sweet like summer corn
david corenswet!young Clark Kent x voluptuous!reader
Word count: 2k
Summary: One hot summer in Smallville, one boy besotted, and the way his devotion to you—and your curves—becomes part of something bigger: real, tender, and deeply
Warnings: Non-graphic explicit sensuality, intimate language, physical worship (especially of the breast), soft romantic touches, emotionally intense 18+ content.
Smallville smells like wet dirt after a storm.
The air’s warm, sticky, heavy with that scent that’s so you—so country, so Kent. The corn stalks are still dripping slow, like the whole world’s waking up under an orange-pink sky.
You’re out back on the porch rail, legs swinging, ice cream in hand, wearing shorts so short they barely count, but long enough to not get into trouble with Martha. Your white tee clings to your skin, wet from the heat, outlining your full, soft breasts like a billboard. No one in town could pretend they didn’t notice.
And Clark Kent sure as hell isn’t pretending.
You catch him at the barn door, shirt unbuttoned halfway, hair damp from the rain, glasses fogged up just enough to be adorable.
He’s got that look.
The one he gives you without thinking. The one that lands right on your chest and lingers a little too long—like the curve of your cleavage just erased his whole damn brain.
But he doesn’t say a word.
Clark never does.
“You gonna stand there, or come steal a bite?” you tease, holding out the cone with a smirk.
He walks over. Slow. Careful.
But when he gets to you, he doesn’t touch the ice cream.
He touches your waist. Sighs. And rests his forehead right between your breasts, soft and warm and so him it makes your chest ache.
“You didn’t have to wear that shirt,” he mutters.
“What if I did it on purpose?”
Clark looks up, blue eyes darkening.
“Then you’re torturing me.”
You laugh, low and lazy. Ice cream drips down your hand.
“Wanna touch me?”
He swallows. Straightens up. His hands are still on your waist, but they’re trembling a little. Like he knows this means something. Like you’re something sacred.
“I always want to,” he admits. “But only if you’re—”
You take his wrists and bring them straight to your chest. Over the fabric. Full. Real.
Clark closes his eyes.
Like someone just handed him heaven.
He doesn’t remember when exactly he fell for you.
Maybe it was sophomore year, when you helped him find his dog in the cornfield. Or maybe it was prom night, when you showed up in that red dress and half the football team forgot how to breathe.
But your boobs? Yeah, those… he never figured out how to handle them.
Too perfect. Too much. Too you.
He wanted you, sure. But he loved you more.
That’s why he took his time.
And even now, he still moves slow. Gentle.
That night, you're in his room.
Windows open, frogs singing outside. You’re between his legs, wearing nothing but his old flannel. And he’s touching you like you might disappear.
A finger tracing your collarbone. Then down, following the curve of your chest. He’s staring like he’s never seen you before.
“Can I?” he whispers, palm already halfway there.
You nod.
He lifts your shirt. No rush. No pressure.
His big hands cover your breast, warm and steady. He holds you like he’s scared you might break. His thumb brushes your nipple, and you breathe out shaky, arching into him just a little.
Clark groans. Blushes.
“You have no idea what this does to me.”
“What does it do?” you murmur.
“Makes me feel lucky. Like you’re a gift.”
He kisses between your breasts, voice warm against your skin.
“Like you’re the most real, beautiful thing in my life.”
You kiss him.
Slow. Deep. Hungry.
Your breasts pressed against his chest. His hands on you, learning, reverent. His tongue finding yours. No rush. No fear.
Just you. Him. And how much you love each other.
Weeks go by. Clark gets better.
He learns what makes you melt. How to trace slow circles with his fingertips. How to massage without hurting. How to kiss your chest with that soft, open-mouthed worship that makes your thighs tremble.
But what never changes?
That look.
Like he’s seeing you for the first time. Every damn time.
Like your chest is still his favorite place on earth.
One afternoon, after you’ve made love for the first time—awkward, slow, perfect—you’re tangled up under a thin blanket in the barn, your head on his chest.
Clark strokes your back.
And then lower.
And lower.
His hand settles on your breast like it belongs there.
“You’ve got a problem,” you giggle.
“I know,” he says, cheeks flushed. “But they’re just so soft. And they’re you. Sometimes I think I’m dreaming.”
“You’re not, Clark.”
“No?”
“Nope. This is real. I’m yours.”
And he hugs you tight.
His face buried between your breasts. Like that’s where he lives now.
And honestly?
You wouldn’t have it any other way.
