( bangchan x fem!reader ) • warnings. HEAVILY sexual language, mentions of somo, language both of them are freaks 𓄵 screenshot count. 9 { back to library }
Pairing - WC: David!Clark Kent x gf!Reader | 3.75k
Summary: Loving Clark Kent means loving Superman too, even when the city steals him away on the nights you wanted him most.
Tags: 18+, MDNI, smuuuut, praise kink, oral (m receiving), kinda cock worship?, deep throat, wet and filthy, saliva as lube, nipple/breast play, tugging on hair, suit stays mostly on, cum swallowing, filthy use of lipstick, lovesick!Clark, needy!reader, established relationship, f!hair mentioned but no style, color, length described, reader wears a dress, pet names (baby, sweetheart, honey/hon)
took all day to write this, frantically with one hand. i'm sorry I don't have it in me to edit. you get whatever my lil brain gives. Thank you @honey-on-your-tongue for talking some sense into me to just write
main masterlist | Mrs. Kent Diaries
You’d been waiting for Clark to come home for two agonizing hours.
Your little black dress miraculously hadn’t wrinkled despite your nervous pacing, dramatic sighs, the way you kept sinking onto the couch only to stand again, too restless, too warm, too annoyed to sit still for more than thirty seconds.
Every slow lap from the couch to the tall windows and back again only made the ache between your thighs grow slicker, more insistent, your body winding itself tighter around his absence.
By the millionth trip to the hallway mirror, you dropped all pretenses and admitted you weren't fixing anything, just needed somewhere to channel all that restless heat.
The earrings caught the low light as you tilted your head, and your mind instantly supplied the filthy image of them swaying and tinkling while Clark’s hands fisted your hair, guiding you as you rode his cock deep and desperate.
Your perfume had warmed against flushed skin, the pulse beneath it fluttering wildly at every elevator groan or passing footstep—imagining his face buried there instead, licking, sucking, nipping marks into your throat while he growled your name.
Even your lipstick, a shade worn with the purpose to make Clark stammer half his sentences and forget all the manners Ma drilled into him, remained exactly where you’d painted it. No matter how many times you licked and pressed your lips together.
You leaned closer to the mirror, pouting, dragging your palms down your waist and over your hips exactly the way you wanted his to: rougher, needier, gripping, squeezing, digging hard enough to leave faint bruises that would heal under his apologetic kisses later. You adjusted one strap, one that hadn't even moved a single inch, imagining his fingers slipping beneath and yanking it down, too.
Pathetic, you thought. Absolutely pathetic. Dressed up and wound this badly for him.
You pictured exactly how he would’ve gone. He’d come through the door giddy and grinning, still windblown from the city, broad shoulders filling the entryway, keys clinking into the bowl. One shoe off, hand still on the doorknob, glasses slipping down his nose as a sweet greeting died in his throat: “Honey, I’m ho—oh gosh,” in that deep, raspy voice.
Or, “Sweetheart," in that strained, drawn-out way that somehow sounded like profanity.
Or your name, whispered as if he’d just found nirvana in the hallway of his own apartment.
His eyes would’ve gone to your face first because he was a good man, but not that good. They would've dropped to your throat. Then your dress, to the inviting plunge of cleavage, the curve of your waist beneath your own restless hands. Then, inevitably, helplessly, back up to your shaded lips that made him so lovesick and stupid.
In two strides, Clark'd pressed you against the wall, hands sliding under your dress to find you already soaked, fingers teasing your clit while he groaned against your lips and you moaned reminders about dinner plans.
Nothing big or expensive.
Just you and him, a candle-lit table, his hand warm at the small of your back, thumb brushing the curve of your hip, fingers pinching the meat of your ass whenever he thought no one was looking. You’d lean into him, swat his chest playfully, tug him down by the collar to kiss the hinge of his jaw, and feel the sharp catch of breath against your cheek. Let your ankle stroke against his inner thigh under the table. Watch him try to keep his voice steady while you playfully smiled at him over your menu, like you hadn’t already decided the night would end with a much sweeter, messier kind of pie for dessert.
But by minute fifty-three, a new scenario had taken over.
A slow turn in the hallway.
A sharp, lifted brow.
Maybe a wounded little, "Oh, baby. You remembered where we live?" if you felt especially cruel enough.
You’d make Clark work for your smile, let him chase you around the apartment with those apologetic, puppy-dog eyes, scolding him to freshen up. Let him put those big hands on your hips, press up behind you, and murmur apologies against your neck until you believed him. Maybe allow him to press a kiss or two to your shoulder, your wrist, the corner of your mouth.
Maybe you’d even let him drop to his knees and eat you out right there against the wall, your fingers in his thick mess of hair, riding his tongue until you came with his name on your lips.
Maybe allow him to do it over and over, until you finally let him off the hook like always.
Because this wasn't the first time, and wouldn't be the last.
It came with the territory of loving Clark Kent, and the heavier territory of loving Superman. Missed reservations, movies paused halfway through, solo showers. Sometimes the whole city seemed to reach for him at the same time you did, and the cruel, noble thing was that you usually stepped back first.
You knew that. You loved that about him. You hated that about him a little tonight.
And because you knew Clark, because you loved him, because you were not interested in building any argument out of a rescue he couldn’t ignore, you hadn't checked the news.
Hadn’t opened your phone to search "Superman". Hadn’t refreshed the Planet’s breaking alerts or texted Lois. Hadn’t doom-scrolled shaky footage of smoke or sirens or blue-and-red blurs cutting through the sky.
You’d left your phone face down next to your purse like that made you mature, responsible, as if ignorance could quiet your wild imagination from filling in every possible reason he wasn’t home yet.
If there was a reason, he would tell you.
If there was blood, he would hide it badly.
If there was guilt, God, it'd be written all over his face.
-
You were still leaning toward the mirror, blotting your lipstick again, when the balcony door exploded inward.
Okay, not literally, but the force of Clark’s landing hit the apartment like a thunderclap. The curtains snapped like a whip. Your lipstick tube jumped clean out of your fingers and struck the floor, rolling beneath the console table as you stifled a yelp.
Then came the frantic scrape of the door, the rush of cold night air, and Clark’s boots hitting concrete, then hardwood, too fast, too heavy, every step like a hammer striking stone.
Your heart lurched into your throat as you spun around, shocked silent.
Clark was already pacing, one hand dragged through his raven hair hard enough to displace the stubborn curl at his forehead. His chest rose and fell like he’d flown across the edges of the vast universe holding his breath. He looked wired. Furious. Worn down to the bone. Like whatever happened out there sunk its claws into his shoulders and followed him home.
Every thought of playfully guilting Clark vanished clean out of your head.
"…Clark? Baby?" you breathed, nose crinkling as a burnt aroma curled around your senses. "What's wrong? Are you—?
At the sound of your voice, he turned so sharply he nearly tripped over his own boots.
It nearly broke your heart, the way his frantic blue eyes settled over you, softening just a touch. The dress. The earrings. The lipstick. The two miserable hours written all over your face. For one suspended second, he looked exactly like the Clark you’d imagined in the hallway, stunned, lovesick, and ruined by the sight of you.
Then guilt struck his features like lightning.
"Sweetheart, I'm so sorry," the words tumbled out in a breathless rush before you could say another thing. "I know I'm late. I know. There was a—a chemical fire and—and the containment team couldn’t get close enough without getting hurt, so I had to—the whole building was about to—Gosh, the entire east wall was ready to buckle, and I tried to be fast, I really did, but if I moved too fast the firefighters would probably turn to mush—and I couldn't do that—-"
He gestured helplessly, pacing again, the apologies and explanations spilling out of him like an avalanche burying any hope of organizing his thoughts.
That’s when you noticed the scorch marks.
His blue suit stretched tight across his shoulders, dark with sweat and smoke. His cape fluttered behind him in a singed, ragged mess, the bottom edge frayed. Black streaks of soot smeared across his chest, across his family crest, across the strong line of his jaw. It was his abdomen that made your stomach twist.
The fabric had been eaten clean through, the edges curled and blackened like something caustic splashed him. Beneath it, his skin was whole. Thank goodness. Smooth and unbroken under the ruin, still Clark, still impossibly untouched in the ways that should have reassured you.
But it didn’t. While the suit was destroyed, your Clark was still shaking.
“—and I knew we had dinner reservations,” he bemoaned, both hands moving now, one pinching the bridge of his nose, the other clenched around something you hadn’t got a good look at yet. “I knew, I swear I knew, and I kept thinking I could still make it if I just got everyone out. Then a second tank ruptured, and I thought, "Good Gosh, are there no other heroes out tonight," then I felt horrible thinking that, so I went back in, and—”
You frowned, worried.
Of course you were.
Always, when it came to your Clark.
But standing there with your pulse in your throat and between your thighs, taking in the ruined suit clinging to him like a second skin, the ash on the same cheekbones you kissed this morning, the heat coming off his body in waves, the raw, breathless guilt in his voice…some low, terrible, needy part of you curled awake and wanted.
Wanted him closer. Wanted your hands on him. Wanted to peel the ruined suit off inch by inch and find out how much of that frantic, superhuman energy he could spend on you.
You bit the inside of your cheek, frowning deeper, looking as grave as Clark felt.
Then his left hand shifted against the moonlight, and you finally saw them: flowers.
A bouquet of deep red roses, crushed almost beyond dignity in his tense fist. The stems were bent. A few petals had scattered across the balcony tiles during his landing, bright as little drops of crimson against the concrete and hardwood.
“Clark," you interrupted, lips slightly parted.
He stopped mid-stride.
You pointed. “Flowers?”
He blinked, looking down at his own hand as if he’d never seen it before.
"Fl—oh. Yeah." He sighed, shoulders sinking. "Bought them just after clocking out. Called ahead, was supposed to drop them off, have the waiter bring them out before the appetizers, or when you sat down. I hadn't decided. I was going to pretend I had no idea what was happening, which sounds so silly saying it aloud— because—because you always know when I’m lying, but I thought maybe if I did it badly enough, it would be charming—"
Endearing, utterly charming, painfully attractive word vomit paired with disheveled hair, ragged breaths, smoke-smudged skin, and the kind of rippling muscles the ruined suit was doing absolutely nothing to hide.
Shit. You wanted him now.
"—I guess we’ll never know, because I’m two hours late and the roses are destroyed and I smell like a poorly managed high school chem lab—"
"Clark, stop!" you called, firmer than you meant to.
The rambling died in his throat.
His eyes lifted to yours, then moved over you slowly this time, not in panic or apology, but with a stunned, helpless heat that landed everywhere his hands desperately wanted to. Your face. Your lips. The line of your throat. The dress hugging your waist, your hips, the soft rise and fall of your breasts as your breathing changed under his attention.
Ah, there he was. Not exactly the fantasy. Arguably better.
Very late, soot-streaked, holding ruined flowers, staring at you like the whole burning city had fallen away and left him with nothing but this apartment, this hallway, and you.
Your thighs pressed together before you could stop them.
"Sweetheart,” he swallowed faintly, drawling it out like a curse.
Swallowing a moan, you asked instead. "Did everyone make it out alive? Safe?"
He nodded, still staring.
"Then it's okay, everything is okay, promise." Clearing your throat, you stepped toward him quickly. "What's important is you are home, too. Alive and safe. What you need is to get out of that suit. It's ruined."
"I can fix it,” he countered, still watching your lips with that dazed expression. "The suit, I mean. Gary can—"
"The Fortress is thousands of miles away."
You stopped right in front of him, close enough to smell the smoke and something metallic and sharp tingle in your nostrils. Close enough to feel the warmth rolling off him, to see the soot caught in the laugh lines and dimples beside his mouth, to watch his unmarked skin shift and tense beneath the torn, ruined fabric every time he breathed. "We can deal with it tomorrow."
Clark glanced down at himself, brows pinched. "Right. Tomorrow. I'm sorry, I should probably—"
"Clark?" you nearly whimpered.
"Yeah? What is it?"
"Shut up."
You rose onto your toes, caught the back of his neck, and pulled him down, snuffing further protests.
For half a second, he held still, too careful, too Clark, one ruined bouquet hanging limply at his side, and the other hand hovered near your shoulder. Then you kissed him harder, one hand sliding into the damp hair at his nape while the other curled into the collar at the front of his suit, and whatever restraint he had left cracked.
Clark groaned against your lips, the sound vibrating through your chest.
His free hand found your waist, still trembling with leftover adrenaline, and yanked you flush against him, no longer gentle. You felt every hard inch of him: the solid wall of his chest, the ridges of his abs through the torn suit, and the thick, unmistakable bulge of his cock already straining against your belly. He tilted his head, lips parting wider, tongue sliding hot and urgent against yours.
The kiss quickly turned hungry, messy, open-mouthed with his apology, with your impatience, with the two hours you’d spent wanting him and the whole ruined night he’d carried home in his chest.
Soot from his jaw smudged your cheek. Your lipstick smeared across his mouth and chin as he chased the connection, sucking on your tongue before nipping your bottom lip hard enough to make your knees buckle and a fresh wetness to flood your panties.
One of his hands slid down to grip your ass, squeezing the flesh and pulling you tighter so you could grind against the rigid length of him.You moaned into his mouth, nipples tightening against his chest, your soaked cunt throbbing with every roll of his hips.
God, you wanted nothing more than for Clark to rip the dress off and fuck you right here, bent over the console table or legs wrapped around his waist with your back pressed against the windows, taking every thick inch until you were dripping down his cock and screaming his name.
You broke the kiss only enough to breathe against his lips, one hand still fisted tight in his hair, tugging just the way you knew made him weak.
“Baby,” you murmured huskily, lips brushing his. “I can help take the suit off.”
Bracing his thighs, you lowered yourself to your knees before he could argue, the movement making your earrings sway and tinkle softly just as you'd imagine.
The position put you at eye level with the scorched gash in his suit. You reached up, fingers hovering over the blakened edges, and began carefully peeling it away from his skin. The material, though thick and clinging stubborn even in pieces, gave way under your persistent hands.
Beneath it, Clark's abdomen was warm. Whole. Trembling when your knuckles grazed along his hip bone.
Above you, Clark made a sharp, strangled groan and immediately looked away, jaw rigid, the ruined bouquet still clutched in his white-knuckled grip as the last thread of his composure.
Pursing your lips to stifle a giggle, you worked the torn section free, exposing more of him: the ladder of his ribs, the hollow of his pelvis, the dark trail of hair that disappeared beneath the waistband. You let your gaze follow that trail hungrily, licking your lips.
Sure, the suit was always tight, but now it was impossible to miss the pronounced ridge of his erection, pressing against the red fabric of his briefs, curving and straining upward, the thick head already leaking.
Oh, your poor, guilty, late, soot-streaked Superman, trying so hard to be polite when his body had very clearly remembered what yours had been aching for the last two painstaking hours.
"Hmm, I know you like what you see," you purred, looking up at him through your lashes, pulse fluttering wildly at your throat.
A choked sound tore from his heaving chest.
"I—you—it's the dress," he stammered, his free hand hovering near your cheek, fingers twitching. You spared him the pain and leaned into his touch, letting him cup your face.
"The dress?" you blinked up, wide-eyed, mock-innocent, drawing your shoulders forward so your cleavage spilled forward.
"And the earrings. Plus, your smile. Your voice. That lipstick," he finally admitted, almost desperate. "And you. Mostly you. Entirely you, actually. You're so beautiful. I couldn’t stop thinking about you. Even during the fire, I kept picturing you waiting for me, and I was late, and the reservations, and the roses, and—"
He swallowed hard, Adam's apple bobbing, abdomen tensing. “The reservations. Can we still—”
“Dinner’s not happening tonight,” you explained gently, glancing at the wallclock with exaggerated sorrow. “The restaurant stopped seating twenty minutes ago. Hell, even fifteen minutes after our reservation lapsed.”
His shoulders sank once more, thumb stroking your cheek with heartbreaking tenderness when you glanced up at him. "Yeah, I figured."
"But," you continued, curling your fingers into the waistband of his suit, tugging it down. "I am hungry."
The sound Clark made when his thick, flushed, slick-at-the-tip cock sprang free was half groan, half profanity prayer.
You wrapped a hand around the base, fingers barely meeting, pumping him a few times before notching the fat head between your parted lips. The sight of him, so hard and leaking in your palm, made your mouth water with primal anticipation.
Leaning in and parting wider, you licked a slow, wet stripe up the underside, tracing every vein from root to tip. He was proportional to everything else about him. Which meant he was a lot, and received a lot of attention.
Clark’s entire body jerked with every drag of your tongue. The hand grasping the flowers eventually let go. Petals scattered as he gripped the back of your neck with that perfect blend of gentleness and desperate strength you’d fantasized about.
"Oh," he begged. "Hon, please."
Drawing a breath, you took him past your plush lips and into your warm mouth.
For a moment, you stayed still to feel the weight of him on your tongue. To savor the taste of salt and skin. You sighed dreamily, eyes rolling back, hollowed your cheeks, and sank down, down, down, until your nose buried into the thatch of dark hair at the base, until the head nudged the back of your throat and you had to pull back just enough, gasping, gagging, drawing more breath.
Your eyes watered, paying no mind to wipe them away. Saliva pooled messily down your chin, over his balls, dripping onto the valley of your breasts. You went right back, messier, wetting, pushing further until your throat fluttered and squeezed around his thickness. Your earrings tinkled with every enthusiastic bob of your head.
“Baby—you're— incredible,” Clark managed, each word bashful and strained between ragged breaths.
The hand cupping your cheek slid down your shoulder with a grunt, thumb tracing your collarbone before tugging the strap of your dress gently until it fell, then the other. The fabric peeled away onto your waist, baring your breasts to the cool air. His broad, callused palm groped one immediately as he groaned.
"Your mouth, the way you take me—so deep—that lipstick—"
You whimpered around his cock at the praise, the high-pitched vibrations making his hips twitch. Lipstick smeared across his shaft in streaks, marking him exactly the way you’d imagined while waiting. You took him to the root again, throat fluttering around his thickness, swallowing deliberately so the tight muscles milked him. Your pulse raced against his cock with every heartbeat.
"Gosh—" His hips bucked involuntarily harsher that time. He immediately stilled, a flush creeping up his neck. “Sorry, sorry, hon, I didn’t mean to—”
Clark’s hand tightened at the back of your neck, the other gripping your shoulder, holding you steady as his thighs trembled beneath your touch, with the willpower not to fuck your face the way he fucked your cunt.
“No—more—sorry's,” you quickly warned when he tried to apologize for another sharper buck, sucking harder in retaliation despite the radiating ache in your cheeks and jaw.
The wet, rhythmic squelching of your mouth working him filled the room. You pulled off just long enough to lap at his slit, tongue swirling through the leaking fluid, then took him whole again.
His hand on the back of your head, then loosened, then tightened again, like he couldn’t decide whether to pull you closer or push you away. He was babbling praises now, sweet praises spilling from his lips between raspy moans.
"You’re so good to me—so darn good—how are you so good at this—your mouth, your tongue—" A guttural sound broke his sentence in half when you swirled your tongue at the base, curving your head. "You look so beautiful like this. W-with that darn lipstick, I said that — alright r-right? I wanted—I want you all night. All day. Every second I was out there. I couldn't stop—"
Through his ramblings, his generous, callused fingers dragged through the thick strings of saliva dripping down your chin and onto your chest, using the messy spit as slick, warm lube to glide over your skin. He spread it across your stiff nipple in slow, meaningful circles, making them glisten.
His palms traded sides, giving attention to the neglected breast, sending sparks straight to your clenching cunt, the perfect counterpoint to the frantic, greedy rhythm of your mouth. The wet heat of your mouth, the cool air on your skin, the rough pad of his thumb made you moan louder and longer than before.
"Yes," Clark hissed. "Yes, jus'—just like that, hon. I love—when you sound like that. I love—when I can feel it. When you—”
You pulled off just long enough to lap at his slit, tongue darting out and swirling, then sank back down, taking every inch until your nose pressed against his pelvis and you swallowed around him.
Clark’s eyes fluttered shut, chest heaving, jaw clenching so tight the muscle jumped beneath his filthy sweat-slicked skin. "I’m—I can’t—Hon, you’re going to make me—I'm gonna—ohh sh—shoot—"
His words dissolved into breathless moans. Low. Broken. The kind of sounds you'd happily spend eternity coaxing from him. You felt him familiar throb against your tongue, thick and pulsing. His hand fisted tighter in your hair, the other gripping your shoulder hard enough to leave faint bruises that would be soothed under his kisses later.
With a broken cry that rattled through his chest, Clark came.
Hot, thick spurts flooded your throat in heavy waves. You swallowed every drop, throat fluttering and milking him while your lipstick left fresh smears along the shaft.
You kept sucking gently long after, lazily nursing him through the oversensitivity until his legs shook and soft, blissful whimpers slipped from his lips.
Only then did you pull off his massive length with a wet pop, thin gleaming strings of saliva and cum connecting your swollen, glossy lips to his still-twitching cock, dripping meassily onto your breasts.
Clark stared down at you like you’d hung the moon, the stars, and made the sun rise every day just for him, blue eyes dazed, tender, overflowing with love. His hands trembled as they cupped your face, thumbs brushing away tears and spit from your cheeks and lipstick-smeared lips as you caught your breath, all while whispering hushed words of praise and affection that made your cunt clench and squirm to once again chase that heat.
Suddenly, he lifted you by the waist, pressing your bare back against the cool window. The glass fogged beneath your heat as he dropped to his knees, rucking your dress high up onto your waist. Your legs draped instinctively over his wide shoulders, heels digging between his shoulder blades.
"I need—" he started, and then stopped, nuzzling against the soaked crotch of your panties, inhaling deeply, lips nipping at your swollen clit through the fabric with silent, pleading permission.
"I know, baby," you cooed, carding your fingers through his thick, messy curls, tugging just right. Your voice was deliciously raspy from how thoroughly you’d taken him. "You’re hungry. I can help with that, too."
The soot-stained suit still hung off him in tatters.
Scattered rose petals littered the floor around you both like crimson confetti.
for no reason whatsoever here’s a reminder that if you consider yourself a leftist/punk/abolitionist/anarchist/radical in any sort of way and get called into jury duty, you are to become the most square person on earth during the jury questionnaire!!!
don’t be that guy who says fuck the police in the jury questionnaire! that just gets you sent home! if you want to generate change, interact with the case and use your jury vote for good! ESPECIALLY if it’s a high profile case!
An innocent man is home with his family instead of spending his kids' whole childhoods in jail for "resisting arrest" when none of the cops could agree on why he was being arrested in the first place. (But it definitely had nothing to do with him being a Black man in a nice car, honest! 🙄)
And it still took like two hours of delibration after we'd heard all the evidence because one lady was so gung ho about believing everything the cops said, even when not a single goddamn one could agree with their own testimony, let alone their colleagues'.
Pointing out all the inconsistencies and admitted misconduct and letting people slowly come to their own conclusions as the trial played out was fucking hard, I won't lie. I can be patient, but it doesn't come naturally to me.
But. Yelling about how this was obviously a bs case would have shut everyone down and made them stop listening. Asking questions and letting people discuss how the cops tried to make xyz sound suspicious but it was totally normal, or about how if things played out the way the cops said then logically events should have proceeded in a totally different direction, and positing different theories that actually lined up with the evidence presented?
That got people thinking, and everyone realized that for a variety of reasons we all had reasonable doubts that the defendent had committed any of the crimes of which he was accused.
Being able to raise reasonable doubt among a jury of one's peers saves lives. If you get the chance, take it.
Summary: Ma Kent gave Clark a digital camera for his 12th birthday, and he loved taking pictures of you and him. Years later, that never changed, and there are more people in the pictures now.
Dad Clark Kent x Fem!Reader
more kent family adventures here!
even more kent family adventures here! (pt 2 of the masterlist)
based on this tiktok!
Before either of you understood that the other would become the most important person in your life…there was just Clark Kent and his little camera.
Ma Kent gave it to him for his twelfth birthday.
“It’s important to keep memories,” she’d said while helping him thread the strap around his neck. “One day you’ll be glad you did.”
At the time, Clark had only grinned shyly and immediately pointed the camera at you.
You had been standing in their kitchen eating birthday cake when the flash went off unexpectedly.
“Clark!”
He nearly dropped the camera laughing.
-
You had been standing by your locker after lunch, struggling to shove an overstuffed science textbook onto the shelf while complaining loudly about homework.
“…And Mrs. Collins acts like we don’t have other classes–”
Suddenly, you felt an arm wrapped around your shoulders.
You barely even startled.
Clark’s other arm extended out in front of you both, camera already in hand. “Smile!”
You instinctively did.
Click.
The picture captured your laughter halfway through it, your smile uneven and genuine while Clark grinned beside you, cheeks pink from both embarrassment and triumph.
“You’re ridiculous,” you told him afterward.
Clark only shrugged, slipping the camera back around his neck. “You looked cute.”
Your stomach did something strange at that. You ignored it completely.
-
After that, it just kept happening.
Clark would appear out of nowhere in the hallways, at football games, during field trips, while waiting for the bus.
One arm around your shoulders.
Camera held out in front of you both.
“Smile!”
And you always did.
There was the picture from eighth grade where your braces had just come off and Clark’s hair was too long because Ma Kent hadn’t convinced him to get it cut yet.
The one from freshman year football tryouts where Clark looked awkwardly enormous beside you, both of you flushed pink from the autumn cold.
The blurry one from sophomore year where you were laughing so hard your head had fallen against his shoulder after he told you a terrible joke.
And another from junior year Homecoming preparations where you had streaks of paint on your cheeks from decorating while Clark looked at you instead of the camera entirely.
Every year, more photos. More memories.
And always the same pose.
Clark beside you with his arm wrapped securely around your shoulders like it belonged there.
Like you belonged there.
-
At least half the pictures weren’t actually centered properly.
Because Clark was rarely looking at the lens.
Ma Kent noticed first.
One evening during your sophomore year, she sat at the kitchen table flipping through freshly developed prints while Clark pretended not to hover nervously nearby.
“Hm,” she hummed softly.
Clark froze. “What?”
She held up one of the photos.
You stood in the foreground smiling brightly into the camera while Clark looked down at you instead, smiling softly in a way that made his feelings painfully obvious.
“Nothing,” Ma Kent said innocently.
Clark turned red instantly.
“Ma.”
Jonathan Kent leaned over her shoulder.
Then, “Oh,” he hummed knowingly.
Clark looked seconds away from spontaneous combustion.
“You guys are making this weird.”
“We didn’t say anything,” Martha replied.
“That makes it worse!”
-
By senior year, the tradition was so automatic that neither of you even thought about it anymore.
You’d take pictures during lunch breaks, before classes, after games.
Sometimes when you were tired or stressed or laughing too hard to stand properly.
Clark always found a reason.
One afternoon near graduation, you stood outside Smallville High watching students sign yearbooks while the spring wind whipped around everyone’s clothes and hair.
You had been talking about college applications when suddenly…
Warmth pressed against your side. Clark’s arm looped around your shoulders.
The familiar weight settled against you so naturally that you leaned into him without thinking.
His camera lifted.
“Hey,” you laughed. “Another one?”
Clark smiled softly.
“Another one.”
Click.
For a moment afterward, neither of you moved.
The camera lowered slowly.
You glanced up at him.
Clark was already looking at you.
There was something different in his expression then.
Softer. More nervous somehow.
Like he wanted to say something and didn’t quite know how.
Your heart skipped strangely.
“You know,” you murmured, smiling slightly, “we probably have hundreds of these by now.”
Clark huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah.”
“You’ve been doing this for years.”
“I know.”
You tilted your head. “Why?”
Clark blinked.
Like the answer should’ve been obvious.
Then his expression softened, making your chest feel warm. “Because,” he said quietly, “you’re my favorite person.”
Teenagers laughed nearby. Someone shouted across the parking lot. Wind rustled through the trees overhead.
But all you could hear was him.
Clark immediately looked nervous afterward, ears turning pink.
“You don’t have to say anything,” he added quickly.
But you were already smiling.
Because maybe, just maybe, you had always known.
Even before either of you had words for it.
Some part of you had always understood that these weren’t just random pictures.
Clark had been preserving pieces of the best parts of his life.
And every single photo had you in it.
-
Years later, the camera still existed. It was a little older, a little worn around the edges.
The strap had been replaced twice. There were tiny scratches near the lens, fingerprints that never fully cleaned away, and a faint crack near the battery compartment from when Clark accidentally dropped it during a high school camping trip.
But he still kept it.
Because it held pieces of his life inside it.
The church buzzed softly around you. Guests were talking quietly, music was drifting through the reception hall nearby, lights warm and golden overhead.
For one small moment, it was just the two of you standing alone near the side hallway after the ceremony.
You were still glowing from it all.
Your wedding gown pooled softly around your feet, delicate and beautiful and slightly wrinkled already from dancing and hugging and crying through half the vows.
Clark stood beside you in a dark tuxedo, tie loosened slightly now, dark hair messy from everyone grabbing him in congratulations all evening.
And yet, despite everything…he still looked at you like he couldn’t believe this was real.
You noticed the familiar camera in his hands immediately.
Your smile widened instantly.
“No way,” you laughed softly.
Clark’s cheeks pinked slightly. “What?”
“You brought it?”
“Of course I did.”
You shook your head fondly. “Clark Joseph Kent…”
He stepped beside you automatically, like muscle memory.
One arm wrapped around your shoulders exactly the same way it always had since middle school.
The other extended outward with the camera.
You pressed your cheek against his instinctively.
Both of you grinned.
Click.
The flash briefly lit the hallway.
And for one second after the flash, Clark just looked at you.
His wife.
The girl from all those blurry school selfies.
The love of his life standing beside him in white.
Emotion flooded his face so openly it made your chest ache.
Then he leaned down and kissed you softly.
Like he still couldn’t quite believe he was allowed to.
“Mrs. Kent,” he sighed against your lips, lips turning into a grin when you smiled.
Somewhere behind you, someone wolf-whistled.
Neither of you cared.
-
A year later, the camera captured another version of you both.
Older again.
The photo was taken in the nursery half-finished around you.
Tiny clothes folded nearby. A crib Clark had assembled slightly crooked because he kept getting distracted talking to your stomach.
You stood in front of the mirror, heavily pregnant now with Leia.
Clark appeared beside you like always.
One hand held the camera out.
But this time, his free arm snaked around your waist, hand resting gently against your belly.
You leaned back into him with a sleepy smile while Clark looked absolutely overwhelmed with happiness.
Click.
-
Then came the photo that became everyone’s favorite.
You sat in the hospital bed exhausted and glowing all at once, hair messy, eyes heavy with sleeplessness.
And in your arms…tiny newborn Leia.
Clark stood beside you shirtless. He insisted on feeling Leia’s skin on his own.
One arm wrapped around your shoulders carefully.
The other held the camera outward.
You leaned your head against him instinctively while Clark stared directly into the lens with tears visibly gathered in his eyes.
Little Leia slept peacefully between you both.
Click.
The first official Kent family selfie.
Ma Kent cried the first time she saw it developed.
Pa quietly carried a copy in his wallet for years.
Clark kept the original tucked safely away like treasure.
-
The next favorite came four years later.
The photo was slightly more chaotic this time.
Four-year-old Leia stood balanced on the hospital bed beside you, grinning so hard even when she was missing one of her front teeth.
You held newborn Jon against your chest while trying unsuccessfully to keep Leia from bouncing too hard near the baby.
Clark stood beside all of you laughing openly.
One arm around your shoulders.
The camera extended in the other hand.
Leia had both hands cupping Jon’s tiny face proudly.
Click.
The photo came out imperfect.
Leia was blurry from moving too much.
Jon looked deeply unimpressed with existence.
Your eyes were half closed from exhaustion.
Clark was mid-laugh.
And somehow, it was perfect.
-
The photo albums grew thicker over time.
From middle school hallways. Football games. Proms. College. Wedding pictures. Pregnancy. Babies. Birthdays. Lazy Sunday mornings.
Every version of your life together preserved in tiny frozen moments.
And through almost all of them, one thing remained exactly the same, with Clark’s arm around your shoulders.
Like no matter how much time passed, no matter how your lives changed…some part of him would always be that middle school boy with a camera who loved you so much he wanted proof you existed beside him.
I’ve already posted something longer on my blog because I was trying to avoid spoiling the fun but (as loud as I can - not reflected on you): THIS IS AI. IT’S NOT HIERATIC (that looks different) IT’S BARELY EVEN CURSIVE HIEROGLYPHS.
Look closely:
Do they really look like hieroglyphs? No.
Do they really form things other than birds? No.
Do they distinct groups that could be words even if you can’t read them? No.
When you spot the same sign on another part of the door, why does it look like the person carving them (because Reddit OP says an exacto knife was used) suddenly forgot a script they are apparently fluent enough in to carve on a toilet door? Because it is AI.
TL;DR: Reddit op was karma farming using AI to generate nonsense “hieratic” onto what is probably a real photo of a toilet door. Because Hieroglyphs in the public consciousness are considered a funny ha ha picture script rather than a real script belonging to a real language capable of literature, people’s brains skip over the obvious faults. If you searched for “hieratic examples” or “cursive hieroglyphs examples” and compared them to the above image, it’d be very quickly apparent that it wasn’t real.
Clark likes playing games, especially ones he knows he’ll win. But this one was a little different and he could feel himself slowly giving up (based on this post :p)
cw: mdni, just the tip (is it ever really?), switch!clark, ig that’s it 🧍♀️
The rules were simple: after the tip (and only the tip) goes in, no moving or begging or you lose. You’d seen it online and brought it up casually during dinner knowing he couldn’t resist a challenge.
“Sure, can’t be that bad,” he shrugs his shoulders like it was the easiest thing in the world.
Except it is that bad. In fact, looking down at you right now, Clark looks like he’s actively rethinking every single life choice that brought him to this bed.
He hovers over you, his massive frame propped up on his elbows so he doesn't crush you, his eyes locked on the way the head of his cock enters your pussy.
The sudden, thick stretch makes your breath hitch. Your hands twitch against the mattress as you desperately fight the urge to arch up into him. Clark’s jaw clenches tightly, a vein pulsing in his neck as he freezes in place, absorbing the slick, tight heat of you. He can only squeeze his eyes closed to keep focus.
He stays completely still, but you can feel the tension vibrating through his broad shoulders. He wants to bury himself inside you so badly it’s physically hurting him.
Clark chuckles dryly and cocks his head to the side, “See? Easy.” He speaks through gritted teeth.
You stare right back at him, your chest heaving, forcing a smug but shaky grin onto your face despite the desperate heat pooling between your thighs. “Are you okay?” you ask.
Clark doesn’t say a word. He just gives a tight, strained nod of his head. His mouth is pressed into a hard, flat line, his lips tucked so deeply that his dimples pop against his cheeks.
“Open your eyes, Clark,” you breathe out, demanding it.
He complies slowly, his lashes fluttering up to reveal eyes that are completely dark — his pupils blown so wide they almost swallow the iris. The second he takes in the sight of you completely flushed and pinned beneath him, his hips twitch forward, sinking a tiny bit deeper into you by the smallest, involuntary fraction of an inch, and a sharp gasp punches right out of your throat.
“Sorry, shoot- I’m sorry,” Clark stills his movements immediately, his voice thick and frantic. His head shakes as he swears he didn’t mean to move, completely terrified that he almost lost that quickly.
But you’re too dizzy to even answer, entirely focused on the sudden burn and thick stretch flooding your cunt. You can never get used to the feeling.
Clark lets out a low groan of pure frustration, his head dropping forward until his forehead rests heavily against your shoulder. He forces his hips to lock completely in place, desperately fighting to keep what's left of his control.
“Oh honey, I don’t think I can’t do this,” he mumbles into your neck, his voice strained with the sheer effort of holding back.
You can’t help but feel a little bad, bringing your hand up to gently run your fingers through the soft curls at the nape of his neck.
“No, no, you’re doing good, it’s okay,” you whisper, trying to soothe him — but the second the praise leaves your mouth, you feel him twitch inside you, his body reacting to your words before he can even think to stop it.
“Gosh, please don't say that,” he whines as he tries to block out how good you feel.
Your fingers continue to gently comb through his hair like you aren't the one actively torturing him. “But you are, you always do good for me,”
Another twitch.
Clark lifts his head back up and really starts to think about it for a minute, the gears turning in his head as he weighs his options. There’s no actual punishment for losing this game except for maybe a bit of teasing, and surely they can’t just stay frozen like this forever.
“I’m sorry, I just can’t,” Before you can even open your mouth to tease him for losing, Clark moves his hips forward and slowly fills you up with his fat cock. “
He grips your hips with his huge hands, pulls out almost completely, and rams himself all the way back into you in one heavy, unyielding thrust.
A sharp gasp gets knocked right out of you, your fingers digging into the muscle of his shoulders as your back arches off the mattress.
He doesn't give you a single second to recover, immediately establishing a heavy, relentless pace that makes the headboard rattle against the wall.
You realize you might have ‘won’ the game, but looking at the sheer hunger in Clark’s eyes, you’re definitely the one who’s going to be incredibly sore in the morning.
