You snorted, breath catching somewhere in your chest. You weren’t sure you even had an appetite anymore that wasn’t just Clark.

"Wow. Pulling out all the stops."

"What can I say," he murmured, inching closer again, hands gliding down to settle firmly at your hips. "I’m a man of many talents."

"Too many," you sighed, leaning into him. "Too much everything."

Clark dipped his head to kiss your cheek, looking too pleased with himself. "You weren’t complaining half an hour ago."

"I was distracted!" You swatted his chest in a useless attempt to get him off. "You were—God, you were doing that thing with your hips and your hand on my throat—and—and you were saying those hot, filthy things—"

He arched a brow. "You liked that? Really?"

You made a sound that was supposed to be dismissive, but looped around into something that sounded an awful lot like yes.

He grinned, holding you tighter, dimples flashing. "Noted! I gotta write those down for next time...."

Then he dipped his head lower, murmuring near your ear like it was a secret—like he hadn’t already said it with his whole chest twenty minutes ago.

"‘My sweet girl, my incredibly gorgeous wife. Made for me, fits like my favorite glove—’" he quoted, barely above a whisper.

You made a noise that was part gasp, part Clark!—shoving weakly at his shoulder as your whole body flushed.

But he wasn’t done.

"‘Gosh, look at you, so wet for me I could come just watching you.’"

"Stop it!" you choked, already hiding your face in his neck.

"Gonna fill you up so good you'll feel it until Monday.'"

You groaned so loudly it echoed.

He chuckled, nuzzling his nose against your cheek, smug and in love and entirely too proud of himself. "What? You said you liked it!"

Another pulse of him slid out of you. You gasped, startled, then looked down and groaned again.

"Oh, for God’s sake!"

"I'm truly sorry, sweetheart!" he exclaimed, laughing now. "I told you, I tried to pull out. Seriously."

"Well, why didn't you?!"

"You said! And I quote—" He pitched his voice into a poor but charming imitation of yours "—‘You better not dare, Clark Joseph Kent, I want every single drop’ then hooked your thighs around me like a cobra—"

You covered your face with both hands, grimacing. "Oh my God! Don’t ever do that again.""

"But did you or did you not do these things!?"

"I was incoherent! Dick-drunk! You know how I get!"

"Still said it! I was just being a good husband and honoring your wishes!"

A sigh puffed from your lips, the kind that carried affection and surrender in equal measure. He smelled like aftershave and laundry detergent, and sweat and you, and when his arms came around again, gentle and warm and steady, you melted deeper into him.

A warm hand slid up to cradle the back of your head, massaging your scalp.

"So," he began, "Wanna stay home?"

Pressing away from him slightly, you looked up at him, hair sticking to your cheek, heart still racing somewhere beneath your ribs. You then glanced at your phone: 7:42. The reservation was long gone now. You met his gaze again.

"Will you cook in just your boxers?"

He beamed. "Anything your heart desires."

"Then yes!" You were a weak, weak woman.

The kiss he gave you was sweet and lingering. Then he looked down at the still-wet trail forming between your thighs. "Wanna take a bath together?"

"....Are you going to behave?"

His hand came up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing just beneath your cheekbone. His eyes softened. "No promises."

You laughed, shook your head, and smacked a kiss to his lips. "Go start the bath, Mr. Overachiever."

Already halfway to the tub, he was muttering to himself as he turned the faucet on, talking about getting the water just right and finding the good towel that didn’t smell like gym detergent.

Following him required a dignified waddle. The type only someone actively trying not to spill more of their husband’s third orgasm could manage, peeling your dress over your head and letting it fall to the floor as you stepped closer.

"Clark?" you asked, bare now, skin flushed and soft and glowing in the bathroom light.

Steam already curled around him from behind when he glanced up.

"Yes, sweetheart?"

"Next time…" you met his gaze evenly, "Maybe just finger me before dinner. No matter what I say. Just do that."

He stilled, resting his hand on the slippery lip of the tub so fast he nearly fell in the water. "You want me to—"

"Not now!" you yelped, laughing. "Next time."

"What about after I make dinner. That's technically next time, right?" He squinted, already plotting.

Your dress was appropriately lobbed at his face. "Clark!"

He caught it effortlessly, winked, before tossing it to the side and reaching for you again, arms warm and open. "I love you, sweetheart."

"And I love you, so much," you replied, still breathless, still dazed, still drowning in him. "Now get in the bath."

So no—you didn’t make it to dinner.

But you got a warm bath full of bubbles and candlelight, and a husband who massaged your feet and apologized by giving you incredible toe-curling, spine-melting, mirror-fogging oral on the bathroom counter until you said you forgave him. Again. And again.

You got breakfast for dinner. Pancakes that bounced when you tossed them, syrup warmed just the way you liked it, eggs with the whites were slightly overdone. You sat at the counter in one of his old t-shirts, hair wet, thighs sore, absolutely glowing and still leaking.

You got a man who sat you on his lap, made sure to kiss you between bites, and mumbled with his mouth full, 'still worth it,' like the ruined reservation had always been part of the plan. Like maybe this was better anyway.

Because after a week full of missed moments and passing kisses and not nearly enough time together, this was what you’d really needed.

And really, what else could you expect?

It was Friday.

And you were so deep in love with Clark.

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Thank you for reading! Any reblogs, comments, likes are forever appreciated, and keeps me motivated!

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