𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘. he doesn’t just love you with his words. he loves you with the full strength of him. over and over again.
𝐒𝐌𝐔𝐓. headcanon / blurb collection [1.7k].
𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒. male reader 〳 corenswet!clark 〳 established relationship 〳top!clark 〳 bottom!reader 〳 cockwarming 〳 size kink 〳 belly bulging 〳 cumplay 〳 overstimulation 〳 deep penetration 〳 worship (of reader’s body + clark’s body) 〳 soft dom!clark 〳 dirty talk 〳 fingering 〳 muscle kink 〳rimming (r!receiving) 〳body worship 〳 post-sex intimacy 〳 reader has a gaping, cum-leaking hole 〳 clark cums a lot
What the Body Remembers
He kisses you like he’s sorry he wants you this much.
Fucks you like he never learned how to stop needing.
Clark Kent isn’t unaware of his body—the strength of it, the size, the way people look—but he never uses it to dominate. Not unless you ask.
Not unless you beg.
When he’s inside you, he’s not a god or a weapon. He’s a man. One who loves you, fills you, touches you like a prayer said every night in private.
One who breaks your body open with reverence, and then makes pancakes.
This is what it’s like to be undone by Superman.
Muscle Memory
He fucks you slowly at first, like he's afraid of being too much.
He knows how big he is, how your stomach bulges when he presses in just right. He sees the way your back arches, the way your mouth parts, trembling and breathless, already stuffed so full of him. And he still asks if you're okay. Always. Softly. A kiss at your temple, even while you're shaking.
But then there's the moment he hears your breath hitch and sees you look down. Sees you watching your own belly stretch with the obscene outline of his cock. Something flips. That quiet awe in his chest turns into hunger.
He rocks into you harder, the bed frame groaning under both your bodies. He watches your thighs start to quiver. Watches your hands scrabble for anything—him, the sheets, your own cock— and he doesn’t stop. Just breathes heavy and praises you, voice thick with arousal.
“You take me so good, baby,” he whispers. “Every time, I swear, you fit around me like you were made to. Just perfect.”
Worship
Sometimes he’ll slow down just to admire you like this. Not during foreplay—no, during. When you're already panting under him, hips slick and hole drooling with the stretch, and his cock keeps pressing deeper.
He palms your thighs with reverence, kisses down your chest like you’re some sacred thing. Big hands spreading your legs wider. Thumbs digging into the softest parts of you. He’ll murmur things under his breath that make your skin feel hot and holy.
“Love your body,” he says. “So soft. So pretty. All mine.
And when you clench around him at the praise, he fucking smiles.
Making His Mark
He cums too much. Always has. The first time he stayed the night, you woke up sore and leaking and still full—because you’d passed out before he’d even finished cleaning you up. Kryptonian stamina.
He apologized with breakfast in bed and a guilty smile, but when you told him you liked it, he blushed so hard it reached his ears
Now it’s become part of the routine. Every time he finishes, he stays inside, grinding in shallow, greedy circles like he’s trying to fuck it all in deeper. The sheets stained, your thighs sticky, your hole raw and red and dripping down the curve of your ass.
He watches you try to crawl away, boneless and overstimulated
“You can’t just… fill me like that,” you mutter, dizzy.
“You’re right,” he says. “I should do it again.”
Spent
He loves looking at you after. Really looking. Your chest rising and falling in slow, wrecked rhythm. Your lips parted, your eyes glazed, your thighs still twitching from the aftershocks. His cum leaking from your hole in thick, messy ropes, all down your skin, soaking into the sheets. You always look ruined, used, perfect.
He touches you like he’s not sure he deserves the sight. Just drags a hand down your chest, your thigh, breath caught in his throat. You’re gaping, still stretched wide around the memory of him, and he swears under his breath every time.
He brings a hand between your legs and drags two fingers through the mess. Shudders when you whimper from the touch.
“Jesus,” he whispers. “Look what I did to you.”
Muscle Memory II
Clark’s a big man. And when you worship him—really let your hands explore the stretch of his abs, the thick strength of his thighs, the wide expanse of his chest—he gets flustered. Because he doesn’t expect it. He doesn’t think you see him like that. But you do.
You kiss the line of his stomach, trace your tongue up to the cleft between his pecs, and he sucks in a breath every time.
“You’re beautiful,” you say.
He huffs out a laugh, ducking his head. “You think so?”
You palm him through his briefs—heavy, half-hard, already huge— and smile up at him.
“I know so.”
When you finally get him naked, you take your time. You kneel between his legs, run your hands across every inch of that body, skin warm and golden under your palms. You stroke his cock slow—long, thick, flushed pink at the tip—and tell him how good he looks like this, hard and wanting for you.
“I want you inside me,” you whisper. “Want you to fuck me open with this big fucking thing. Want you to fill your boyfriend with all that cum until it’s dripping out of me.”
His breath hitches. And then he gives you exactly what you asked for.
"Sweet heaven."
Where You Go Softest
There’s something about your body that Clark loves with aching intensity. Your thighs, especially. He says they’re his favorite place to rest his head, his hands, his mouth. You’ve seen him fuck himself stupid just from the sight of you spread open, thighs trembling, your cock flushed and leaking against your belly.
He grabs handfuls of your ass while he thrusts, steady and deep, burying his face in your neck to muffle the sounds he makes. Sometimes he just moans your name like a broken prayer.
“Could stay inside you forever,” he pants. “You feel so fucking good, sweetheart. Squeezing me like that, fuck.”
And when he’s just eating you out? Forget it. He’s obsessed. Tongue buried in your hole, big hands pinning your hips down, leaving finger-shaped bruises across your ass as he devours you like he’s starved. He doesn’t stop until your cock’s twitching untouched on your stomach and your thighs are shaking around his ears.
Without Harm
When he holds you down, it’s not with force. It’s with care.
Clark cradles your waist with one hand, the other under your ass to angle your hips up, and it’s almost absurd how easy it is for him to manhandle you. He could bend you in half with one arm, pin your wrists above your head with a single hand, keep you in place while his cock drills deep.
But he never rushes.
Even when he’s fucking you hard: sweat beading at his temples, his broad chest slick and flexing over yours—he checks in. A hand brushing your cheek. A kiss between thrusts. A question, murmured against your throat.
“Still good, baby? Can you take more?”
You always say yes. Even when your body’s shaking. Even when your hole is raw and stretched wide open, swallowing him deeper than you ever thought you could take.
He presses a hand to your lower belly and moans when he feels himself inside you.
“God. That’s me.”
Overflow
Clark doesn’t need toys. Doesn’t need anything but you on your back, legs spread, begging him to go slow while your body contradicts you and sucks him in.
He’s thick from tip to base, flushed and heavy, the kind of cock that curves just enough to ruin you. You’ve never been able to take him all at once, not without working up to it. He helps; spit, fingers, gentle coaxing—and still, every time, your body trembles when he breaches you.
“You’re doing so good,” he whispers, rocking his hips. “Let me in. Let me fill you up.”
And he does.
You feel him for hours after. His cum drips out of you long after he’s pulled out—thick, cloudy, sticky strings that leave you ruined between the legs. Sometimes you can’t even close your thighs properly. Sometimes he doesn’t pull out at all.
You’ll feel it trickle out when you’re washing dishes or putting on pants, and he’ll catch you pausing with a faraway look in your eyes and murmur, “Still leaking?”
Evidence of Him
He never tires of seeing you like this.
Sprawled out beneath him, wrecked. Limbs slack. Hole gaping. His come dripping out in slow, shiny streaks down the curve of your ass and the inside of your thighs.
Clark watches. He runs his hand down your spine, dips his fingers between your cheeks, and hums at the sight of your trembling rim, twitching open, pink and raw and leaking. He never says much. Just soft sounds of awe.
A whispered “Christ,” maybe, or “You look perfect like this.”
Sometimes he spreads you open again just to see it.
To see how loose you are. How thoroughly he’s fucked you. How your hole flutters like it misses him already.
“You need me again?” he asks, almost innocent. Thumb still dragging through the mess he left.
You nod. Of course you do.
He’s already hard again.
The Unravel
It doesn’t take long to unravel.
Clark can take you standing up, bent over the sink, pressed against the wall, or face down in bed with a pillow under your hips. Every angle stretches you in new ways. Every time feels like the first time.
Sometimes it’s fast. You’re soaked already, hungry for him, and he’s in you with one smooth thrust. Sometimes it’s slower. Long strokes, deep grinding, his hand around your cock while he fills you.
Your body doesn’t know what to do with him. It tries to reject the stretch, even as your moans get louder, your back arches, your legs shake.
And when you come: ruined, overstimulated, voice cracking from how hard you cry out. Clark follows with a deep, full groan.
He never pulls out.
Rest, Ripe, and Heavy
Afterward, he’s always starving.
You’re still trying to catch your breath, still aching and loose and wrecked, and Clark’s already pulling on a pair of sweats, padding barefoot into the kitchen. You call after him.
“Can you give me like five minutes before you start making dinner?”
He pops his head back in, cheeks pink, curls messy.
“I wasn’t gonna make dinner,” he says. “Just a snack.”
You laugh, rubbing your stomach. “You just blew my back out.”
He shrugs, sheepish. “I’m still a growing boy.”
You roll your eyes and tell him to come back to bed, and he does, climbing under the sheets with you, hand pressed to your belly, whispering he’s sorry for how sore you’ll be tomorrow.
He’s not sorry.
nouearth. please do not repost, plagiarize, or translate my works. if you like this story, please reblog and leave a like!
summary: you wake up to flowers on your dining room table. you go on a paranoid rampage and ask your boyfriend clark to help you install cameras and extra locks, but you don’t seem to realise that the real culprit is the man you’re currently handing a 4k night vision camera to.
prompt: flowers 🍒
pairing: boyfriend!clark x journalist!reader
word count: 2.6k
content contains: fluff, established relationship, reader is very paranoid and honestly a little blind, mentions of stalking, lois cameo, confession is a little rushed, clark just wants you to be happy and went about it weird
authors note: day 11 of the galentines collab. i like everything about this fic j think. sometimes i just stare at my phone after completing a fic and think wow what possessed me. crazy. also i know im so late but please just ive me leniency i need to pee all of th4e time
erin’s galentines collab masterlist
the flowers started appearing on a random tuesday morning.
you'd barely awoken up, your body still drowsy and on auto-pilot, when you'd stumbled into your kitchen. the light streaming through your kitchen window was blinding, enough that you had to shield your eyes from the glare. but through your fingers, you spotted it.
a bouquet of babies breath and red lilies sits on your dining table.
it isn't hidden or tucked away by any means, and certainly not left there with any attempt at subtlety. it looks arranged with the patience of a saint, each bloom articulated in a specific way to make them stand out, the colour spilling out of the delicate vase.
you stop moving.
for a long while, you're convinced you might be dreaming, that maybe your mind stitched together something comforting knowing you had a gruelling day at the daily planet awaiting you, but no, that's farfetched.
you dont remember buying these, and your boyfriend clark certainly hadn't stayed the night, and he would've let you know if he was coming over— or you would've heard him, because the amount of noise that man makes is insane.
you pad on over to the table, every step careful and precise, caution lacing your body like a taught wire. you turn the vase and find that there's no card, nor is there any visible clue as to who might've left them here for you— just flowers and a vase.
you pull your hand away like it might burn you, and your stomach sinks as the timing sinks into place.
just yesterday morning, your article had gone live— an unapologetic and sharp article on the current state of metropolis' political climate— and it'd torn its way through comment sections and talk shows by that night. your phone hasn't stopped buzzing since, and everyone who knew you had warned you of anonymous accounts trying to get closer to you.
the only conclusion your mind can come up with is the worst one— a stalker.
you tell clark all about it at work.
the morning rush swallows you both as you walk through the crowd, clark navigating your way as you walk towards the daily planet, shoulder to arm and the city loud and awake around you.
"it's probably someone who loves you enough to gift you flowers. doesn't sound like anything suspicious to me, honey." clark hums as the two of you tread across the sidewalk.
"i'm serious, clark. there's no way this sort of thing happens and i dont know about it." you ramble on and on, the words tumbling out faster than your steps. "i woke up, and boom, there's flowers on the table."
clark has to grab you by the shoulder and pull you closer to him so that you don't run into someone walking the opposite direction. he keeps his arm around you just in case, pulling you close.
"i don't doubt you for a second, hun—" he says easily, steering you back into step with him. "but don't you think it's a little outlandish to think someone broke into your apartment just to leave flowers?"
you huff as the two of you enter the daily planet, the familiar hum of voices and ringing phones rushing in all at once. people blur past as you pass the turnstiles. its comfortingly familiar, almost enough to make you second guess yourself. almost.
"i don't know what other explanation there could be." you tell him as you drop your bag at your desk and slide your coat off, "i didn't buy them, you surely didn't, and flowers don't just appear out of thin air in the middle of the night."
clark sets his coffee down beside his keyboard and glances over at you, but before he can say anything else, lois strides past, a stack of papers in her hand. she drops them onto her desk with a dull thud and turns to you and clark with one hand on her desk and the other on her hip.
"someone's sending you flowers?" she asks, her brows knit and her voice sharp enough to slide into the conversation, "looks like you've got competition, clark."
clark huffs out a sigh as he turns around in his chair. "i don't."
you glance over at the papers on her desk and see your article on the front cover in bold and glaring text, practically daring people to read it. you turn your back to it and reach over to turn your computer on.
"a bouquet of flowers appeared in my apartment in the middle of the night and i don't know where it came from." you tell her, "no note, no name, nothing."
her brows knit like that was the last thing she'd expected to hear in the butt crack of dawn. "you think someone broke in?"
"i don't know." you sigh, "maybe."
lois seems to read the look on your face and notices how on edge you are about this. she leans against her desk
"don't worry, i have those thoughts all of the time. with all of the backlash and attention you're getting now, i wouldn't rule it out."
clark looks over his shoulder, the man acting like he's uninterested until something he hears something he doesn't like. "i dont know if we should be pushing the narrative of you having a stalker—"
"but see, clark? even lois thinks it could be true." you gesture vaguely to lois before turning to her, "do you think i should install cameras, or is that too much?"
she shrugs, casual but pragmatic. "better safe than sorry."
the next bouquet came only two days later.
it had been your day off. you'd slept late that night researching about window locks and alarm systems, and when you'd awoken in the morning, you certainly hadn't expected to wake up and become face to face with a beautiful arrangement of pink and purple tulips sitting neatly in the centre of your table like it's always been there.
your stomach sinks. you glance to the windowsill where the first bouquet sits soaking up the sun. there's no note with this one either, and it's undeniable evidence that you're either going insane or evidence that someone's been in your home.
your computer and your credit card become your best friends that day. you spend countless hours scrolling through house protection websites, reading reviews, comparing cameras and locks, smart alarms, and motion sensors, and even door reinforcements. the items stack up in your cart, and you're almost afraid to look at the price.
clark calls you three times while you're in your frenzy. the first two times go ignored, you being too absorbed with your computer. the third time, he texts and calls when there's no response.
"hey, honey." he says when you finally answer, and you can almost hear the frown in his voice. "i've been trying to call you all day. is your phone broken?"
"no, i'm sorry, clark, i've just been—" you sigh, eyes clenching shut. "another bouquet showed up this morning and i've been out of it ever since i saw it."
"oh." clark simply says. after a moment, he asks, "did you like them?"
you huff out a small tired laugh, eyes flickering up at the windowsill where you'd put the newest bouquet, right beside the one you'd received only two days ago. the flowers and the leaves gleam in the afternoon sun, and even though they might not have the best context behind them, you can't deny their beauty.
"i do." you nod despite the fact that clark can't see you, "i just wish they were coming from you, or maybe even lois."
there's a moment of silence from clark's end, and for a moment you think that the calls somehow disconnected. you pull the phone away from your face and see that it's still connected.
you blink. "clark?"
"right, sorry, hun, i'm still here." your boyfriend says on the other end, quick and a little breathless. then quieter, like he's choosing his words carefully, he adds, "actually, about that—"
the line cuts off.
your brows furrow as you look at your screen. you tap at it a few times, but it doesn't turn on. you jab at the power button, but there's nothing. dead.
"you've got to be kidding me." you mutter as you place your phone onto the table, and you find that the quiet feels heavier than it should.
you dont buy everything in your cart— just two cameras as a trial, one for the front door and one facing your dining table. if those have you even a shred of clarity, then you'd buy the rest of your cart without hesitation. you go to bed feeling a little safer knowing that you'll have some kind of closure soon.
the third bouquet comes another two days later, and you find that it's your last straw.
the bouquet of red roses sits perfectly in the centre of your dining table, almost like it's taunting you. you don't stop to think, and you waste no time in picking up the phone and calling clark.
when he arrives, you open the door. his hair is still a little out of place from the morning and his glasses stay perched on the top of his nose, the picture of casual ease that you makes you smile. there's a package in his hands, and you recognise it as the cameras you'd bought yesterday.
"you got here quick." you blurt out as you step aside.
"i didn't want to leave you waiting when you're all stressed out like this, plus i was in the area." he smiles as he walks in, making sure to press a kiss to your lips as he does so, "did you get a package?"
you shut the door behind him, locks clicking into place. you turn around, and he hands the package to you and you take it.
"yeah," you say with a small smile, lifting the box. "they're my cameras."
clark pauses, "... you bought cameras?"
you nod. "just two to see if they're any good. if they work, i'll buy the rest of the things in my cart. then the intruder won't be able to get in."
clark blinks once, then lets out a surprised breath. he reaches up and runs at the back of his neck as he watches you pad over to your desk and pull out a box cutter. "wow, okay. i mean... i didnt think it's gotten to this point."
"it has." you slice the box open and pull out your cameras. "three bouquets, clark. three. i dont want to wait around until the fourth one or the fifth one."
"this is..." clark sighs, "um..."
you turn on your heel, brows knitting together at your boyfriends hesitation."what, you don't think it's enough?"
he quickly shakes his head, the curls on his head bouncing with the movement. "no, actually. i just dont think this is necessary."
but the words land wrong.
your chest tightens. "it's not necessary to want to know who's breaking into my apartment?"
"that's not what i meant, sweetheart," he says quickly, "i just meant—"
"you just what?" you press.
clark falters, gaze falling to the cameras in your hands like theyre something fragile and unavoidable. "i don't think anyone's trying to hurt you."
and for some reason, that doesn't comfort you at all.
you move past him and over to your desk. you flip open your notepad, the pages already scrawled with scribbles and notes on your findings.
"but i've done a lot of researching, and the symbolism of the flowers i've received all match a common theme: love." you state. "babies breath symbolise everlasting love, red lilies symbolise love and passion, the tulips symbolised eternal love, and the roses? i dont think you need a search engine to know what those mean."
clark stays quiet.
"if the person behind this doesn't have any malicious intent, then there's obviously something else going on there. i mean, roses are expensive and nobody just buys two dozen to drop off at a journalist's house." you continue.
"it's just— sweetheart, i dont think we need all of this." he tries to tell you, "maybe i can stay over for the next few weeks. i'm sure a 6'5 man would scare them off."
you cock your head, smitten with his cluelessness. "you can stay over for as long as you'd like, clark, but don't you wanna know who it is? see who's able to slip in and out of all of my locks and all of my security measures and remain undetected?
you throw your notepad back onto the desk and make your way back over to clark. you place one of the cameras into his hand and point at the corner of the wall, fumbling with a handful of screws.
you nod towards the wall, "now, if you just wanna reach up there and screw the camera into the wall? then that'd be—"
"i'm the one who left the flowers."
you stop, and the room suddenly goes very quiet. the screws that rattled in your hands are silenced by your clenched fist, and even the wind outside has decided to stop slamming against your windows for once.
you turn to clark. "what?"
clark doesn't move, and he's not sure if he even can. guilt runs hot through his entire body as you stare daggers into him. his fingers tighten around the camera you'd handed him as he tries to find the words.
"i left them." he says again, quieter this time. "all of them."
you laugh once, short and disbelieving. "that's not funny, clark. this isnt—"
"i'm not joking, hun." his eyes are earnest as they flick between yours, open in a way that makes your stomach drop. "i thought you'd know it was me. i didn't think you'd be scared."
your chest goes hollow, and in hindsight, maybe you should've just assumed this in the first place, because in what world would someone break into your house and leave you flowers if it wasn't clark?
"i bought cameras, clark." you deadpan. "i thought i had a stalker."
clark places the camera onto the table and steps towards you, a little afraid that you might him him or something. he places his hands on your shoulders and begins rubbing up and down in an attempt to calm you before you inevitably blow up.
his face crumples slightly. "i know, and i'm so so so sorry, sweetheart."
you melt into his chest, folding into him— but not because everything is okay. its muscle memory. its gravity. its the fact that your body knows him more than your mind does right now.
you pull back enough to look at him. "why didn't you tell me when i first brought it up? and why did you keep doing it?"
clark winces. "i-i don't know, i felt bad at first, but you looked so cute being all paranoid and i thought it was funny. the second time, i just wanted to see how you'd react. and i should've known roses were gonna be overkill."
you let out a sharp breath. "the timing of that was horrible."
he looks down at you, his eyes full of regret and honesty. "i know, i know, but you were just going through such a hard time with the backlash and i wanted to make you feel better by surprising you with flowers. i didnt know it'd turn out this way."
you stare at him for a moment longer before slamming your face into his chest and wrapping your arms around him. he huffs out a sigh and places a warm kiss on the top of your head like he knows how bad he messed up, and this is how he's apologising.
"next time," you mumble into his chest, "leave a note."
"next time," clark echoes, "i'll hand deliver them."
but you'd pulled him into a _____ investigation, one with the end goal of capturing whoever was breaking into your apartment to leave you bouquets of flowers without knowing it was him.
DESCRIPTION: you lock eyes with a charming stranger at a party you’d rather not be at. NOTES - leave me all your thoughts and opinions. i love them <33 | next part
one…
What am I doing here? The words echoed in your head like a pulsing poison, eating away at your brain like ants to honeycomb.
Your brother was off sitting in a circle, fawning over cars, football, and all else that fueled testosterone and silly male enjoyment.
And then there was you, hugging the corner like an old lover, its shadows mirroring your open embrace.
“We should go over there,” declared Kate, a ringlet of her curl dancing with the springtime breeze. “You know, to see what the boys are talking about.”
No. No no no no no no—
“Yeah, we should!” Oh, if people wouldn’t see it as odd for you to slam a hand against your cheek…
There was a glaze over your pretty, fretting eyes and restless mind, a honeyed glaze slick with doubt and dissociation. You’d pushed yourself enough by coming here, and now you were being led like lamb to cleaver—ready to face your slaughter at the hands of—oh.
So busy was your mind that you might have kept your head bowed if not for subconscious pleasure.
His boots were shiny, and his denim tailored—and it’s all you paid attention to before your gaze shifted upward to find two remarkable blue-gray eyes peering in curiosity.
“Clark!” he blurted, offering a strong hand, and if you had half a mind, you would have realized it wasn’t politeness but interest.
You, always so caught up in doubts and hyperfocusing on imperfections. So caught up that you never quite saw what mirrored in men’s eyes when they gazed hungry at you: intimidation. You were strong, intelligent—and God—so pretty. Yet you could only breathe in your lack.
So no, when the handsome flannel boy with glasses far too big for his chiseled face and unruly raven hair—when his southern-kissed greeting met your ears, you had no idea it was a game.
A game between the men.
First to catch her interest would be first to have her.
But Clark was different. He wasn’t interested in feeding off the competition, he wanted to beat them to it. To offer you what they could not. But you knew none of this. You only knew that he greeted women as if a fire was forcing his hand.
“Y/N,” you warmed with a smile, shaking his hand in turn. He pulled back, gazing at his palm for a moment before a pinch settled between his brows.
“This is my sister, everyone. And this is my girlfriend, Kate.” Your brother strung Kate to him like a fly to spiderweb. She became smiley again, saying, “We got bored and decided to eavesdrop.”
“Be our guest,” Clark offered, the southern tang to his voice so soft you had to drown out the world to catch it. His eyes were on you, but your head was too bowed to realize.
Your gaze flickered to Kate sitting atop your brother’s lap. You shifted on your feet.
Vance, your brother’s friend, whom you had an insufferable crush on, stood in unison with Clark.
Their gazes locked in a silent contest you were too innocent to realize before Vance, frustrated, laughed breathily and sat back down.
“Oh no, it’s fine—” you began, but Clark shook his head, stepped aside, and motioned to the armchair. His gaze was so severe you had no choice but to comply.
You shuffled over awkwardly, finding your seat—only Clark stood beside you. He smelled of honeyed whiskey, chai, old books, and firewood. You stared at his veined hand on the arm of your seat, your mind wandering for a moment… What might that hand feel like against your skin?
“Surprised you guys aren’t over there yapping about books,” Vance began, his coal-colored eyes blanketing your face like a sinful dare.
It would never work. He was the moon, and you were the sun, warm and bright opposed to cold encased by darkness. But for months, his subtle flirtations evoked a lonesome part of your heart. Perhaps it was the lesser part of you, used to unhealthy men, that made you bend toward his attention like a starved flower. Regardless, you did, and it never made you feel less awful after parting.
When your gaze broke from his, you giggled shyly in unison with Kate, but that strong voice sliced through, commanding your attention again.
“You like to read?” he asked.
You flicked upward to Kate, only to find her chocolate stare upon you.
Oh… he was asking you.
“Um—” you began, nervous to have attention on your voice. “Well, yeah, sort of.”
“Sort of?” he tested with the lazy beginnings of a smile. You realized then how silly you sounded.
“Do you read?” you asked Clark, allowing your curiosity to bring your eyes back to him. As if he were a marionette, and you his new puppet, being pulled by an invisible string so he might study your pretty eyes. Were they always so warm and doe-like? Or had the wine made them more gentle? He wondered as you turned the question onto him.
“I do,” he replied, but when you grew shy and quiet again, he winced at himself. His icy gaze stuttered toward Vance, and he knew then that he’d have to open his mouth if he wanted your attention. He’d just have to work a little harder, and that was okay.
Usually, pretty girls like you would flock to him with no effort needed. Something about him looking like a Pinterest boyfriend, and all he had to do was sit and attract. But you… something about you told him you weren’t like the rest.
“I uh— I do.” He continued, breaking the stretched silence. “Sally Rooney—” he began, but you cut him off immediately.
“You read romance?” Your eyes widened, and your body turned toward him, and for a moment, you were completely lost in his words.
He didn’t pause or flicker with annoyance at your enthusiasm but instead gave you a lopsided grin.
“I do,” he confirmed. Though not a lie, he found himself a fisherman who’d hooked you with the most irresistible bait. Pretty, mysterious, shy girl you were—now he’d get you to talk. “Do you?”
Kate cut in, “We read about fairies and dragon riders.” You flushed a pretty pink with an embarrassed laugh. He peered down at you, giving Kate only a ghostly laugh of acknowledgment.
“You like fantasy, then?” he said so low it was as if the conversation was reserved for only the two of you.
As if fate were aiding his hand, the others fell into comfortable conversation. Not you, though. You were pinned under his grayed gaze.
“I read anything with a good love story,” you answered, so honestly, it surprised you.
“I like that,” he said simply, as if he were talking to himself. When he realized it, a pinch snaked between his brows, and you couldn’t help but softly laugh. He mirrored you. “What?”
“You’re likely the only man alive who does, if you’re telling the truth.”
“Well I—” he began, but your brother cut in.
“Ready to head out, Y/N?” You noticed just how entranced you’d been in this handsome stranger, not for his pretty face or interests, but for his words. The rest never mattered—not for you anyway. You often found it hard to capture any man’s attention, let alone the handsome ones. Even so, a lick of disappointment thrummed in your heart.
You dared to wonder what might happen if you offered your social media so he could contact you again. But the idea sped your heart and widened your eyes, so you stood with a nod.
Vance offered you a warm hug, and you merely waved at the others before turning to Clark—well, Clark’s chest. He towered over you, his honeyed whiskey scent licking your senses as he pulled you into a warm embrace. Gentle, curious, as if testing the feel of your body against his. Stranger to stranger—but he was so warm, so confusingly familiar.
“It was nice to meet you, Y/N,” he spoke first, pulling away. Swayed by his warmth, you could only nod.
Now was your chance. Your once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to ask for a way to keep in contact with this mysterious stranger. But you cowered when you glanced up at his pretty face.
Fate wasn’t kind, and in your mind, you decided there was a model waiting for his warmth at home—and you were only allowed to entangle with him for a moment, never again.
“You too, Clark…”
Then you were off, never to see the mysterious stranger ever again.
𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘. clark’s busy spoiling his sick boyfriend with cookies and cuddles—until things heat up when someone decides a kiss (and more) is the real cure for a cold.
𝐅𝐋𝐔𝐅𝐅 & 𝐒𝐌𝐔𝐓. one-shot [ 6.0k ].
𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒. male reader 〳 corenswet!clark 〳 established relationship 〳 sick!reader 〳 christmas!au 〳 sexual content: top!clark, bottom!reader, belly-bulging, breeding, rimming (r!receiving), praising, body worship, clark can alter the temp of his body (and dick).
Snow fell softly outside the apartment, blanketing Metropolis in a serene hush that contrasted sharply with the sound of sniffling from the couch. Clark’s living room was cozy, aglow with the golden twinkle of Christmas lights strung up around the windows. The faint scent of pine mingled with the sweet aroma of gingerbread baking in the oven, though the stuffy haze of your cold dulled the sharpness of both.
You sat bundled in a mountain of blankets, a tissue box on one side and a half-empty mug of tea on the other. Despite the misery of a congested head and the scratchy soreness in your throat, you couldn’t help but watch Clark with a mix of amusement and adoration.
In the kitchen, he moved with a carefree confidence, humming along to Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas as it played softly on his phone. He had insisted on baking cookies for the evening, declaring it the perfect way to boost your holiday cheer. Not that you needed much help in that department—his reindeer antler headband, bouncing with every step he took, was doing most of the work.
His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, exposing his strong forearms, and his glasses had fogged up slightly from the warmth of the oven. Even with the goofy apron he wore—a red and green monstrosity with “Santa’s Favorite Helper” embroidered across the front—he looked unfairly attractive.
Clark glanced over his shoulder at you, a soft smile spreading across his face as his gaze met yours. “You okay over there?” he asked, his voice gentle. “Need more tea? Another blanket? A better boyfriend?”
You groaned theatrically, flopping back into the throw pillows. “What I need is for my head to stop feeling like it’s stuffed with cotton.”
And stones—your flair for drama only worsened the throbbing ache from the sudden movement.
Setting down a tray of freshly baked cookies, Clark wiped his hands on a dishtowel and made his way over to you. He knelt beside the couch, one hand reaching up to take the temperature from your forehead while the other rested lightly on your knee through the blanket.
His touch was warm, steady, grounding.
“Still running hot. Sorry you’re feeling this way,” he said sincerely, his brow furrowing just a little. “If I could punch a cold in the face, you know I would.”
You laughed, but it quickly dissolved into a coughing fit. Clark was at your side in an instant, his hand rubbing gentle circles on your back until the worst of it passed. “It’s so unfair that you never get sick,” you rasped, your voice rough and strained. “You’re just… immune to everything. Meanwhile, I’m over here melting into a Christmas puddle.”
“Wow. This is the thanks I get for baking you cookies? My boyfriend wishing ill on me?” He chuckled, resting his elbows on the edge of the couch to stay level with your gaze. "If it makes you feel better, Krypto would probably be thrilled to drink you up if you were a puddle! Likes his water from the spring... spoiled dog."
His grin was boyish and a little smug, and you rolled your eyes at him, though the corners of your lips twitched upward.
“What I’m saying is… we could’ve been sick together,” you muttered, “But I can’t even enjoy them. Look here.” You picked up one of the gingerbread cookies Clark had carefully decorated earlier, the icing swirls and tiny candy buttons a testament to his painstaking attention to detail.
The cookie felt firm yet inviting in your hand, its edges slightly crisp and still warm from the oven. Breaking off a piece, you popped it into your mouth, hopeful that even through the fog of your cold, some of the sweetness might break through.
Instead, all you got was the texture—a faint crunch that dissolved into a soft crumble on your tongue. The spice you knew should be there, the warm bite of ginger and cinnamon that normally screamed Christmas, was muted to the point of nonexistence.
You frowned, swallowing the flavorless bite with effort. A sharp, scratchy sting flared in your throat, the dry irritation making each swallow feel more uncomfortable than the last. The lack of taste was almost offensive, a cruel reminder of how thoroughly your cold had robbed you of simple joys.
Clark’s eyes flicked over to you, catching your expression as you set the rest of the cookie down with a defeated sigh. “Nothing?” he asked, his voice tinged with sympathy.
“Absolutely nothing,” you muttered, your voice still scratchy. “I might as well be eating cardboard.”
Clark chuckled softly, getting up on his feet to sit beside you. “Guess that means more for me, huh?” He reached for a cookie, his teasing grin faltering when he saw your pout, but his craving persisted nonetheless. “Hey, don’t worry,” he added, nudging your shoulder gently. “Once you’re better, I’ll bake you a whole new batch. Extra ginger, just the way you like it.”
“Yeah…”
Clark bit into a gingerbread cookie with gusto, clearly enjoying his own handiwork as he snuggled beside you on the couch.
“Mmm,” he hummed dramatically, his eyes widening as he made a show of savoring the bite. “Oh, wow. These might be my best yet. Sweet, spicy, perfectly baked—chef’s kiss.” He gestured extravagantly, grinning like he’d just won a baking competition.
“Not saying these aren’t good, but I’m pretty sure the last time you made cookies, Krypto got more excited than I did."
You were about to roll your eyes at his antics when you noticed a speck of icing clinging to the corner of his mouth and a small crumb nestled in the dimple of his cheek. It was such a ridiculously human detail—charming in its imperfection—that you felt a sudden pang of affection bloom in your chest.
“Here,” you said, laughing softly as you reached up and brushed the crumb away with your thumb, your fingers lingering just a second longer than necessary. His skin was warm, and the bashful smile that tugged at his lips made your stomach flip.
“Didn't stop you from cleaning out the cookie tray...” he murmured, his cheeks pinking slightly as he quickly licked the icing from the corner of his mouth, completely oblivious to how endearing he looked. "Thanks."
You shook your head, biting back a grin. “You’re a mess,” you teased, but your voice was far softer than usual, betraying just how much the sight of him—unpolished, sweet, and so effortlessly Clark—had utterly disarmed you.
Clark’s smile softened, and he pressed a gentle kiss to your temple. His lips lingered for a moment, warm and impossibly tender against your fevered skin. When he pulled back, he looked at you with that impossibly earnest expression that always made your heart twist.
“It’s nice, though, isn’t it?” Clark murmured, his voice soft and warm, like the glow of the Christmas lights reflecting off his glasses. “The cookies, the Christmas specials, the decorations… being snowed in together. Like a Hallmark movie, but… not terrible?”
You could see the flicker of nostalgia in his eyes as he spoke, his tone carrying a quiet sincerity that made your heart ache in the best way. The soft crackle of the digital fireplace playing on the TV and the distant hum of holiday music only made the moment feel more intimate, as if the world outside had disappeared entirely.
A warmth spread through your chest that had nothing to do with fever. Clark had this infuriating knack for making everything—even being sick—feel like a kind of blessing, as long as he was beside you.
“You’re ridiculous,” you muttered, your voice rough but laced with affection. “Talking like I’ve got only two months left to live…” You tried for sarcasm, but the smile tugging at your lips betrayed you.
Clark’s grin softened into something more tender, his gaze unwavering as he watched you. “Yeah,” you admitted quietly, letting out a small sigh. “It’s nice. Really nice.”
The weight of your words hung between you for a moment, and the corners of Clark’s mouth twitched upward again, this time into a bashful little smile. He didn’t say anything more—he didn’t need to.
Instead, his hand found yours beneath the blanket, his thumb brushing softly against your knuckles, as if to say everything he didn’t put into words.
You knew he was the strongest man in the world, but it was these quiet moments—his sincerity, his kindness—that made you feel like you were the one holding something unbreakable.
Clark squeezed your hand gently, his expression melting into something tender and a little uncertain. He studied you for a long moment, his eyes scanning your face like he was trying to memorize every detail. “You’re sure you’re okay?” he asked softly. “I mean, really okay? I know I’m supposed to cheer you up, but I don’t want to push too much—especially if you’re not feeling great.”
You leaned your head back against the cushions, exhaling a soft sigh. “Clark, I’m fine,” you said, your voice still raspy but carrying enough exasperation to make your point. “I mean, yeah, I feel like I’ve been hit by a snowplow, but it’s not like I’m about to collapse.” Your lips quirked into a small, teasing smile as you tilted your head toward him.
“Besides, you’ve already gone above and beyond. The cookies, the mistletoe, the cozy speeches… you’re basically an elf on the shelf who magically transformed into the perfect boyfriend overnight.” You reached over, your other hand settling on Clark's broad shoulders as you gently rubbed them, a silent gesture of appreciation.
Clark chuckled at that, but the faint blush on his cheeks deepened. “Well, I don’t know about perfect…” he mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck in that adorably bashful way that made your chest tighten.
“Perfect,” you repeated, a little firmer this time, giving his hand a squeeze. “Even in that ridiculous apron.”
He let out a breathy laugh, and the sound sent a flutter through you. The way his smile lingered—soft and boyish, but edged with a quiet intensity—made your stomach flip. His thumb absentmindedly traced circles on the back of your hand, and though the gesture was small, it felt impossibly intimate.
“Clark,” you mumbled, leaning in slightly, the hoarseness of your voice making his name sound heavier, more charged. “Stop worrying so much.”
“I can’t help it,” he admitted, his voice dropping to a low murmur. His eyes flicked to your lips before darting away, a faint flicker of hesitation passing over his features. “You’re sick. I don’t want to… you know… make it worse.”
You couldn’t stop the laugh that bubbled out of you, though it quickly turned into a cough. Clark’s expression immediately shifted to concern, but you waved him off, catching your breath as you gave him a lopsided grin.
“Clark, I’m not made of glass. And for the record,” you added, your voice softening as you leaned in just a little closer with the support of your elbows, “I think kissing you would make me feel a whole lot better. Best medicine and all that.”
His ears turned an impressive shade of red, and he ducked his head slightly, his grin both shy and disbelieving. “You’re trouble, you know that?” he said, his voice tinged with a mixture of exasperation and fondness.
You shrugged, your grin turning sly. “And yet, you’re still here.”
“I’m still here,” he echoed softly, his voice carrying a weight of affection that made your heart ache in the best way. His gaze lingered on you, and for a moment, the room seemed to shrink, the soft glow of the Christmas lights casting him in a golden halo.
Slowly, tentatively, Clark leaned in, his free hand coming up to cup your jaw. “If you wake up tomorrow feeling worse,” he whispered, his lips brushing against yours in the barest of touches, “I’m blaming you.”
“Noted,” you whispered back, your breath mingling with his as you tilted your head to close the distance between you.
Strange. You hadn’t noticed the scent of cinnamon when he first brought out the cookies, but now, with your lips inching closer to his—like two cookies spreading and melding into one—you could almost convince yourself you were cured. Almost, if not for the stubborn stuffiness in your nose.
The kiss was gentle at first, as if Clark was afraid you might shatter beneath him. But when you let out a soft, contented sigh and threaded your fingers through his hair, his restraint wavered.
He deepened the kiss, his lips moving against yours with a warmth and intensity that made you forget all about the congestion and sore throat. His hand slid to the back of your neck, pulling you closer as his other hand pressed lightly against your waist beneath the blanket.
You tugged him closer still, your lips parting to let him in as the heat between you began to build. Clark’s kisses were like him—steady, powerful, and infused with an overwhelming tenderness that made your head spin. When he finally pulled back, his forehead resting against yours, both of you were breathing harder, the warmth of the moment erasing the chill of the winter night.
“Feeling better yet?” he asked, his voice teasing, though the worry flickering in his eyes betrayed him. It wasn’t just concern over your condition—it was something deeper, a quiet struggle to hold himself back. Not when you looked so effortlessly beautiful, your disheveled state a product of his presence.
“Better,” your voice came out in a whisper, your hand resting lightly on his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your palm before traveling around his torso to untie his apron. “But I think I might need a few more rounds just to be sure.”
Clark let out a soft laugh as you tossed the fabric to the floor, his thumb grazing your cheek in a tender gesture. “You’re impossible,” he murmured, but this time the words were thick with affection. His teeth caught his lower lip as your hands lingered at the waistband of his pajama pants, your intentions unmistakable with the gentle tug at his drawstring.
“You sure?” he asked sincerely, large, calloused hands pressing all over your body, but mainly your bare stomach, where he began mapping out heat zones over the plane.You could feel the strength of his abdomen beneath the thickness of his sweater as your hand gently traced his body in admiration. Biting your lip, you reached up to remove his glasses and nodded.
"If you don’t mind taking care of me tonight.”
There was something about the way Clark watched you during moments like these. You couldn’t tell if it was the warmth of his touch or the intensity of his gaze that made you feel so small, so vulnerable. Either way, you savored it—the sensation of being his entire focus, the apple of his eye, and nothing else.
Your stomach sank when he slid his third finger inside of your tight hole, joining his twinned index and middle.
“I can never get tired of this…” you mumbled, unbuttoning the rest of your pajama top when the pressure below heightened your body temperature.
“I’ll say,” Clark hummed, a growing mass forming large in his pants as he was knelt on the bed, gently working you open. The sound of his lubed fingers twisting and curling deep inside of you made his cock jolt, your cheeks reddening as a result of his attraction.
Clark had always been patient, but when it came to having you submit under his touch, he seemed to relish every second. His hands moved slowly, pressing and kneading at just the right spots, his fingers curling deep and slow to the rhythm of your heart while his other hand rubbed small and smooth circles over your stomach.
It wasn’t just about easing your tension—it was about watching you. The way your breath hitched when he found a tender spot, the subtle flutter of your lashes, the way your lips parted with a moan when he spread his three digits—it all captivated him.
He couldn’t help but grin softly as his hands worked their magic, savoring the reactions that only he could coax from you. For Clark, the real reward wasn’t just in soothing your aches—it was in seeing your face completely melt under his touch, your body reacting wantonly because you craved for more.
And with that, Clark went on to give you more. Knowing how sensitive your body’s condition was in the moment, he carefully pushed your legs up, his large hands stabilizing you by the thighs, and replaced the fill of his fingers with his inquisitive tongue.
Like his fingers, he started out slow and deliberate, tracing the swollen ring of muscle to sample the fresh layer of artificially-flavored lube dripping out of your hole. He licked you with a casual ease, but the look in his eyes was anything but.
“Smells like coconut,” you sniffled softly as he lifted his head to press a few kisses to your inner thighs. The warmth of his breath lingered on your skin, but your attention caught on the sticky sheen smeared across his cheek, a glistening trace of slick that made your cock twitch.
“Close… coconut cream pie. More vanilla than I was expecting, if I had to be honest…”
A tender smile curved your lips as your fingers found their way into his hair, the soft strands slipping through your fingertips. You began to pet his head gingerly, your touch slow and soothing, grounding both of you in the moment.
“Love you.”
Clark leaned into your hand instinctively, a low hum of contentment rumbling from his chest. His eyes fluttered shut briefly, the tension in his broad shoulders melting under your touch, and for a moment, the world outside seemed to fade away entirely.
“I love you too, (M/N).”
His gaze flicked to yours, a sudden spark of mischief between the blinds of his eyelashes, before he paused for a moment, letting the anticipation build, and kept a watchful eye on you while he slowly pushed out his spit to drizzle it over your wet hole.
Then, with agonizing precision, he pushed the remainder of the saliva into the center of your opening, the wet, methodical slck of the motion sending a jolt of heat down your spine.
“Fuck…” Your fingers curled into his hair until they were grasping, pushing him and his tongue deeper into you while simultaneously rutting your hips against him.
Clark was a hungry man. He made sure to clean up any traces of his spit and lube with that thick tongue of his, slurping the remnants before adding onto it again with a generous amount of spit. Every time you thought the trail of saliva was dripping dangerously close to the bed sheets, Clark’s intuition was strong enough to blindly guide him to the leak, deftly licking it back up and kissing your flesh in passing.
He would never waste a single drop.
A quiet, satisfied moan escaped him, low and drawn out, as if savoring the sweetness of the lube and your flesh was a private indulgence. His eyes never left yours as his nose rubbed at your taint in midst of his devouring, The smile that curled at his lips—glazed and glistening—was a challenge, a silent dare that made the air between you feel heavy.
Heavier, when he found the right rhythm of flicking his tongue to make your body writhe under him.
“Clark, please…” you whined, one hand massaging your loose balls while the other toyed with your nipple, pleasuring yourself not only to the sight of Clark indulging in the warmth and taste of your flesh, but also his naked torso.
His chest rose and fell steadily, each inhale making his broad shoulders flex, the faint sheen of sweat catching the light. The planes of his abdomen looked carved, every ridge and dip inviting your eyes to linger, compelling your cock to leak out of sheer astonishment.
His arms were just as mesmerizing—thick and powerful, with veins running along his forearms that seemed to pulse with quiet authority, especially so when he’d alternative between working your hole open with his fingers and tongue again.
The strength they promised wasn’t just physical but protective. Those arms of his were built to shield and hold you.
When he finally pulled away, his gaze lingered, watching as you panted breathlessly, your chest rising and falling, desperate for him to finish what he had so teasingly begun. The tension hung there, thick and electric, like the moment itself had slowed just for the two of you.
He took off the remainder of his clothes before sprawling himself over you, his broad frame hovering just above yours while you seized the opportunity to thank him of his service. Between gentle kisses that Clark needed to get out of his system before he would lose himself in your body, you generously applied a glorious amount of lube on his large cock, though not letting Clark’s kisses answer to nobody.
His muscles pressed gently against you, the solid strength of his chest rising and falling with each breath when you took a couple of moments to thoroughly layer him in slick—to silently appreciate him for his efforts in lifting your spirits throughout the week with firm strokes.
The weight of his cock in your hands was satisfying, hefty enough to make you pause and marvel at the sheer size of it. You couldn’t get used to it, nor did you want to.
“You comfortable? Need more pillows? Tell me if your body starts hurting, okay?” Clark asked, suppressing his moans by showering your neck and face in small, lithe kisses.
His hands roamed your body at their own free-will before they began fixating on your arms, where your goosebumps were discernible. His brows furrowed in concern.
“Little cold…” One arm looped around to caress Clark by the nape, holding his forehead flushed to your own, while your other hand continued to stroke him between your collective hip grinds. You shivered again, despite being nestled so close to him, the draft still biting at your skin.
“Give me a moment,” he murmured softly, the heat of his breath brushing your ear.
You looked up at him, puzzled, but before you could ask what he meant, Clark pulled back just slightly, enough to give himself space to move. Without a word, he began to shift, his body warm and powerful as he adjusted his position. A flicker of surprise passed through you when you saw the subtle concentration on his face, but before you could ask again, you felt it when he pressed himself on top of you again, lowering his hips.
Clark’s body temperature seemed to rise—slowly, but steadily, until you could feel a gentle heat radiating off him. It was as if he was adjusting his own internal warmth, shifting it just for you. Your eyes widened in disbelief, but the shiver running through your body eased, the cold gradually melting away as his warmth enveloped you.
“You should be good now,” he said, his voice low and calm while he pulled you back into his arms, his skin now perfectly heated against yours.
You nestled against him again, finally able to relax as the cold left you entirely. “Not even going to ask,” you graced him with a kiss, reaching between your pelvis and his to adjust his cock against your hole and nodded. “I’m good to go.”
“Love you so much…” He took you by the jaw and slotted his lips into yours once more, grounding the wavering of your breath with his protection before he pushed his hips forth.
“It’s so… big, C-Clark—“ you groaned, clenching your eyes shut through the bittersweet tension of his large cock opening you up.
Clark whispered several I know’s over your lips, a strong effort in placating the pain surging beneath you, while taking a few pauses for you to catch your breath, for Clark to catch his because—you were so tight.
"You're so tight..." Clark seemed to have admitted in a whisper without realizing.
You felt yourself swell within seconds, the crown of your insides clenching him and pushing him out all at the same time, but Clark remained resilient, pushing, and pushing, allowing you to feel the slow, deliberate pressure inside of you, until he was finally deeply rooted inside of you to the hilt, earning himself a deep guttural groan from you as a reward.
“You feel so good, baby. So, so good. Taking me so well…” He peppered your whimpers with soft kisses, his words soothing you as his boyish smile remained, warm and comforting, easing you with each gentle touch and praise.
“You’re so warm too…” you muttered into the palm of his hand, kissing him at the calloused skin before you returned back to his plush lips.
Your breath caught in your throat as you shifted, the feeling of being filled growing deeper, fuller with every inch of Clark’s large cock moving inside of you. Clark’s large palm rested on your stomach, caressing over the bulge that seemed to move in conjunction with his slow, methodical thrusts.
He had never mentioned it, but you knew it was a sight that he secretly loved. Clark's eyes softened with admiration as he watched, his gaze lingering on the subtle curve of your stomach. It was unmistakable, the way it had begun to gently bulge with every rut of his hips, becoming more prominent depending on the strength, the fullness a natural sign of the way your body had been affected by what you’d taken.
And what you had taken was Clark’s love and devotion to you—his thick cock making you gape and swell from beneath.
It wasn’t easy, not by any means, but there was an undeniable pull in watching your stomach swell from his cock—an almost desperate craving for the mixture of pain and pleasure, for the way it made your body react even though your mind wavered between wanting to resist and wanting to surrender completely.
He couldn’t help but marvel at it, his fingertips lightly grazing the curve, tracing its outline with a reverent touch. The way your body had responded to him, the way it molded to the shape of the intimate moment, filled him with a quiet awe. He leaned in, brushing a soft kiss against your skin, his voice low and hushed. “You’re perfect,” he murmured, a hint of wonder in his tone, as if he couldn’t quite believe the sight before him.
Clark was never one to boast, but in this moment, the glint in his eyes spoke volumes. He’d never been so proud of having someone like you—someone so determined—take all of his girth with such unwavering focus despite the tears in your eyes. Happy tears, to which he’d only create more of, when he gently pressed on the bulge in your stomach and sandwiched his cock within your insides, plunging himself deep inside of you until the only sounds that came out of your throat were guttural.
“C-Clark—oh, god…” your cock was dripping in pre-cum, throbbing to the weight of his cock hollowing you out as he sped up his hips and pushed you deeper into the bed on instinct. You held onto his muscular shoulders as he clutched onto your waist and rocked you back and forth along to his deep thrusts.
“God, I’m so deep inside of you. Is this okay, baby? Is it okay that I’m making love to you like this? I’m being selfish, aren’t I?”
“No-please! I l-love it so much, Clark. Fuck. Keep fucking me like that… wouldn’t want anything more—”
“Like this? You like how I’m so deep inside of you to the point where your tummy’s swelling? So… good. You look so good for me…”
His forehead connected to yours again, panting over your mouth and taking a moment to marvel over how he had rendered you speechless before he could muster up the energy to kiss you again, to draw out another sound from you with his tongue.
The warmth of his mouth was almost feverish, his breath mingling with yours in a tangled, wet dance. Each movement was smooth and sensual, your tongues exploring, tasting, tracing the contours of each other’s mouths with growing eagerness. The wetness of it—the gentle press of his lips, the slick glide of your tongues—made the kiss feel all the more intoxicating, as if every flick and sweep brought you deeper into him.
Clark’s body temperature only seemed to have gotten warmer, affecting you from the inside and out as his cock was synchronous.
You could feel Clark’s dick heat you up from the inside, seemingly softening your guts to make the ease of fully wrecking you all the more easier. With each kiss, praise, and thrust, your body melted further, feeling as soft and pliable as butter left out in the warmth. The tension in your muscles faded, replaced by a liquid sensation that spread through you, leaving you entirely at ease and whimpering in his hot embrace.
The faint sheen of sweat gave him an undeniable rawness, a physicality that made your heart race. You were mesmerized by the way it clung to him, the way the droplets caught the light before sliding slowly down his torso.
Each movement he made only seemed to draw you in more, the heat radiating from his body intensifying the pull you felt. You couldn’t tear your eyes away, infatuated not just by his strength, but by the way he looked so alive, so real—like the sweat was proof of his effort, his focus, and the raw intensity of how he was making love to you and that tantalizing hole of yours.
“You’re fucking me so good, Clark. I could come like this, baby—just like this…”
“And when you make a mess—not if, but when—I’ll treat you like the prince you are. I’ll clean you up with my mouth, let you watch me lick every drop away with my tongue, and then I’ll kiss you, giving you a taste of your love for me.”
His skin, damp with the effort of his keen need to wreck you, left a trail of warmth and moisture as he pounded you, a strong, animalistic friction that made every touch feel more intimate and passionate, that made the current position of him mounting you and bending your knees till they touched your chest despite your condition well worthwhile and all the more rewarding.
It was a sound that matched the intensity of the connection between you both—no words needed, just the symphony of his sweaty skin meeting yours, and his cock hollowing you out until you two had made a permanent imprint on the mattress.
Clark’s breath hitched as he watched you, his eyes soft and filled with admiration contrasting with his hardened thrusts. “You look so beautiful,” he murmured, his voice thick with awe. “Just… so perfect.”
His hand moved to your stomach again, evidently in love with the way you swelled from his cock, the weight of the moment sinking in with the aid of the bed creaking, and Clark’s sweaty skin slapping against you.
Every word he spoke, every gentle press of his lips, seemed to soften you, coaxing out of the cold that had been restricting you. It was as though you were being molded by his touch, the heat of his affection spreading through your veins, leaving you pliant, relaxed, and willing to give yourself entirely to him.
All sensation coursing through you was a tangled mess of pleasure and overwhelming intensity. Your body was on the verge of unraveling with every deep thrust of Clark’s. You could feel him swell, veins throbbing inside of you, his balls twitching as he was nearing his high just as you were.
Your eyes fluttered closed, the edges of your vision blurring the harder he pounded into you like an animal, like he was beating away at your cold, and you could feel yourself slipping into a blissful madness.
It was almost too much, yet it felt like the most real thing you’d ever known. Your body trembled from the weight of his body on you, from the girth that Clark was destroying you open with. Every muscle was tight with anticipation, yet you managed to hold onto a smile, the corners of your lips twitching despite the storm raging inside you, your cock throbbing and leaking in overdrive in warning.
“C-Clark..!“
Your hands instinctively found their way around Clark's neck, pulling him closer as if to anchor yourself in the moment. The kiss you pressed against his lips was desperate, full of need and grounding, a silent plea for him to steady you in the chaos as your balls tightened up into your core.
With each breathless press of your mouth to his, you found a sliver of control, a tether to the reality of his presence, even as the pleasure threatened to send you into pure blissful madness.
“I know—me too—“
Your smile lingered, your mind teetered on the edge, savoring every second, every touch, every thrust, and every heartbeat that connected you both, until the very moment where Clark’s name slipped from your lips in a breathless gasp.
“Clark—“
The tension had reached its peak, and when it finally broke, it was like a wave crashing over you, overwhelming and all-consuming. You came in a shared, fervent release. All muscles in your body was taut with desire, the culmination of your love for him unraveling in the form of thick white ropes shooting out of your cock, decorating your bulging stomach with layers upon layers, some splattering onto Clark’s body from the sheer amount of power and arousal.
Clark’s grip on you tightened, his body shuddering against yours as he gave into the same release, his breath ragged in the wake of it. His name left your lips in a soft, trembling sigh as he spilled his warm, thick seed deep inside of your raw hole. He left you breathless, thick, and steady, flooding you in ropes that seemed to never end. It was a powerful, consuming feeling, filling you completely, each pulse of his cock deep and unwavering, decorating your insides with a thickness that left you in awe of how much he had to give, like his body had held nothing back.
Your bodies moved together in those final moments, each thrust and touch sending shock waves through your system as Clark rode out his orgasm. You could feel every inch of him, raw and exposed. The warmth spread through you with each movement, the thick fluid of his cum filling you to the brim, a steady stream that didn’t seem to have an end leaking out of you that would surely have your flesh glued together with his.
Nothing else listed but the two of you—completely undone, unraveling together and leaving behind nothing but the sweet, tender echo of your love for each other.
The room was still, save for your breathing, as Clark’s forehead rested against yours, both of you catching your breath, tangled together in the beautiful, but sweaty aftermath.
“Are you… feeling better?”
His fingers traced along your skin, over the mess that you made of your stomach to let the sticky substance seep into his own palm, while he caught the remainder of his breath in the crook of your neck, fully collapsing on top of you.
“I…” You groaned, the lingering sensation of pleasure making it hard to find words. But despite the exhaustion, a sly smile tugged at your lips.
You rubbed his broad back in soothing circles, whispering in his ear, “I think I might need another prescription, Doctor.” Your voice was breathless, a mischievous glint in your eyes as the desire still simmered beneath the surface.
nouearth. please do not repost, plagiarize, or translate my works. if you like this story, please reblog and leave a like!
