Rules: Go on pinterest and type in the prompts down below. Whatever image pops up first is your image. Prompts: Color, quote, character, hobby, accessory, song lyrics, flower.
Notes: Check out my masterlist and Kent Fam of 3 masterlist!!
Summary: The Man of Steel doesn't have bad days. But he does. The beam of hope that everyone relies on, but when he falls, where does he go?
Warnings: Clark self-doubts, crying from both sides, insecurities of failing, comfort, happy ending
The Man of Steel could never have bad days. Where the city and people looked up to him for hope, for a piece of happiness and joy to keep moving. But where does he go when it gets too much?
The guilt that eats him up, where he should be strong, be the beaming hope for everyone who looked up to him.
The moment he came through that door, you knew. The unusual quiet, where you knew something went wrong from patrolling around the city tonight. You never wanted to push; he was just as human as anyone, where patience is always available, arms open whenever he was ready.
His shoulders dropped low, his gaze fixated on the ground, until he finally met you lying on the couch. His gaze slowly moved to your growing belly, where your warm smile gave a glimmer of peace within the back of his eyes.
Taking note of his disheveled hair, the dirt that was left on his suit, and the exhaustion that was left behind his eyes, which he never wanted to show directly to you. Yet you could see right through it, never pointing it out. “Hey,” you replied warmly, welcoming him back home.
“Hey. I—” he stammered with the glossed shine that came through his eyes, figuring out his words on how to explain to you his terrible day, the failed attempt during a mission tonight that hurt him silently.
Silence etched around the room for a quiet moment until you spoke.
“Cmon,’” you softly urged, patting the empty spot beside you, arms open where he can fall into.
His safe haven. And he went just to that.
And it all fell onto him slowly.
The sniffles that he racked into small sobs, your small frame wrapping around his. The 240-pound man who curled into your chest, your arms that wrapped around his broad shoulders, as you whispered small reassurances. Your eyes that welled up from the sound, as the pregnancy hormones that arose in you, yet wanting to remain sturdy for your husband.
Never seeing your husband this broken before hurt you in ways you can never describe.
You’ve seen him get scared. Sad during his bad days. Vulnerable with you at times. You've seen him cry— But this? This was something deeper. A layer that was peeled back that you now discovered deep within the years and years of your relationship.
“I’m sorry this is too much,” he gasped, taking a deep breath to compose himself within the crook of your neck. The guilt and shame he brought home to you, all while you're pregnant.
But you're having none of that.
“Honey hey—hey look at me,” you replied ever so softly, tapping your finger under his chin to help him draw his attention to you.
And his gaze broke you into pieces. His wet cheeks, softly swollen eyes, your husband falling apart right onto you to capture some beam of hope, and you just so let it for him
Your small hands that cupped his jaw, kissing every last tear away as you leaned your forehead to his. “You wanna talk about it?” you whispered before reaching into his temples for a kiss, grounding him that you're here. Present with him in this room, with no one else but you two.
Sobs that slowly dwindled, with sniffles and deep breaths etching the thick air.
“I–I couldn’t save them,” he rasped out before looking into your eyes for a slight disappointment, yet none shown through your eyes. “It’s my fault,” he murmured, closing his eyes once more for a moment before looking back up at you
Feeling his large, calloused hands rubbing against the swell of your stomach, where feeling you and her was the only one keeping him sane in his mind.
“Honey–you did what you could, my love. You tried, you did it and that’s what matters,” you reassured him before swiping your thumb across his cheek from an escaped tear, before moving to kiss his forehead once more.”It didn’t go as planned, but you tried. You did your best and people should know that. Life throws us into an unpredicament at times, whether we like it or not, Clark.”
By that time, the hot tears rolled down your cheeks, letting it all out with him, while holding your husband, the only safe space he knew. “They still look up to you,” you said calmly, your hand massaging the back of his head soothingly.
Trembling, “I’m sorry, this must have stressed you out and I didn’t realize it,” as Clark glances back at your teary eyes, the guilt of stressing his pregnant wife adds another heaviness to his chest from the night.
“Hey no—none of that honey. I’m proud of you okay? We’re proud of you,” as your hands go over his that lay against your stomach. “We just want you to know that.”
I’m proud of you.
Who knew the small phrase could take the Man of Steel off his feet. Your words that hold truth, meaning, where it’ll forever hold hope in his mind.
Summary: You jokingly ask Clark if you are allowed to eat in front of his parents.
Dad Clark Kent x Fem!Reader
more kent family adventures here!
even more kent family adventures here! (pt 2 of the masterlist)
By the time you were eight months pregnant with Leia, one thing had become very clear to everyone around you: Clark would do absolutely anything for you.
Which was precisely why the prank had been so tempting.
The prank simply appeared in your mind while sitting at the Kent farmhouse table on one warm afternoon, watching Clark pile food onto your plate for the third time before you’d even fully finished the second helping.
“Honey, you need more potatoes,” he said earnestly, already reaching for the bowl.
“Clark,” you laughed, “I’m still eating.”
“You’re eating for two.”
Ma Kent snorted softly from across the table. “At this point, that baby’s probably ninety percent mashed potatoes.”
Clark looked entirely unashamed. “They will be a very healthy, growing baby.”
You bit back a smile.
That was the thing about Clark during your pregnancy, he hovered.
Did you need water? A pillow? Another blanket? Less blanket? A snack? Different snack? Did your back hurt? Were your feet swollen? Had you rested enough? Too much? Was the baby kicking enough? Too much?
The man treated your pregnancy like the world’s most important mission.
And it made him very, very easy to fluster.
And suddenly, sitting there at the table with Ma and Pa Kent, watching your husband lovingly shovel corn onto your plate like he was personally responsible for feeding both you and the baby, the idea struck.
You looked down at your half-full plate thoughtfully.
Then, very gently, you asked, “Clark… am I allowed to have some more?”
Clark didn’t even look up.
“Of course,” he said immediately, mouth still full, already spooning another helping onto your plate. “You barely ate any! Here, have more chicken too.”
You pressed your lips together. You continued carefully, in the smallest voice you could manage. “Are you sure?”
Clark blinked at you. “Sure about what?”
“That it’s okay for me to eat more?”
Clark stared at you for a long moment. Then looked at your plate. Then at you again.
“…Yes?” He sounded deeply confused.
You nodded solemnly, “Okay,” and resumed eating.
Clark reached for the biscuits.
“You want another one?”
“Yes please.”
“Here you go, my love.” He handed it over immediately.
You sighed as your prank failed, silently waiting for another opportunity.
-
Said opportunity was when Ma Kent brought out dessert.
Her specialty peach cobbler was still warm, the smell filling the kitchen instantly.
“Oh my goodness,” you sighed dramatically. “That smells amazing.”
Ma Kent smiled warmly. “Go on, honey, have some.”
You coached your face to look anxious, worried, then slowly turned toward Clark.
“…Am I allowed?”
The room went silent.
Clark froze with the serving spoon halfway in his hand.
Ma Kent blinked. Pa Kent’s expression changed immediately into a frown.
“Allowed?” Ma Kent repeated.
You looked down shyly. “Well… I just wanted to check first.”
Clark looked like his soul had briefly left his body.
“Why would you…what do you mean allowed?”
You kept your face perfectly straight. “I didn’t want to upset you.”
“Upset me?” Clark nearly choked. “Why would it upset me?”
Ma Kent’s eyebrows shot up.
Pa Kent set down his fork, slowly and very carefully.
Clark turned toward you so quickly his chair squeaked against the floor.
“Honey, what are you talking about?”
You blinked innocently. “The cobbler.”
“The cobbler…”
“Yes.”
Ma Kent turned to Clark at the same time he looked at you incredulously.
“Clark,” she said carefully, “why would she need permission to eat dessert?”
“I—she doesn’t!” Clark’s brows were furrowed with concern, slowly feeling like he was unnecessarily put on the hot seat. “Why would you need my permission to eat cobbler?!”
You shrugged lightly. “Well, you may not want me to eat any more.”
Ma Kent slowly turned toward her son.
“Clark Joseph Kent.”
Clark’s eyes widened in immediate horror.
“No! No, no, no—Ma, I swear—”
Pa Kent crossed his arms.
Clark looked even more panicked.
“I have literally never stopped her from eating anything in her life! She eats whatever she wants, whenever she wants. I've actually been actively encouraging her to eat more because she sometimes forgets in the afternoon and the doctor said…" He caught himself, and looked back at you. "What is going on?”
You tilted your head. “But maybe you didn’t want me eating cobbler specifically?”
“Why would I not want you to?!”
Clark looked moments away from a full system shutdown.
“Honey,” he said frantically, stumbling over every word, “I have never, not once, told you what you can or can’t eat. Or do. Or wear. Or…anything!”
Ma Kent was now openly suspicious. “Clark…”
“No! Ma, listen to me—I swear, she does whatever she wants! Constantly! Happily! And I support her! Enthusiastically!”
You nodded thoughtfully. “That’s true.”
Clark pointed at you wildly. “See?!”
“But maybe secretly you don’t like how much I eat?”
Clark looked genuinely devastated.
“What?! No, Ma, Pa, listen to me. I’ve never told her not to do anything she wanted! Ever! If anything, she tells me what to do!”
He turned back to his parents, fully distressed now.
“I am not controlling! Right? I’m not controlling.”
Pa Kent finally spoke, voice low. “Son…”
Clark turned toward him in absolute panic. “Pa, I swear to God, I have never denied her anything in my entire life! I don't restrict her eating. I don't restrict ANYTHING! I don't tell her what to do. I would never." Clark's voice had taken on the slightly desperate quality of a man watching a small fire and patting his pockets for something to put it out with. "She has complete autonomy over everything. Every single thing. I've never once told her she couldn't eat or do or–"
"Clark," you said.
“--have anything she wanted, I mean she went through a period in the second trimester where she wanted a very specific brand of crackers at two in the morning and I flew forty minutes to three different stores to find them, I have the receipts, I can show you the receipts–”
“Clark.”
“--and I don't know what this is right now but I need everyone at this table to understand that I am not and have never been–”
“CLARK.”
He stopped his rambling.
He looked at you.
You were smiling. A laugh escaped you before you could stop it.
Then suddenly you were laughing so hard you had to hold your stomach.
The entire table stared at you.
“Oh no,” Ma Kent whispered, already realizing.
You wheezed helplessly, tears gathering in your eyes.
“I’m sorry,” you gasped. “I’m sorry…I was joking.”
Silence.
Clark blinked.
“…What?”
You covered your face, laughing harder. “It was a prank, baby.”
Clark stared. Ma Kent burst into laughter instantly.
Pa Kent leaned back in his chair.
Clark remained frozen. “You…”
“I’m sorry,” you laughed again. “You were just so easy to fluster.”
Clark looked deeply betrayed.
“I thought Pa was about to kill me.”
You grinned at Pa, “He was in on it,” you confessed, remembering how Pa chuckled gruffly when you told him about your plan.
Clark dropped back into his chair dramatically, pressing a hand to his chest.
“I cannot believe you.”
You leaned over and kissed his cheek sweetly.
“I’m sorry I scared you, honey. You're a wonderful husband," you said. "Why do you still have the receipts?"
He put his arm around you, and you could feel him giving up on the wounded dignity, the whole structure of it just gently collapsing.
"Souvenirs," he said again, quieter, “I didn’t want to forget anything about your pregnancy. And so that I could show our baby that I would do anything for them.”
You smiled at him, cupping his cheek tenderly before giving him a kiss. Clark turned pink.
"Forty minutes,” he reminded you, “Three stores."
"I know."
"In the rain."
"It wasn't raining."
"It was drizzling." Clark sighed deeply.
You laughed, then immediately reached for the cobbler.
Clark instinctively grabbed the serving spoon and loaded a giant portion onto your plate.
✦ Hosted by @societynsoelsscribbles!
✦ This is meant to be fun, get me back into writing, and hopefully bring you all some new clark + new character content
✦ Will post as inspiration strikes and as time (and my body) allows!
✦ Most 300 word entries will be 18+, mdni
✦ Updated: coming soon
main masterlist | Mrs. Kent Diaries
divider by @strangergraphics
June 1st - Joy To The World - Three Dog Night / “I never understood a single word he said”
June 2nd - I Wanna Be Bad - Willa Ford / “No I can't promise that I won't do that”
June 3rd - Mack the Knife - Bobby Darin / “And he shows them pearly white”
June 4th - Right Place, Wrong Time - Dr. John / “But I'm having such a good time”
June 5th - Hey! Baby - Bruce Channel / “I'm gonna make her mine, all mine”
June 6th - Therefore I Am - Billie Eilish / “I don't think I caught your name”
June 7th - Jump (For My Love) - Pointer Sisters / “I know you like what you see”
June 8th - Living La Vida Loca - Ricky Martin / “I feel a premonition”
June 9th - Somebody That I Used To Know - Gotye / “Like when you said you felt so happy you could die”.
June 10th - Pink Pony Club - Chappell Roan / “Every night's another reason why I left it all”
June 11th - Little Bitty Pretty One - Thurston Harris / “Tell you a story”
June 12th - Tainted Love - Soft Cell / “I cannot stand the way you tease”
June 13th - Town Without Pity - Gene Pitney / “Only those in love could know”
June 14th - Play That Funky Music - Wild Cherry / “Til you die?”
June 15th - Bad Habits - Ed Sheeran / “I got nothin' left to lose, or use, or do”
June 16th - Every Breath You Take - The Police / “Every smile you fake”
June 17th - Say Something - A Great Big World & Christina Aguilera / “It was over my head”
June 18th - Come and Get Your Love - Redbone / “What's the matter with you”
June 19th - Raise Your Glass - P!nk / “You can choose to let it go”
June 20th - All Shook Up - Elvis Presley / “Who do you thank when you have such luck?”
June 21st - Animal I Have Become - Three Days Grace / “I can't control myself”
June 22nd - Wonderwall - Oasis / “Because maybe”
June 23rd - I Believe In A Thing Called Love - The Darkness / “We'll be rocking till the sun goes down”
June 24th - Groove Is In The Heart - Deee-Lite / “No, I couldn't ask for another”
June 25th - Rude - MAGIC! / “I hate to do this, you leave no choice”
June 26th - Total Eclipse of the Heart - Bonnie Tyler / “There's nothing I can do”
June 27th - The Dark End of the Street - James Carr / “That's where we always meet”
June 28th - Northern Attitude - Noah Kahan (with Hozier) / “If I get too close”
June 29th - Mr. Brightside - The Killers / “But it's just the price I pay”
June 30th - Don’t Speak - No Doubt / “I know what you're thinkin'”
Summary: Mother’s days are always amazing, and Clark only keeps making them better year after year. Breakfast in bed and impromptu beach trips.
Dad Clark Kent x Fem!Reader
more kent family adventures here!
even more kent family adventures here! (pt 2 of the masterlist)
WE ARE SO BACK!!
You woke up to the absence of a heavy arm around you, and the smell of something warm and buttery drifting under the bedroom door. You hummed sleepily before rolling over and burying your face deeper into the pillow.
You knew what day it was. You had known since last night, when you caught Jon attempting to whisper something to Clark in the hallway and failing spectacularly at it, his voice carrying clear down the whole upstairs corridor. "Daddy, Daddy, is it Mommy’s day yet?"
So you stayed in bed and kept your eyes closed.
Downstairs, Clark stood at the stove with one eye on the eggs and one eye on Jon, who was sitting on the counter, pressing both fists into a lump of playdough that was supposed to be, apparently, a flower. There was flour on his cheek. There was also flour on the ceiling, and Clark had decided not to investigate how it got there.
"Is it good?" Jon asked, holding up what appeared to be a flat, vaguely circular blob.
"It's perfect, buddy."
At the kitchen table, Leia was bent so close over her piece of paper that her nose was nearly touching it. Two cards were already finished and lined up in a row. The first had a drawing of four of you standing in front of the house, stick figures with wild crayon hair. The second had a poem she had copied and then decorated with many hand-drawn hearts and stars. Now she was making a third.
"Leia," Clark said gently. "More cards?"
"Yes, daddy," she said, without looking up. “But this one is different."
"How is it different?"
"The other two are from you, me, and Jon. This one is just from me."
Clark shrugged and turned back to the eggs.
Jon slid off the counter, landing with a thud, and padded over to look at his sister's work. "Pretty," he announced, patting her hair with a floury hand, leaving a small white print. Leia looked at him carefully, and decided to let it go.
"Okay," Clark said, sliding the eggs onto the plate and turning off the stove. "We’re ready to go.”
"I carry the tray, Daddy!" Jon was already running toward the counter, arms up, reaching.
"Jon…"
"I carry it. I'm big."
Clark crouched down to his level. Jon's face was serious, the same look he got when he was trying to put his own shoes on.
"Okay," Clark said. "You carry it. But I'm going to put my hands right here, just in case."
Jon nodded. "Okay. But I'm really carrying it."
"You're really carrying it."
"You're just helping a little bit."
"Just a little bit."
-
You heard them coming up the stairs.
You heard Jon's voice, hushed with great effort and not quite succeeding, saying "shhh, shhh, shhh" the whole way up. You heard Leia whisper "I know, I'm being quiet." You heard the low, warm sound of Clark murmuring something to Jon about the tray, steady and careful.
You closed your eyes and kept your breathing slow.
The door creaked open.
"She's sleeping," Jon whispered, at full volume.
"Jon," Leia whispered back.
"Mommy’s sleeping, we have to be quiet."
"I know, you have to be quiet."
"I am being quiet."
You bit the inside of your cheek.
"Okay," Clark said softly, "nice and easy, let's put it right here."
There was a careful shuffling, the soft thump of the tray settling on the nightstand, and then a long pause. You could feel all three of them looking at you.
And then Jon, unable to contain himself for even one more second, climbed up onto the bed, crawled across the mattress on all fours, and put both hands on your face.
"Mommy. Mommy, wake up. Mommy."
You opened your eyes.
His face was inches from yours, wide-eyed and beaming, flour still on his cheek. "HAPPY MOMMY’S DAY!" he shouted, and then immediately looked at Leia, silently telling her that it was her cue.
"Happy Mother's Day, Mommy," Leia said, and she was trying to sound calm and grown-up about it but her smile was giving her away completely. She climbed up on the other side and laid the stack of cards in your lap. "We made you cards. We couldn't pick the best one, so you get all of them. There are three."
"Three of them?” You asked.
"The third one is just from me."
You looked at Clark, who was standing in the doorway with a quiet expression he got on mornings like this, leaning against the frame, watching. He smiled at you.
"Come here," you said.
He came and sat on the edge of the bed, and you looked at the tray: eggs, toast, a small glass of orange juice, and a slightly crushed flower that might have come from the backyard, sitting in a cup of water. Jon immediately pointed at the flower.
"I picked it," he said.
"It's beautiful, Jonny bear."
"I know." He crawled into your lap and settled there, tucking his head under your chin.
You looked through the cards one by one while Leia watched your face carefully, tracking your reaction to each one. The drawing of the family. The poem with the hearts and stars. And then the last one, the one just from her. It was simpler than the others. On the front she had drawn what looked to be a portrait of you, and inside she had written “My mommy is the prettiest mom in the world. She gives great kisses and hugs”.
You held it for a moment.
"Did you like it?" Leia asked.
"I love it," you said. "Come here."
She leaned in and you kissed the top of her head, and Jon, not wanting to be left out, tilted his face up toward you too, so you kissed his forehead as well, and he made a satisfied sound and burrowed closer.
You ate your breakfast in bed with Jon in your lap, Leia leaning against your shoulder flipping back through her own cards to point out details you might have missed, and Clark beside you, his arm easy and familiar around your back. The sun came through the curtains slow and golden. Jon fell almost back asleep against your chest. Leia eventually settled too, curled into your side with her eyes drooping, still holding the crayon drawing of the four of you in front of the house.
Clark pressed a kiss to your temple.
You stayed like that for a long time.
Later, after the slow untangling of limbs and the transferring of a drowsy Jon to the couch with a blanket, after Leia had gone to find her book, you and Clark stood at the kitchen sink together doing the breakfast dishes.
You were handing him the pan when he set it aside, turned toward you, and kissed you, warm and unhurried.
When he pulled back, he stayed close. His forehead almost touching yours. And then he turned his head slightly, lips near your ear, and whispered, "I don't know what I did to deserve this. Any of it. I want you to know that I know that. I'm so happy. I'm so grateful for you."
You closed your eyes.
You had heard him say it before. Last Mother's Day, standing almost exactly here, the sun coming through this same window. And the Mother's Day before that, when Jon was still a baby and Leia had carried the card downstairs herself, enormously proud. And the first one, years ago, when it was just the three of you and everything felt new and a little terrifying and he had looked at you like you had given him everything.
Every year. The same words, more or less. Like a thing he needed to say and you needed to hear, a ritual that belonged to both of you now.
You leaned into him. His arms came around you.
Outside, you could hear Leia's voice drifting in from the other room, narrating something to herself, and the occasional soft sound of Jon on the couch, not quite asleep.
Clark would say it again next year. And the year after that. For all the years to come, as many as you had, he would find you somewhere ordinary and say it like he meant it, because he did, because that was who he was.
You thought about the cards on the nightstand upstairs. The flower that Jon picked.
You tilted your head up and kissed him again, soft and slow.
"I know," you said quietly. "Me too."
-
“So,” Clark started, leaning against the counter and folding his arms. "The kids have never seen the Atlantic."
You looked at him.
"It's a nice day on the coast," he said. "I checked."
"You checked."
"Cape Hatteras is seventy-three degrees right now."
"Of course you know that."
"Light wind. Almost no cloud cover." He tilted his head slightly. "Two hours by car. Approximately four minutes the other way."
From the living room, as if on cue, Jon's voice drifted in. "Daddy, are we doing something fun?"
Clark raised his eyebrows at you. You dried your hands on the dish towel.
"If I get sand in places I don't want sand," you said, "that's on you."
Clark smiled. "I'll take full responsibility."
"You always say that."
"And I always mean it."
When you told the kids, Jon fell off the couch. He rolled onto the floor and immediately jumped up with his arms in the air like it didn't happen. "BEACH!"
Leia gasped, grabbed your arm with both hands, and shook it. "Are we actually going or is this a maybe?"
"We're actually going."
She let go of your arm and turned to Jon. "We're actually going."
Jon, who had been spinning in a circle, stopped spinning. "BEACH," he said again, with renewed emphasis.
Clark was already carrying a bag from somewhere with everything already in it, and you squinted at it with suspicion.
"Did you pack this already?"
"I had a feeling."
"Clark."
"You were always going to say yes."
You had absolutely been always going to say yes.
-
Jon, it turned out, had opinions about altitude that he had not previously had the opportunity to express. Specifically, he wanted to see. He kept craning around in Clark's arm trying to look down, saying "whoa" in a very small voice, over and over. "Whoa. Whoa, Daddy. Whoa."
"I see it, buddy."
"That's tiny."
"That's a farm."
"It's tiny."
"We're very high up."
Jon considered this for a moment, looking down at the tiny farm. "Cool," he decided, and relaxed against Clark's shoulder.
Leia, tucked against your side with her hair absolutely everywhere despite the ponytail she'd started with, pointed at a river below them and said "what's that" and then before you could answer pointed at something else and said "what's that." You gave up trying to answer in sequence and just held her and let Clark handle the navigation.
Four minutes. He had said four minutes and he had not been lying, which was somehow the most Clark Kent thing about the whole situation. The landscape shifted, and the light changed, and then there was a long blue line on the horizon that got wider as you dropped lower, and the air tasted different all at once, salt and openness, and Jon lifted his head off Clark's shoulder and said, very quietly, "Water."
"That's the ocean," Clark told him.
Jon stared at it. "It's big," he said.
"It's very big."
"Is it the biggest?"
"It's one of the biggest." You told him.
Jon stared at it for another long moment. "Okay," he said, in the tone of someone filing this information away carefully.
-
Clark set you all down in a quieter stretch of beach, easy and gentle, the sand pale and wide and the waves rolling in slow. It was a gorgeous day. Seventy-three degrees, just like he'd said, and you hated a little bit how right he always was about things like that.
"I need to change," you said, taking the bag from him. You had grabbed a change of clothes in the rush before leaving. "You've got them?"
Clark looked at the children. Jon was already sitting down in the dry sand, pressing both hands into it with an expression of deep interest. Leia had taken her shoes off and was walking toward the waterline.
"I've got them," Clark said.
You headed up toward the public changing areas, which were not far. The walk took maybe five minutes. The changing took another five.
When you came back, following the path back down toward the beach, you heard Leia before you saw them.
"Again!" she was saying. "Do it again!"
You came around the low dune and stopped.
Clark was standing in the sand with his shirt and shoes off, and as you watched, he planted his hands and went into a cartwheel. Clean, easy, unhurried, a full rotation with his legs straight in the air before he landed back on his feet.
Leia and Jon were watching him with identical expressions of absolute wonder.
You stood very still. You did not want to interrupt this.
"AGAIN," Jon said.
Clark did it again.
"Okay," Leia said, with the gravity of someone accepting a challenge. "I'm going to do that."
"Alright, sweetie." Clark nodded, hands on his hips, "Do you want me to show you how to–"
"I know how."
Leia did not know how. Both hands went down, she got one leg up, and then the whole thing just sort of listed sideways and she went into the sand shoulder-first, rolling to a stop and ending up on her back looking at the sky.
There was a pause.
"I meant to do that," she said.
"Absolutely," Clark agreed.
Jon, who had been watching Leia, decided he had learned enough. He stepped forward, bent down, put his hands in the sand, and then simply fell directly onto his face.
Not a cartwheel. Not even an attempt at a cartwheel. Just a small determined boy tipping forward and going down.
The sound he made on impact was mostly just surprised.
The laugh came out of you before you could do anything about it. You were laughing properly now, and Clark turned toward the sound of you and saw you standing there, and the smile that crossed his face was wide and completely unguarded.
Jon pushed himself up from the sand. He had it on his nose, his chin, both cheeks. He looked at his hands. He looked at Leia. He looked at Clark.
"I did it," he said.
"You really did," Clark said.
Leia sat up with sand in her hair and pointed at you. "Mommy was watching!"
"I know," Clark said. "I heard her laughing from over there."
"I wasn't laughing," you said, walking toward them and absolutely still laughing.
"You were," Leia said. "It's okay. I'm going to do it for real next time." She stood up and brushed sand off her arms. "I was just warming up."
Jon was still sitting where he'd fallen. He looked up at you as you reached them and held both arms up, the universal signal.
You crouched down and picked him up, sand and all.
"Did you do a cartwheel?" you asked him.
"Yes," he said.
"It was very good."
"I know."
He put his sandy head on your shoulder, already losing interest in cartwheels now that the ocean was right there, and pointed toward the water. "Can we go?"
"Yeah, baby. We can go."
-
Hours later, Clark brought his family home. He carried Jon upstairs and got him into dry clothes, somehow without waking him. Jon stirred once, muttered something that might have been "ocean," and went back under.
Leia was tired but fighting it, operating on the seven-year-old principle that sleep was something that happened to other people. She sat on the bed wrapped in a towel and accepted the cup of warm apple juice Clark brought her and watched you with the expression she sometimes got, the thinking one, where you could almost see something turning over behind her eyes.
"Mommy," she said.
"Yeah, little star?"
She looked at Clark. Something passed between them.
Clark set his own cup down. "Actually," he said, "I think now is a good time."
"Now is a good time for what?" you asked.
Leia was already off the bed.
She came back from the hallway closet carrying something with both hands, carefully.
It was a book. A real one, or close to it, hardcovered, wrapped in brown paper that had been decorated with flowers and stars and hearts and what appeared to be a dog that was probably meant to be Krypto. Across the front, in Leia's careful handwriting and Jon's rather more enthusiastic scribbling, it said FOR MOMMY.
She held it out to you.
You took it. It was heavier than you expected.
"We made it," Leia said. "Me and Daddy. And Jon helped."
"Jon picked some of the pictures," Clark said. "He was very decisive about it."
"He kept pointing at the ones with food in them," Leia added.
"That's fair," you said. Your voice came out a little unsteady and you didn't try to fix it.
You pulled off the paper carefully. Leia watched you.
The cover underneath was a deep blue, and in the center was a photo you recognized immediately: the two of you on your wedding day, not the posed portrait, not the formal one, but the candid someone had caught of the moment just after, when you were both still laughing about something and Clark had his forehead tipped toward yours and neither of you were looking at the camera. You had always loved that photo. You had not known he had printed it.
You opened it.
The first pages were the wedding.
Not just the ceremony, but all of it. The chaos of getting ready. The moment before you walked out, caught by someone from the side. Clark at the end of the aisle and the particular look on his face that you had seen in the photos before but that still hit you the same way every time, like he couldn't quite believe it, like he was trying to memorize you.
Your first dance. The cake. The late part of the night when shoes had been abandoned and someone had put on something ridiculous and everyone was dancing badly and happily and you were laughing into Clark's shoulder.
You turned the page.
The hospital. Leia, hours old, bundled tight, eyes scrunched shut against the light. Clark holding her with an expression you did not have words for, had never had words for. And one of you, just after, looking down at her with your whole heart on your face.
You pressed your fingers to your mouth.
"Keep going," Leia said softly, sitting close beside you now.
There were years in that book.
Leia's first birthday, cake everywhere. A vacation you'd taken when she was barely one, some small town, and a photo of Clark carrying her on his shoulders while she grabbed fistfuls of his hair. Ordinary Sundays. A Christmas morning with wrapping paper knee-deep. Leia's first day of school, backpack nearly as big as she was, chin lifted.
Then Jon. The hospital again, that same late-night quality of light, and Jon so small, so new, and Leia holding him for the first time, leaning over very carefully to look at his face with serious expression before announcing that he was okay.
You laughed at the memory.
More years. Jon learning to walk, caught mid-tumble, laughing anyway. The four of you at the park, at the table, in the backyard. Small moments, ordinary ones, the kind you lived inside of without always knowing you were building something.
And then, near the back, a page that was more recent. This past year. Jon asleep on Clark's chest on the couch. Leia reading with her legs over the arm of the chair the way you always told her not to sit. The four of you at the kitchen table, Sunday breakfast, everyone slightly disheveled, no one performing anything for anyone.
Home.
The last page was a letter.
Handwritten on paper that had been glued in carefully, a little crooked, which somehow made it better. Leia's handwriting, her best, each letter formed with effort. And at the bottom, in Jon's wide wandering scrawl, his name. He had also drawn a star next to it, and what might have been a cat, and a number four for reasons known only to him.
It was not a long letter. Leia was seven, and she had written it herself, and it said what it needed to say.
She wrote that you were the best mother in the world, and she had thought about this carefully and was sure.
She wrote that you were the best mom because you always knew when something was wrong even when she didn't say anything, and she didn't know how you did that but she was glad.
You were the best mom because you made her and Jonny feel safe.
And then, near the end, in the same careful handwriting, she had written, "If me and Jon got born again, we would choose you to be our mommy again. Forever and ever and ever."
You didn't try to hold it together.
You weren't sure you could have even if you'd wanted to, and you didn't want to, not here, not with the three of them right there watching you with so much love it was almost too much to be inside of.
Leia climbed into your lap and put her arms around your neck. "Don't be sad, Mommy," she said, against your cheek.
"I'm not sad," you told her. "I promise I'm not sad. This is the other kind."
She pulled back to look at your face, checking, the way you had always checked hers. Whatever she found there seemed to satisfy her, because she settled back against you and let out a long breath.
Jon appeared at your elbow.
He had woken up somewhere in the middle of the letter, soft-eyed and rumpled, drawn by the sound of your voice. He looked at you, at Leia, at the book in your hands. He reached up and patted your face with one small hand, very gently.
"Okay, Mommy?" he asked.
"More than okay, baby," you said.
He nodded, satisfied, and climbed up too, wedging himself into the remaining space, and you made room for him. Clark moved to sit beside you now, his arm coming around all three of you, solid and warm and steady.
You leaned into him.
He pressed his lips to the side of your head and kept them there for a moment.
"Leia stayed up very late three nights this week working on that letter," he said quietly, just for you. "She kept starting over because she said it wasn't right yet."
You looked at your daughter. She was pretending not to have heard this. She had her face turned away with nonchalance.
"Well, she got it right."
She turned back. Her eyes were a little bright. She lifted one shoulder in a shrug that did not fool you at all. "I just wanted to say it correctly."
"You did, baby girl."
The sunset came the way May sunsets do, spreading color across the whole sky.
The four of you sat on the back porch. Blankets had materialized. Jon was back asleep, curled against your side with his shell still in his hand, carried all the way from Cape Hatteras. Leia was leaning on the porch railing watching the sky go pink and orange.
Clark had his arm around you. He hadn't stopped touching you all day in small ways, a hand at your back, fingers through yours, the easy and unthinking language of someone who has loved someone for a long time and doesn't see any reason to stop.
"Good day?" he asked.
You looked at Jon's sleeping face. At Leia pointing out a color in the sky to herself, quietly, just noting it. At the scrapbook sitting on the table behind you.
At the sky, going gold, going rose, going the deep and luminous blue of something ending well.
"Best one yet," you said.
Clark pressed a kiss to your temple. "I'll take that," he said. "And I'll do better next year."
"You cannot do better than this year."
"Watch me."
You laughed, soft, so as not to wake Jon. Leia turned around at the sound of it and smiled at you for no particular reason. You smiled back.
The sky kept going. You had the warmth of your family around you, the day settling into evening, and the unrepeatable gold of this one hour in this one May.
Notes: It's been a while... Enjoy! Inspired by the song Oooh by Kehlani <3 Check out my masterlist!
Summary: Clark's birthday, where you let him do whatever he wants with you...
Warnings: Smut, creampies, Soft!Dom Clark, reader frisky and wanting him too, squirting, kinda smug Clark!
You felt it the moment you woke up.
An empty bed, the cold, empty bed. An early start to Clark's day, you knew, but the feeling of wanting and needing him grew a pit in your stomach. Not in a panicked way, not sadly or chaotically. Off to work, and while you wait for him to come back, where he’s all yours.
Wanting him to take you down. Craving the touch of his skin, lips, a little taste of him, and his…
Yet you couldn't wait.
His early birthday before his actual birthday tomorrow. Why not end his work day with something you’ve both been craving for so long?
Time went by, ever so slowly, ever so straining.
The red mini pj set that hugs every curve, the dainty red shorts that snug at your hips. It’s his turn to act like he wants it. Where he could do anything to you on his special say
Yet here you were at the end of the day. The decadent small vanilla cake that was left in the fridge for later, untouched.
“C-Clark, mmph!” moaning into his shoulders, the squelch in between your thighs and his pelvis every time he pulls in and out in a sharp, punishing pace.
“I know I know you're doing so good sweetheart– so good for me, hmm?” as he groans, the pretty sounds that leave your lips, the greatest sounds to his ears, making his cock throb from every push. From the moment he walked through the front doors, where you stood in the red dainty set, he knew cake could be saved for later—cause you were the cake after all.
The sounds that gradually grow louder, the neighbors who can hear. “C–Clark the window is cracked open, I don’t think—” as he pulled another squeal from you, his swollen tip hitting the spot he always knew how to hit.
“Let the neighbors hear us, let me hear you,” he rasped, bringing his thumb to your clit, rubbing tight circles to bring you closer to a faster release.
The flash of white as you arched your back, the wanton moan that left your lips. The gush that squirted everywhere to the base of his cock to the white sheets. Where sooner or later his release slowly followed, the white sticky load that covers every inch of your walls.
Who knew how much he could give, how much he filled your walls where you felt an O ring from his base on how much was in you.
And one thing is for sure, he definitely did act on it.
Clark's the kind of guy who drops to his knees, apologizing for your bad day, even though you both know it's hardly his fault. (wc: 700, drabble)
tags: 18+, mdni, pure filthy smut, oral, doggy style, creampie, not proof-read
what 30 minutes of rubbing one out typing one out does to a gal, goodnight, folks!
Main Masterlist | Mrs. Kent Diaries
He's the kind of guy to sit you down in bed, blue eyes steady and sincere as he looks you at you, trying to coax every ugly detail into light. Instead, you lie back in bed with a defeated huff, “Clark… just make me forget about today. Please.”
You hear a soft hum against your thigh, the faint tickle of dark curls brushing your skin as he nods. “I’ve got you, hon, but c'mon. What happened?”
Eventually, you relent, venting and ranting about every stupid, exhausting thing you wasted time on. Everything spills out without spoken interruptions from him. Instead, he's peeling your clothes away piece by piece, calloused fingertips tracing warm paths along your thighs, hips, and waist. By the time he tugs your panties down, you’re slick, aching, and still venting.
Clark listens, but he's alternating between slowly fingering you and sucking on your clit now because why not? He's already down there, and if he goes too fast, he won't be able to hear your words over the sounds of your sloppy, dripping pussy.
The kind to say, "And then what happened, sweetheart?" when your story trails off, too busy moaning and sighing instead. Your sentences come out high-pitched, barely coherent, until you’re breathlessly asking him where you left off. He answers without missing a beat, and not like he’s not knuckle-deep in your cunt while you fall apart.
Exceptional multitasker, your Clark.
The kind to gently guide your hands on him. He wants you tugging his hair, digging into his scalp and shoulders, clawing his back while he buries his face deeper between your trembling thighs, tongue fucking into your cunt faster and louder now that you've given up rehashing your day.
The kind to keep going long after you’ve cum twice? thrice? Your legs are shaking so badly you can barely move, and your brain's melting. He simply flips you onto your stomach, pulls your hips up, and lines your soaked, sensitive folds right on his thick, heavy cock. He bucks into you in one nasty, balls-deep thrust that steals the air out of your lungs.
From there, Clark does all the work, large hands gripping your hips, guiding you back onto him again and again.
“That’s it, baby. Just like that. Let me take care of you, till you forget every silly, noisy thought inside your pretty little head.”
He coos, chest pressed to your back, lips ghosting the shell of your ear, so softly, so lovingly, even when he’s pounding into your pussy. His hips snap harder every time your walls flutter and squeeze around his fat dick coated in your creamy slick like you’re trying to milk him dry, trying to keep him there forever.
You're fucked straight into that perfect, blissful silence. The only sounds are the wet, filthy slap of his heavy balls against your clit, your whimpers fading into weak little sobs, and the low groans he lets out each time your pussy gushes around him again. Clark keeps going until you’re completely gone: arms limp, mouth slack and drooling onto the sheets, eyes unfocused, legs twitching with aftershocks as he continues grinding deep, stirring up the messy cream he’s already pumped into you.
And when Clark cums, it's hard and relentless, flooding your wrecked pussy so much it leaks out around his cock and down your thighs. Regardless, he keeps fucking his release back inside you with slow, deep thrusts. He stays buried to the hilt afterward, strong arms wrapped tight around you, the soft tickle of hair against your neck as he presses kisses between your shoulder blades, murmuring how truly sorry he is to hear about your bad day, how he hopes this turned things around, how he’d happily spend the rest of his life like 'this' if you’d let him.
"Like how, Clark? Balls-deep?"
"Y-yeah! Exactly!" You have to laugh, the first genuine one to escape you all day.
By the time you're both absolutely spent, that awful day you walked in with is nothing but a distant, hazy memory. It's drowned out by the steady rhythm of Clark's heartbeat against your sweaty back, the warm weight of his body, and the warm, sticky mess of him still leaking between your thighs. All the frustration, the noise, the exhaustion… just gone.
Replaced by the quiet certainty that no matter how shitty the day gets, Clark will always be there. On his knees for you.
Whether tongue-fucking your pussy until you cry for reasons other than your shit-tastic day or ruining you with slow, nasty strokes of his cock with your ass in the air. Every filthy second is just another way of saying he’s got you.
tags/warnings: 18+ MDNI, PRONE BONE, literally clark crushing you with all his weight, pet names, rough sex, he's sweet though, clark has a big dick, unprotected p in v sex, creampieeeee, another pwp heh.
dt: @theworstwolvie i love you. thank you for taking the time to read this horny mess <3
masterlist
the moonlight spilled softly through the curtains, the room smelled like sex, cedar, and lavender—clark’s perfume and his musky scent defused all over the room, the sheets rumpled—slightly damp with your perspiration from the amount of foreplay he’s been giving you.
clark has gotten you face-down on the mattress. your thighs spread wide to accommodate to his large figure, dripping with wetness in between from the nth orgasm of the night.
though you weren’t finished, and so was he.
his cock was notched at your entrance—still hard and swollen, glistening from his cum being spread all over. there was a thick foamy ring circling his base—proof of your shared night filled with pleasure.
“clark– please–!” you whined, backing your ass towards his cock with your chest pressed onto the mattress.
he kept propping up his full weight, though. bracing on his forearm, worried that he would practically suffocate you the moment he loosens the tension. “easy, sweetheart.”
he grunts as he begins to push his angry red tip inside you, holding your hips down so you would stop squirming as he buries himself to the hilt. you let out a sharp cry—drooling all over the pillows, eyes rolling to the back of your head, legs shaking, with every inch of his veiny cock thrusted inside your wet and warm cunt.
the both of you let out echoing moans as he began his pace. pulling out till only his tip stays in—before pushing back in so suddenly, making your walls clench tight around him.
but you wanted more. you needed more.
you begin to push your ass up towards him then, letting out whimpered words. “need your weight–”
“don’t wanna crush you, honey. i’m too heavy.”
and for god’s sake—you didn’t care! you do want to suffocate. you do want him to fucking engulf you with those 240lbs of pure muscle.
so you continued—squirming desperately underneath him. “i don’t care!” you whined again—like a fucking petulant child. “fucking crush me–”
your hands were clutching the sheets in despair. you tilted your head back to see him. eyes wide and glossy, lips parted, face flushed and utterly spent—it was a sight that could make clark come on his pants alone.
clark felt his control begin to fray more and more—especially the moment you began to pulsate around his cock on purpose.
“stop–” he groaned. pace still deep, still slow, still unraveling you carefully with each one.
“no!” you borderline sobbed—attempting to push your body up with your weakened arms.
and the moment tears started to roll down your cheeks from the amount of pleasure and need—he was done for.
he snapped. dropping his full bulk body mass, prone bone, strangling you with his body weight.
you could feel his heavy pecs slamming onto your shoulder blades, feel the every ridge of his stomach tracing your spine, feel the way his thick thighs trapped yours—forcing your cunt to squeeze tighter around him
your eyes rolled back again from the lack of oxygen, moans turned into helpless little uncoherent mewls. you could literally pass out.
but why does it feel so good?
clark noticed the way your walls seemed to tighten even more, and his cock began to bully your poor cunt. his once soft and deep pace now turned careless—relentless. every roll of his hips punches the air out of your lungs, making you dizzy.
you felt helpless, but there was nowhere else you’d rather be. your fists around the sheets, tightening with every vicious plunge, every time your back arched, he’d chase it down and press you down deeper into the bed with his body weight.
“you like this, don’t you? being suffocated by me?” he groaned against your ear.
you nodded onto the pillow, only letting out incoherent cries.
he groaned then, before his pace turned feral. his balls slapping against your ass, tip practically kissing your cervix—clark was close, and so were you.
the moment his hand snaked down in front of you—giving your clit tight circles—you knew it’d be over soon. the pleasure creeping up to every nerve in your body, burning you from inside and out.
“give it to me, sweetheart–” he growls.
and you did. walls fluttering hard around him as your cunt squirts out every juice from your insides. the pillow underneath you was unable to hold back your sharp cry from the blinding orgasm. your body trembled like never before.
and clark followed you instantly with his length spilling deep inside you. milky white seed painting your walls white, so full it oozes out of you onto the sheets.
“fuck– fuck…” you whimpered, satisfied.
he collapsed even further. chest heaving on top of you. “you did so good for me…” before he kissed the back of your head.
from now on, prone bone was definitely his favorite position.
pairing: (big dick!) clark kent x f!reader | genre: smut | wc: 1.9k
summary: just clark and his HUGE cock ego, among other things.
warnings: explicit sexual content (18+), size kink, overstimulation, praise kink, light power-play, unprotected sex (p in v), creampie, nsfw themes + language, reader called “baby” (what’s new).
a/n: i woke up out of a dead sleep at 3 am and wrote this. #dreamingofbigdick!clark. inspired by “ego” - beyoncé.
“It's too big. It's too wide. It's too strong. It won't fit. It's too much. It's too tough.” // “He got a big ego. Such a huge ego. I love his big ego."
It’s no secret that Clark Kent is a big man. Six-four. Broad everywhere. Big biceps, bigger thighs, and the kind of build that makes people do a double take before he even says a word. He’s thick in all the places that matter, built solid in a way that should feel impossible on someone who spends half his life pretending to be harmless.
Most of the time, he walks around with his head tipped down, eyes dropping even lower the second attention lands on him. His shoulders stay folded in like that could possibly hide the fact that his suits strain across his back and chest every time he moves. It doesn’t. If anything, it makes the contrast worse. All that size wrapped up in soft manners, quiet apologies, and that small, almost sheepish smile like he doesn’t know exactly what he looks like. During the workday, he’s all careful steps, mumbled replies, and glasses pushed up his nose, moving through the world like he’s trying not to take up too much space.
But with you?
It’s different with you.
The second he comes through the door, it’s practically routine. His suit jacket is gone in record time, hung up by the door already out of his mind. His hand moves with the same speed, straight to his tie, then to his glasses, removing each piece like they were never really supposed to be there in the first place. Then he's moving.
He walks through the apartment differently here. No softened steps. No careful, almost clumsy rhythm. Just something heavier. Something measured in a way that makes it obvious he’s looking for you and nothing else.
No matter where you are, no matter what you’re doing, he always approaches you the same way. Shoulders no longer folded in, but squared. Full height on display. Head lifted just enough to carry the remnants of the man who might’ve saved the world once or twice before coming home to you.
And the moment your eyes land on him, there it is.
That look.
It’s become familiar enough to feel like a signature by now. Each step he takes toward you only makes it worse, all the things he never bothers to hide with you coming into sharper focus. The way his shirt pulls tight across his arms when he moves. The way his slacks fit too well through his thighs. The way the fabric gives up entirely in certain places and simply clings. Everything about him looks just a little too solid, too broad, too much for the clothes trying to contain him.
Not that he seems to notice.
But you do.
Your eyes linger exactly where wrinkles could never form even if they tried, caught on the tension of fabric pulled too smooth over muscle and size. That, he notices. Never misses it.
And then there's that damn smile. The one that pulled just right at the corners, the one bracketed by dimples he clearly didn’t care to subdue. It always hits the same. Soft enough to look innocent at first, knowing enough to ruin that illusion almost immediately.
With him, there was never really a pause. No stopping point where one moment ended and the next had to be considered. Just step after step until those strong hands wrapped around you and drew you into him like that had been the plan from the second he walked through the door. His posture always shifted right after, dipping down without hesitation so he could press his lips to yours.
His mouth was just as intentional, lips moving against yours like one kiss was only permission for the next to go deeper. There were murmurs of a greeting, something brief about his day, and, without fail, a question about yours somewhere in the middle. But none of it stopped the way he pressed you into his frame. None of it changed the fact that the rest of his body spoke for him, making sure you felt exactly what kind of conversation it wanted to have.
In between breaths, his voice stayed low, deep, and warm, present in a way that carried its own weight. The same way it did when he finally had you exactly where he wanted you—here, on your back beneath him, your spine arching off the sheets as he lined himself up.
The first push made your breath catch, quick and shallow through your nose, your brows drawing together as your body tried to take him, tried to adjust to just the tip alone.
It was always like this.
No matter how many times you’d been wrapped around him, no matter how many times you’d taken him, it never started easy. Each time, your body had to work around the same thing: his size, his girth, the way his cock got wider from the tip to base, stretching you open instead of letting you settle into it.
Clark pushed in again, no more than an inch, but it hit just as hard as the first. Your hands flew to his shoulders, fingers pressing in as another gasp slipped out of you, your body tightening around him like it couldn’t decide whether to take him or push him out.
He felt it immediately.
His hands settled firmer on you, grounding, steadying, keeping you from pulling away. His head dipped slightly, close enough that his voice didn’t have to travel far when he spoke.
“You’re doing so good for me,” he said, the words rough with praise. “That’s it… you can take it. I know you can.”
Clark’s words were meant to help, you knew that, but it didn’t stop the thoughts from hitting right where the stretch burned the most. Maybe this time he really wouldn’t fit. Maybe he was just too big. Maybe every other time had been luck, some small miracle you’d gotten used to treating like normal.
He kept pushing in, inch by inch, never really stopping, never giving any of it back, just that steady pressure that kept building no matter how tight the stretch got. You bit down on your lip, nails digging into his shoulders while your body worked to take him, to open around something that still felt like too much.
His mouth found your neck and stayed there, kissing, sucking, working at the same spot like he knew exactly what it took to pull you through this part and was doing it without letting you think too hard about anything else.
“I’m sorry, baby,” he murmured against your skin, the words slipping out even as he kept going. “I’m almost there… you’re taking me just right, just like that…”
Another inch. Then finally—
He sank all the way in.
The stretch peaked, settled, and the sound that came out of you both followed it, yours sharp and breathless, his deeper, rougher, pulled straight from his chest as he filled you completely.
Clark moved slow at first, barely pulling out before pushing back in, like he was letting you feel it, letting your body adjust around him while he stayed deep, heavy, right there. But it didn’t last. His rhythm picked up, each thrust coming a little harder, a little faster, his hips driving into yours with more force, more intent.
He was too big for it to be anything else.
Every push drove all the way in, and every time he pulled back, you felt the loss of it right away, that sudden emptiness too abrupt, too noticeable, your body drawing in like it didn’t want to give any of him up. Then he was in you again, deep enough to make the ache start all over. It never stopped. Just that constant cycle of being stretched full, then left aching from the brief absence, only to have him sink back in before you could recover from the last time.
His body moved over yours with nothing but heat and weight, the motions pressing you deeper into the sheets every time he thrusted into you. The force of it never eased, each movement landing hard enough to keep your breath catching, breaking, while the sharp sound of it filled the room right alongside you.
You were a mess under him.
Always were.
The stretch still burned, the fullness still hit too hard, your body taking every inch of him like it didn’t know how to handle it.
And still—
He felt so fucking good.
The sounds coming out of you didn’t even try to make sense anymore. They came out strangled and uneven, catching somewhere between his name and something rougher, more broken, something that got dragged out of you all over again every time he pushed into you.
Clark heard it.
Felt it.
“That’s it,” he said, voice low and strained, slipping between breaths as he watched you come apart under him. “Feels so good… you feel so good for me.”
He shifted onto one forearm, bringing himself closer, angling just enough to reach for your hand. His fingers closed around it before guiding it down, lower, pressing your palm against your stomach, right where every push of him landed.
In.
Out.
Over and over.
“Feel that?” he asked, the words rougher now, hotter.
You did. Way too much. Far too deep.
Your body tightened around him without warning, the response instant as the pressure kept building and building, your breath catching again when it turned sharper, heavier, too much to ignore.
Clark pressed your hand harder into it, another deep thrust landing as he held you right against it.
“Perfect for me.”
The words sent you over fast, your body giving way around them, loud and unsteady, your voice breaking as it tore out of you. Clark grunted low at the feel of it, his rhythm faltering for half a second before he pushed through, kept moving, kept driving into you as you came apart under him.
Clark’s mouth found yours again as he leaned down into it. He kissed you through every sound and every aftershock that ripped through you, his own breathing rough against your lips while his body chased after it.
Everything about him felt so thick and heavy.
His cock. His arms. His frame.
His cum.
It hit all at once, a deep pulse that forced him further into you, filling you from the inside out, the warmth immediate.
You felt every bit of it.
The heat. The weight of it. The way it stayed, and the way he stayed there with it.
He kept kissing you, his mouth moving against yours while his voice came low and steady again.
“You’re perfect,” he murmured against your lips, brushing another kiss there like he meant it. “Always so good for me…”
His body pressed closer as he said it, his arm tightening around you, pulling you in even more, like there was still space to close, like he wanted you as close as possible while he stayed like this.
“You take me so well, baby,” he added, quieter now, the words settling between you the same way everything else had—heavy and certain, leaving no room to question it. No room to question him.
The rest of the world got variations of Clark Kent. The shy journalist. The confident hero.
But you got the man in between.
The one who pressed his weight into you, who talked you through every stretch, every inch. You got the version of him who knew exactly what he did to you and never wasted time pretending otherwise.
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Pairing: David!Clark Kent x fem!reader | wc: 1k
Quick drabble. Fluff, a little angst for my tall, dark, kryptonian 🥀 happy belated superman day. ILYSM 🫶🏼
mrs. kent diaries
Clark strongly debating against showing up for Metropolis’s first Superman Day.
No, he’s not ungrateful or doesn’t understand what it means, but he genuinely never believed what comes so naturally to him, maybe strange to others, needed a day set aside for it. For him.
Saving people is not a performance. Hope is not a campaign. Love, in the way Clark has always tried to offer it, is not something he knows how to stand still and receive.
Clark letting you talk him into making an appearance anyway. Trusting you when you tell him it would not be arrogant to go, that letting people who turn out in droves to celebrate what he and the symbol has meant to them does not cheapen the work, that for once he is allowed to exist in the space beyond impact and aftermath.
Clark, who spends so much of his life arriving at the worst second of someone’s life, being asked to remain for the gentle parts this time.
Clark in the suit and cape for hours without a single emergency to justify them. No fire. No collapsing buildings. No blood in the air. Just people. People with tearful eyes and shaking hands and children hiding shyly behind their parents’ knees until Superman kneels down to their height and suddenly he is surrounded by crooked crayon drawings, bouquets with bent stems, homemade signs glittering under spring sun, thank-you cards written in messy pencil, envelopes worried at the corners from being held too tightly on the walk over.
Clark being embraced by the city in a way that leaves him embarrassed by the tenderness of it. Smiling until his cheeks ache. Letting an old woman kiss his cheek. Letting a little boy with a cape two sizes too big wrap both arms around his neck. Letting himself hear every trembling thank you, every story of a day he barely remembered because for him it had only been another Tuesday, another body caught, another life steadied, another promise kept.
Realizing, in that long impossible blur of sunlight and voices and reaching hands, that despite everything, despite the grief and the violence and the cruelty he has to witness over and over again, people remain so heartbreakingly beautiful he would spend a thousand lifetimes trying to deserve them.
Clark coming home exhausted in a way patrol never makes him. Arms full of flowers and letters and little gifts, boots quieter than usual by the door, cape slung over a chair, and still wearing that dazed, boyish Smallville smile because he still can't quite believe this day was real.
Clark immediately sharing everything with you.
Every flower. Every drawing. Every handwritten note. Every trinket and earnest token and wrinkled envelope all addressed to Superman.
Clark sitting with you and going through each gift with the kind of care most people reserve for family heirlooms, grinning bashfully, telling you where he got this one and who gave him that one and how this little girl with a missing front tooth insisted he take two lollipops because “saving the city probably gets tiring, Superman.”
Clark laughing softly under his breath, then going quiet, so overwhelmed with the way love catches him off guard.
Clark refusing to name a favorite because he means it when he says he cannot. Because every gesture was somebody offering a piece of their heart, their soul, and he knows too well what it may cost to do that. He cherishes these slivers of kindness all the same.
And then reaching the bottom of the pile.
One last envelope. Unopened. His name written differently.
Not Superman or any other nickname he's bestowed or adopted. Not even Kal-El.
It's "Clark"
And he freezes, heart dropping to his ass, but realizes this is your handwriting.
Clark's face is already cracking, before even slipping a finger beneath the fold, because the city may adore Superman, may honor the symbol, may hang banners and balloons from windows and fill the streets beneath the crest on his chest, but this is something else entirely.
This is you celebrating the part of him rarely chanted for. The soft-spoken man under the cape. The farm boy who still says sorry to doorframes when he bumps into them. The man who comes home bone-tired and still asks about your day before speaking of his own.
The vast, tender, lonely heart inside him that has spent so much of its life translated through symbols, through service, through names people can bear more easily than the truth of what he is. Alien. Other. Sent here and left behind by a world he cannot return to. Loved by millions, and yet so often alone in the most private, unreachable places.
You know the ache of that. Know the quiet ways it lives inside him. Gnaws at him on bad nights. Know that there are parts of your Clark that will always carry the shape of loss, even now, even loved, even home.
The letter from you not reading like a stranger's admiration, and far deeper than a partner’s love. It reads like a cherished memory, gratitude beyond compare, like witness. It is thanking not just the hero, but the man. Thanking his hands that hold the world and yours, the shoulders that carry, his gentleness that guards the world. Thanking the parts of him that ache in silence, the parts that remain good despite the horrors of mankind.
You know what it costs him to remain openhearted in a world that so often meets tenderness with violence. That you know all of him. That you love all of him. That somehow, after the city has spent all day trying to honor what he means, the truest thank you waits for him at home.
Clark reading it once, then again, slower, words bleary from tears.
Throat closing. Nose burning. All the excitement of the day finally catching up to him at once.
Clark, who spent hours being celebrated by an entire city, looking at you with sudden, shattering certainty that no monument, no ceremony, no sea of blue and red and gold strung across the skyline could ever measure up to this. Nothing could rival being loved by the one person who remembers to thank him not only for what he gives, but for what he carries. For what he is.
Clark folding the letter with trembling hands, the stationary ruined by emotion and awe, and confessing by the look on his face alone that damn he is a liar after all, that he does play favorites.
Not with the gifts but with the person who gave him a home to bring them back to. With the person who knew which name to write.
And if Superman Day left him brimming with love for this strange, beautiful, breakable world, it is you who unravels him most completely, because when the noise has faded and the sky has gone dark and every shining version of him has nowhere else to go, you are still the one who holds all of him.
The symbol. The son. The man.
The one who knows his heart well enough to find the loneliest parts of it and love them like they were never strange at all.
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