read ur clark fic about him listening to ur voicemails on his breaks and thinking about reader also being obsessed with him and having a whole collection of little videos he'd made on a tape recorder that she watches while getting ready/staying in....OR EVEN her having a little record collection of all his favorite songs to listen to at night when he's away on missions....KOOLIE IM GOING INSANE PLEASE i need to yap sm about the dynamic of obsessed x obsessed :D
HI, HONEY — Clark Kent
pairing: clark kent / wife!reader. word count: 2.1k content: fluff. established relationship. obsessed x obsessed. clark makes tapes for r whilst he is away. (1) song reference. kind of linked to this fic
clark kent masterlist
“Is that Mister Terrific?”
You peered over the cubicle in the office you were sat in to look in the direction of the large glass doors that led out onto a balcony. It was a rather mundane and repetitive office job that had you concealed in a box, packed like sardines with one hundred other people, at least. You had snagged the spot of employment since you hauled yourself from the safe space of Smallville, Kansas, to the city of Metropolis; where the buildings were taller than the sky.
The giant move from the humid air of Smallville to the polluted one of Metropolis was down to the lark of your heart: Clark Joseph Kent.
It seemed his absence in his hometown felt more like an immovable object than something you could roll with whenever he upped and left to return to the city. And, after a three week turn around in your friendship-gone-relationship, you began to realise that the motto of ‘home is where the heart is’ meant that home didn’t necessarily mean a place, or building you had grown up in. It was a person.
So, you followed Clark Kent to Metropolis and within two years you had been married in Spring and nestled in a one bedroom apartment in the heart of the city.
(There was no way that you could be convinced to stay in the Fortress of Solitude.)
Being married to Clark Kent, meant you were married to Superman. The protector of Metropolis—despite what some of the public would say—and the man that tried his best to make things right. To make things good. So, from time to time, when the metaphorical sand began to tip into the bad end of the hourglass sand timer; Clark would have to uproot himself and leave on short notice.
Which led you to that very moment, with Mister Terrific hovering outside your building with a stoic expression as he awaited action.
Everyone had begun to shift in their seats, low chatter that a member of the Justice League—no, Justice Gang? You weren’t sure—was loitering out a skyscraper for no apparent reason.
That’s when heads began to turn to you. You were more on the confrontational side, to the people you worked with anyway. And, that meant they were looking to you to resolve the new addition to the scenic views from the nineteenth floor of the skyscraper you all worked in.
What your co-workers hadn’t realised was, they had put you in the position you always intended to be. You knew why Mister Terrific was there, but they didn’t have to know.
If anything, you were just going to ask him to leave the premise and go ask the Mayor to fill in some potholes.
You stood with little need for encouragement and walked over to the glass doors, quick to open and shut it behind you so the eavesdroppers of the workplace wouldn’t be able to hear anything but a muffled exchange of pleasantries.
“Do you need to appear like this?” You turned to Mister Terrific and crossed your arms.
He shrugged. “You want the USB?”
“Yes. Please.”
“Then, I’ll keep turning up this way.” Mister Terrific responded nonchalantly and made enough discreet movement that the USB you required reached your hand with minimal theatrics that would raise questions later.
You gave him a curt nod and a smile you reserved for people you didn’t really know well. “Thank you…Is—Is he OK?”
Mister Terrific blinked and it was at that point that you almost missed the small nod he gave you before his finger gestured to the USB tucked into the palm of your hand, “Check that and you’ll know.”
He then left without another word and you went back inside the building with multiple voices calling over their own cubicles, curious as to what the member of the Justice League needed. You responded by waving off their questions with reassurance that he was just doing the rounds of the skyscrapers to ensure all citizens were safe, before snatching your laptop from your desk, scurrying off to the bathroom for some privacy.
The cubicle door slammed shut and you sat with your knees pressed together atop of the toilet with a sense of newfound giddiness. With one earphone pushed into your ear, you opened up your laptop and plugged the USB into the side of it.
A file popped up in the middle of your screen.
HONEY FILES.
(How incredibly cliche of your husband. You’d prod fun at him upon his return.)
Without another second wasted, you opened the file up to see a short list of videos dated from the first day Clark had to leave for Jarhanpur.
You bit down on your fingernails as you clicked the first file in the chronological order that had been made.
“Hi, honey.” Clark’s voice was heard before you could see him. The camera wobbled around until his face appeared. He wore a smile that wasn’t as genuine as the one on your wedding day. He exhaled deeply, “Just as I promised. A video for you to keep you updated. I’m not sure when it’ll get back to you, but I finally got Mister Terrific to agree to delivering it after some silly bickering—”
You muffled the small laugh that escaped your lips behind the palm of your hand. The idea that Clark had spent his energy on convincing Mister Terrific to deliver a USB to his wife back in Metropolis was amusing in itself.
You would store that mental image whenever you needed a little laugh.
Clark continued in the video, “I miss you already, and it’s only been…” He mulled the calculations over, “At least six hours. I guess that’s when you know we were destined to be together.”
(He was right.)
“I’m sorry our honeymoon plans got postponed. Well, part of me isn’t sorry, because the people of Jarhanpur need help. I wouldn’t be able to enjoy the honeymoon entirely with that thought in the back of my head…Anyway, here—” Clark jostled with the camera to show his Superman garb. He patted the space just below where his heart would be, “Ma sewed in a pocket, just here, so I could have my wedding ring on me at all times. She’s a hopeless romantic, I suppose. Oh, and also,” The camera swished about for a moment as Clark removed one red boot from his foot, “I have my favourite photo of you in my boot. I hope you don’t mind getting stepped on for the time being.”
His shoddy camera work made you feel a little dizzy as he brought it back to focus on his handsome face. He gave a shy smile to the camera and you could practically see the cogs turning in his head.
“I’ll be leaving here in a moment. I hope work isn’t too bad, and Mark minds his business.” He sniffed, “I love you. Bye.”
Click. The screen went black.
The rest of the videos taunted you to open just one more. Something about it felt like catnip to you. Addictive, sent your heart soaring at the sight of your husband. But, alas, you decided that your gluttony for Clark Kent could wait until you clocked out of work…or whenever you could take intermittent bathroom breaks without question as to why you had to take your laptop every time.
Laptop tucked beneath your armpit, you sauntered out of the toilet with your chin tilted upward to evade any worry of suspicious onlookers.
“You were in there for ten minutes.” Mark—the guy who refused to bite his tongue—called out to you as you reached your office cubicle.
You glared at him. “Did you want to fish out the tampon for me, Mark?”
“No.” Mark said quietly, his face aflame.
After that, your willpower prevailed and you managed to withhold any further trips to the bathroom to lap up the videos Clark had recorded for you. With your bag packed before the clock struck 5PM, you raced out of the building. Not missing the small ache in your chest that Clark wasn’t leant up against a column in the lobby of your workplace, ready to take your bag with a smile and a quick kiss.
The trip back to the apartment went slower than necessary, with one train cancelled and the elevator up to your apartment out of service. It was as if fate was purposely toying with you.
Curtains drawn and one pack of instant noodles thrown into a bowl, you slumped into your sofa after connecting your laptop to the TV so you could watch Clark on a bigger screen; you clicked onto the second video with baited breath.
“Hi, honey. It’s me.” Clark waved at the camera awkwardly, “Again. I just finished my first video to you and then realised I needed to remind you to take the food I had made you out of the freezer. Just so you don’t have to eat those cardboard tasting ramen noodles.”
You blinked at the TV, mouth packed with the noodles he was referring to.
“OK. I love you. Bye.”
Click.
You went to the next one below it.
Clark’s brows were furrowed in this one. He scratched at his temple before he spoke, “Hi, honey. Well, I stopped the military—illegal military—invasion of Jarhanpur. Hooray.” He scoffed, “I’m OK, no real injuries aside from the headache I have. I, uh…I spoke with the President of Boravia about going forward.”
You winced at that. Knowing your husband’s temper that flared from time to time, the likelihood of a simple conversation was minimal. It put a pit in your stomach for the outcome that would undoubtedly follow.
Fork stabbing at the noodles, you sighed as Clark continued to speak. “For what it is worth, I’m glad I stepped in. I think the U.S. Government will have something else to say. People were going to die, right honey? This is what I was sent here to do.”
“Well, I love you. It’s been—what—seventy-two hours now since we’ve been apart?” He looked desperate to return to you, “Seventy-two hours too long. Seventy-two kisses to give you when I get back. Plus however many more. OK, I’m going. Bye, honey.”
Click.
You suddenly felt the same absence you felt when Clark left Smallville for the final time without you. An empty hollow in your chest that, seemingly, was Clark Kent shaped.
They told you marriage would be hard. You had presumed they meant it took work to make things last. Not that it would be almost impossible to be without him.
You finished up your noodles, dissatisfied with the taste—as predicted by Clark—and leant over the bundle of blankets to click the last video Clark had made for you.
This time, instead of the camera panning to Clark’s face, it was the scenic view of the Kent Farm at sunset.
Your breath hitched.
“Hi, honey. It’s me. Obviously.” Clark mumbled as he moved the camera across the horizon, “I stopped by Ma and Pa’s on the way back. I know you miss this, so I thought, why not capture it? If you close your eyes, you can pretend you’re here with the ambient sound of those gosh darn cicadas.” He chuckled behind the camera, “We had our first kiss over there, remember?” His finger came to point out to the lake, “And, over here—” He turned the camera to the front of the Kent’s house, where Ma and Pa waved in the distance, “Are Ma and Pa. They miss you, but not as much as me.”
The camera then pointed to Clark who wore a warm, reminiscent smile, “Thank you for giving this up for me. You’re braver than you know.” You openly laughed at that statement. As if he hadn’t jetted to Jarhanpur to put himself between a military invasion and innocent citizens. He continued, “I made a wish list of sorts on the fly over to Smallville. Some of it already completed, like marrying you. Maybe, if we would like, a couple of kids that all look like you. The world will leave us alone when it happens. We can even come back to the Kent Farm, build a house. You deserve to get what you want.”
Your vision blurred at his topic of conversation. Clark was always one for articulated speeches, and this one had caught you off guard.
His blue eyes softened at the thought of the domesticity of it all, “I just want you. Wherever you want to be, I’ll be there.” Clark swallowed and nodded, “I’ll see you soon. I love you. Bye.”
“his fear of being seen as/becoming a dangerous monster” has me wondering; do you draw Tenna with permanent claws and fangs as a stylistic choice….. or is this a side effect of being in such a high-pressure environment? Because if it’s the latter, I can’t imagine it’d help with this particular fear.
OH.
WELL. it WAS a stylistic choice, but i love this idea so much and it adds a lot to his fear that im making this the case. THANK YOU YOU COOKED
it would absolutely make him feel more like a monster, especially with his other features that come from being a broken crt. with the horrible guilt he feels all the time over his past actions, seeing his personal fear of being a horrible person/a monster "manifest" physically in scarier traits would just reinforce that
warnings/tags : NSFW, religious themes, implied age-gap, ooc, confessional booth masturbation, corruption, verbal fantasies, sexual shame and guilt.
You come every Friday. Always after sundown, when the walls sweat and the pews groan, lonely and dark with the weight of waiting.
You never call it confession, but you ask for his ear. You tell him you're burdened. You tell him you're afraid.
Yet you look at him through the screen like he’s your shame and your salvation all at once. You lean forward with your lips glossy and bitten, your voice wet with something worse than sorrow.
Father Carling listens, as he must. It is his duty, it is his cross—and he carries it with shoulders bowed, hands tight in his lap, knuckles white as wafers.
Tonight, your voice is different. Loose, almost drunken. But you’re not drunk, no, the hunger that laces your words is older than that—older than you—and it drips into the booth like oil, slick and heavy, impossible to cleanse.
"Bless me, Father," you whisper, voice like sugar melting down his spine. “For I have sinned.”
"…How long has it been?" he rasps, already clearing his throat. Already ashamed.
"Since my last confession?" You hum, sweetly. "Seven days. But I’ve been thinking of you every one of them."
His breath catches.
You lean closer to the screen, and the latticework casts tiny bruises of shadow across your cheeks. He can see your outline, just barely—the hazy swell of your shoulders, the shape of your mouth. He doesn’t need more than that. He’s imagined worse in the empty hours of morning, when the church bells are silent and his sheets are damp.
"I touched myself this morning," you whisper, mouth close to the mesh, your breath fanning through. "And then again after lunch. I can't stop thinking about you, Father."
He freezes. Every hair on his arms lifts in silent protest. He swallows. Hard. But his voice is calm.
"You mustn’t speak like that in here."
"Why not?” you breathe, "Isn’t it better I say it in here than… do it again out there?"
Your knees shift apart—he can tell from the sound of fabric sweeping across the bench.
“You want to know what I’m doing now, Father?”
Just a gentle pass of fingers beneath your skirt, but the sound—your breath hitching, the soft grind of cotton between your legs—is unmistakable. The booth is hot. Suffocating. You breathe like someone freshly exorcised.
“You’re doing it again,” he says, voice thin with disbelief. “Right now?”
“Mmhm,” you murmur, lips going slack. “Can you hear it?”
He can. The wet, indecent sound of your fingers parting what should remain untouched. It echoes in his skull like water dripping in a crypt.
The screen shifts as you lean your head against it, the lattice bending as if it might snap under your breath. He’s sweating. His fingers curl inward, dragging up the swell of his crotch, gripping flesh that’s pale and sickly-soft under the black. He palms himself clumsily through his cassock, breath ragged, stomach clenching with shame.
"You mustn’t…" he repeats, moreso to himself than to you. A final, trembling plea from a man already halfway to Hell.
His teeth grit behind closed lips. Through the thin clerical robe, he feels how stiff he’s become. He tells himself he hasn’t done anything yet—but that’s a lie, and God does not suffer liars.
He just listens to the sound, that awful squelch as your fingers work through the slick mess between your thighs, it fills the booth like incense. A new kind of sacrament.
“Tell me what you see when you close your eyes,” he croaks. “Speak it plain. Do not spare me. I—I deserve to know the full weight of your corruption.”
He tells himself it’s to save your soul—but he’s trembling. His thighs twitch beneath his robes, his cock a thick and pulsing brand of guilt in his fist. A bead of precum blooms at the head, spun from years of tension and restraint.
You whimper, soft and obscene, and he squeezes harder.
"I see your mouth," you whine, "I imagine you licking me here—along my slit—moving your tongue slowly, carefully..."
He gasps—a broken, wounded sound. His hand stills for only a second before moving again, more desperate now. His fingers are sticky with his own filth, the damp cotton of his underclothes clinging to him like a second skin.
“I imagine your hands, too. You have big fingers, Father. I think they’d stretch me.”
A groan. Low, muffled into his sleeve as his spine arches. He should leave. He should run. He should vomit at the altar.
Instead, he shifts forward, pressing his forehead to the cool mesh of the confessional screen, his breath stinking of guilt and lust and sour wine from the last Mass.
“Keep going,” he whispers. “Please.”
“I’m using both hands now,” you say. “One finger on my clit, one inside. It’s so wet. So hot. You did this to me, Father.”
Through the screen, you watch him squirm. He doesn’t know how visible he is—how his silhouette shudders every time your voice dips.
He stifles a moan, eyes squeezed shut as his own hand moves in jerks. Harsh. Desperate. He’s biting his tongue, practically drawing blood, but the pain only makes him harder, makes his grip crueler. His hips jerk forward and the booth creaks beneath his weight.
“I want to come in front of you,” you moan, “I want you to see me dripping for you. I want you to open that screen, just once, and look at what you've done.”
A sob breaks loose from him. He imagines you curled in the opposite booth, thighs glistening, belly twitching, slick smeared down to your knees.
His legs twitch at the thought and he caves, pulling his cock out from under his robes—angry and red and leaking at the tip like something wounded, and strokes it furiously.
“You’re going to make me cum,” you pant. “Please, Father. Tell me I can.”
He’s already gone, already past the point of prayer and penance. He trembles, his voice cracked wide and bleeding:
“God sees this—He sees you ruin yourself.”
“I want Him to,” you whisper. “I want Him to watch you too.”
"F—Fuck."
Something in him cracks. And when he speaks again, it’s not his voice. It’s lower, darker. Sick with want and full of lust.
“Say my name,” he begs, pleads, the words tumbling out before he can catch them. “Let me hear it. Let me hear you cum with my name on your tongue.”
Your cries become wet and frantic, and he thinks he might die hearing them. Might rot right there in the booth, buried beneath his vestments, his purity crumbling around his shaking hand.
"I give you permission, my Child," he groans, the words dragging out of him like a curse, “Cum for me.”
You gasp like a dying girl. The noise he makes in response is worse—a soft, strangled whine, helpless and boyish.
“I'm—" you mewl, and he can hear it: the crescendo of your breath, the slapping rhythm of your hand, the helpless, wet clench of your insides.
You choke on his name, your slick crashing down around your fingers in waves, in dribbles, in sin. It leaks into the wood. It soaks the hem of your skirt.
He follows—only seconds after—his whole body shaking, his hand sticky and twitching and useless as it cups the spent, wilting shame between his thighs.
It hits his fingers in hot, thick ribbons—disgrace painting his palm, his robes, the edge of the wood below him. His whole body seizes, a twitching marionette held up by guilt and ecstasy. His spine curls, bowing as if in prayer, but there’s nothing devout in the way he grips the edge of the seat, white-knuckled, twitching with aftershocks.
He can hear you breathe, just beyond the screen. Shallow, shaky, content.
“…Did you cum too, Father?” you ask, your voice soft, breathless. Yet, you sound triumphant. Vicious with beauty.
He doesn’t respond. Can’t. The taste of it is thick in his throat—a blasphemous stew of salt, blood, and bile. His collar is too tight. His chest aches like he’s been struck.
And still, your voice continues, dreamy and warm: “You sounded so pretty. I thought maybe you did.”
His cock throbs in his weary hand, softening slowly under the weight of what he’s done. What he let you do.
But he sits there. Still. Listening to you rise. Watching your outline slip from view.
Could say this one is slightly more """lore accurate""" because the red in the above version isn't really connected to anything in Hollow Knight, but I'm taking a bunch of liberties with this project as is anyways lol
Timelapse:
(flipped it halfway through to make it more continuous with Jade's piece)
Screenshot of references I used:
(also flipped, oops lol)
Previous addition (Jade!):
With that Hollowframe is caught up once again! Well, until Koumei comes out uh *checks notes* tomorrow :|
Anyways, I'm really happy with th
Artstation:
In January 2025 I added Stalker from Warframe to my ongoing Hollowframe project, of which the goal has been to draw every warframe in the st
Free (or pay what you want!) Google Drive link for the entire Hollowframe Project on my Ko-Fi:
Here is a link to a Google Drive folder with pretty much everything I've made for my Hollowframe project! This includes high quality pngs, p
