#david superman

💌: obsessed with the idea of clark cumming on your pussy and using his dick to smear it all over your folds and clit

cw: established relationship, cum play, teasing, dirty talk, allusions to prior sex and pussy slapping

wc: 0.4k

"gosh... i can't tease you anymore, baby. look at you." his voice had gone rough, that gentle politeness cracking under the weight of how wrecked you were. he stroked himself once, twice, thick fingers squeezing the base of his dick as he lined up the swollen, flushed head right against your dripping slit.

the first hot stripe of his cum hit you with a wet splatter — thick, heavy, and pulsing across your swollen folds in rhythmic spurts. you gasped at the sudden heat of it, the way it painted your pussy in messy, obscene ropes. clark groaned deep in his chest, jaw tight, eyes locked on the sight of his spend coating your pretty cunt.

"that's it," he rasped, voice hoarse with satisfaction. another thick pulse landed directly on your clit, making your hips jerk sharply. the wet sound of it was filthy, almost louder than the earlier slaps — sticky and warm, dripping down over your entrance in slow, pearly trails.

he didn't pull away. instead, he pressed the broad, still leaking head of his cock against your cum slick folds and started to smear it. slow, deliberate circles. the fat tip dragged through the mess he'd made, spreading his release over every inch of your swollen pussy, gliding slick and heavy over your clit, then down to nudge against your twitching entrance, only to pull back and paint it all over again.

"listen to that," he murmured, almost reverent, as the lewd, squelching sound filled the room with every lazy stroke. his cum mixed with your own slick, turning everything glossy and obscene. he tapped the head against your clit once, twice, watching the way the pearly fluid clung and stretched in thin strings before breaking. "so messy for me. my pretty girl dripping with my cum."

you whimpered, back arching, fingers twisting in the sheets as he kept working the sensitive head in unhurried figure eights over your folds. every pass nudged your swollen clit, sending sparks through your overstimulated bundle of nerves. the heat of his release, the smooth glide of his cockhead, the way he watched it all with dark, hungry eyes — it was too much and not enough all at once.

clark leaned down, breath hot against your ear, voice low and a bit smug again. "you feel that? how slippery you are now? that's all me, honey. gonna rub it in nice and deep so you remember who exactly you belong to."

he dragged the tip up one last time, pressing it firmly against your clit and giving one final, slow grind, spreading the last of his cum in a slick, filthy sheen that left you throbbing and whimpering beneath him. his grin returned, soft and dangerous.

"perfect," he whispered, pressing one last kiss to your trembling thigh. "i can do this all night, baby."

it was a shameful thing for him. though it shouldn’t be, of course. men can whimper too, they should be allowed to display their satisfaction too. Yet, that wasn’t quite the main issue.

clark whimpered, yes, but he did it a lot. he couldn’t keep his mouth shut. his sounds overlapped your owns. breathy, trembling, spasming. his whole chest squirmed as the sounds came from deep down inside him. he had tried to suppress them, but nothing helped. they came out anyways, slipped through his clenched teeth or vibrated in his throat.

“nngh… sorry, mgh, ah…” he felt so pathetic.

now, in the other side, you were marvelled by it. you enjoyed hearing him, it pulled you to the edge every time, it relaxed you and filled your chest with tender. you would message him late at night, asking him to record himself masturbating to have his whimpers as background noise while you worked, relaxed or even touched yourself. a giggle would come from your lips easily at least once because, beside finding it sexy, you found it extremely cute of him to not be able to control his pleasure. seeing him struggle brought you fascination and amusement.

therefore, you made your personal achievement to turn him bolder and more confident to feel free to whimper out loud, to let himself go, to enjoy fully.

“that’s it, baby. keep it loud, let it out.” you loved him like that, all pathetic.

゛◜ 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐌𝐏𝐄𝐑 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐀 𝐏𝐑𝐀𝐘 ◞ ୢ˚

( reposted fic ) ﹫ w. by yvesmour

♡̶ 𝐂𝐋𝐀𝐑𝐊 𝐊𝐄𝐍𝐓 ಇ fem ! reader ⟢ ∿ 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 clark feels ashamed for whimpering so much n’ you encourage him to let go himself . 𝟓𝟐𝟑 words.

♩ . 𓈈

𝒾. 𝐁𝐄 𝐀𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐄 .. nsfw ( minors do not interact ) , smut w little plot , p in v , whimpering mess ! clark 𖬺 aroused by male whimpering ! reader , mention of misogynistic ideas ( not condoned ) 𐐩 tell me if i forgot any tag !

𝒾𝒾. 𝑚asterlist 𝒾𝒾𝒾. inbox 𝑜𝑝𝑒𝑛

clark kent twitter links

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18+ minors do not interact you will be blocked!

links under cut! click the emoji to open! captions in app are not mine, happy viewing!

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𝐢 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐢𝐟𝐞 slow mornings, crumpled sheets, kilig, gentle lips, skin-to-skin, warm sunlight...

𝐟𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 clark kent & female!plus-size!reader 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬 you work at the daily planet as a secretary and your journalist boyfriend just proposed to you last night leading to a fluffy morning with a new fiancé 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 346 𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 me when it comes to changing aesthetics/how i present my writing: 🏆 gonna get into plus-size!reader a little more i think because yes i'm selfish and yes i need to feel appreciated even if it's by a fictional kryptonian journalist

"not so fast sweetheart," he murmurs against your skin, littering warm kisses across your neck, "not done with you yet."

clark has you caged underneath him, his hands posted on either side of your head so he wasn't crushing you completely. not that you'd mind.

you giggled, holding onto his shoulders while he hovered over you. the sunlight came through the curtains on the left side of your bed, deliciously contouring his facial structure and shoulder muscles. for a geeky farm boy, clark's build looked closer to a greek god's than anything else in this specific light.

he lifted his head from the crook of your neck, admiring you with a grin that should've belonged to a six year old being awarded candy. his gaze shifted to your left hand, newly decorated with the ring he slid onto your finger just last night. his thumb carefully ran over the stone, reminiscing on how quickly you said yes, and the certain events that followed after.

"what?" you asked, amused.

clark let out a chuckle, taking his time to admire your bejewelled hand, "just love you..."

he finally let himself gently fall onto you, letting go of your fingers and burying his face into the valley between your breasts while his frame acted as a weighted blanket. his voice would be muffled against your skin.

"clark," you scolded.

"i love my wife."

"clark."

"my wife is soft and i love her."

"m'not your wife yet, baby. we need to get to the planet. perry wants your article by this afternoon-"

"my wife is pretty and soft and i love her."

his hands slide up your sides, gently squeezing the curves of your waist. your efforts to repress a smile are futile.

"you're such a dork," you jest. you can actually feel clark's smile pressed to your chest. he says nothing for once and sighs before finally lifting his head to look at you.

"we should probably get to the planet."

you pat one of the hands holding your waist, "great idea, big guy."

You wake up expecting your dear boyfriend in the kitchen but to your surprise find Superman making breakfast.

content: pure unfiltered fluff, a bit of innocent kissing

work count: almost 2k yipe

note; hi lovers! first fic ever, hope you enjoy reading as much as i enjoyed writing. kept thinking of that one scene in diary of a wimpy kid as i wrote this. does he know about the d-o-r-e? the what! the door (rolls eyes)

Sunlight pours through the curtains by the time your consciousness graces you. An act of instinct urges your palm to trace the fabric and curves of the blanket, arm extending over the expanse of the bed onto what should have been warmth. Steady, firm, and permanent.

Clark Kent.

Your fingers tip the end of his pillow, till they reach the end of his side. The softness of the bed lacked his warmth, no crevice of his shape that dips the mattress- nothing to remember the memory of his body next to yours. You sigh deeply, then crane your senses for a sign.

Ceramic clatters from somewhere far away. A buzzing sound followed by a loud ding then an even louder “Shush!”.

There were two options left. You pretend to be asleep until he’d softly stir your awake, dimpled smile gazing down at you, or you could attempt to unsuccessfully surprise him with a back hug. Curse his superhuman senses.

wc : ~ 3k || like & follow for more :3 || reqs open!

summary : you’re pregnant! With Clark’s kid, of all things. And he is in complete panicking dad more than ever. Looking after you - and the soon to be baby - is his one and only priority at the moment. CW : nothing ! Just cute, domestic dad-to-be moments.

a/n : need that so bad mmmmm. Saying ‘mom’ as an English girl was strange uhrm

You woke to the sound of the soft glow of the bedside lamp and the faint rustle of pages turning. The clock on the nightstand read 2:17 am. Clark sat propped against the headboard beside you, glasses perched on his nose, a thick baby book open in his lap. One hand rested gently on the swell of your belly, thumb tracing slow, absent circles as if reassuring both you and the little one inside.

“Clark,” you murmured sleepily, reaching out to touch his arm. “You need to rest.”

He looked down at you with those bright blue eyes, soft and worried all at once. “Im fine, honey. Kryptonians don’t need as much sleep as humans. Besides…” he held up the book - ‘what to expect when you’re expecting the unexpected’ - and gave you a sheepish smile. “There’s a whole chapter on third trimester nutrition. Did you know the baby’s taste buds are developing right now? We should try more leafy greens tomorrow.”

You laughed quietly, the sound warm in the quiet bedroom of your cosy Metropolis apartment. “You’ve read that book three times already this week.”

“Four,” he admitted, cheeks flushing a little. “I just.. I want to get this right. You’re carrying our child, and I’m half Kryptonian. What if the baby needs yellow sunlight at certain hours? Or what if my.. powers passes on too early and they accidentally float out of the crib? I keep thinking about all the ways I could mess this up.”

Your heart melted at the earnest worry in his voice. Clark Kent - Superman, the man who could bench-press a bus and outrun a plane - was stressed about baby-proofing and organic purées. You shifted closer, resting your head on his chest. His free hand immediately moved to cradle the back of your head, careful as always not to use even a fraction of his power.

“You’re not going to mess anything up,” you said softly, pressing a kiss to his sternum. “You’re already the best partner I could ask for. And you’re going to be an amazing dad.”

He set the book aside and wrapped both arms around you, one hand splaying protectively over your rounded belly. The baby kicked right then, a strong little flutter against his palm. Clark’s breath hitched, a bright, awed smile breaking across his face.

“There they are,” he whispered, voice thick with emotion. “Hi, little one. It’s Dad. I’m right here.”

You smiled against his chest, feeling the baby settle as if soothed by the sound of his voice. Clark had started talking to your belly every night—sometimes in English, sometimes in soft, melodic Kryptonian phrases he remembered from his parents. It never failed to make your eyes sting with happy tears.

The next morning, you found him in the nursery they had converted from the spare bedroom. The walls were painted a soft sunny yellow - Clark had flown to Kansas at super-speed to get the exact shade his ma used when he was a baby. He was on his hands and knees, carefully installing outlet covers with the precision of someone defusing a bomb.

“Morning, love,” you said from the doorway, one hand resting on your lower back where the ache had started settling in.

He looked up instantly, expression shifting from focused concentration to pure adoration. In a blur of motion, he was on his feet and across the room, hands hovering near your elbows without quite touching until you nodded permission.

“You shouldn’t be walking around without support,” he said gently, guiding you to the rocking chair he had assembled last week. “Here - sit. I made oatmeal with extra folate and iron. And I warmed the milk to exactly 98.6 degrees so its body temperature.”

You let him fuss, sinking into the chair with a grateful sigh. He disappeared in another blur and returned with a tray. Perfectly prepared oatmeal, fresh fruit cut into tiny, safe pieces, and a glass of aforementioned milk. He knelt beside the chair, watching you take the first bike like it was the most important mission of his life.

“How does it taste?” He asked, eyes wide and hopeful. “Too much cinnamon? I read that some pregnant women develop aversions-“

“It’s perfect,” you assured him, reaching out to stroke his cheek. “You’re perfect. But Clark.. you’ve been up half the night reading and the other half baby proofing. You’re going to exhaust yourself before the baby even gets here.”

He leaned into your touch, eyes fluttering closed for a moment. “I know. Ma keeps telling me the same thing when I call her. But I can’t help it. This is our child. Half you, half me. What if they inherit my powers but not the control? Or what if the pregnancy is harder on you because of my biology? I read some stupid article on hybrid pregnancies last night - there’s so much we don’t know.”

You set the tray aside and took both his hands in yours. “Then we’ll figure it out together. Like we always do. You fly around saving the world every day, but right now the most important thing is right here.” You guided his hands to your belly. The baby kicked again, stronger this time, as if agreeing.

Clark’s face lit up with that boyish, wonder-filled smile that made your heart flip every time. “They’re strong,” he whispered. “Just like their mom.”

Later that afternoon, you caught him in the living room surrounded by half-assembled baby gear. A crib, a changing table, and something that looked like a high-tech baby monitor. He was reading the instructions aloud in a low murmur, brow furrowed in concentration.

“Clark,” you called softly from the couch.

He looked up, guilt flashing across his face. “I was just… making sure everything is secure. The crib slats are exactly two and three-eighths inches apart. I measured twice. And I tested the monitor’s range - it can pick up a heartbeat from orbit if needed.”

You patted the cushion beside you. “Come here.”

He was there in less than a second, sitting carefully so the couch didn’t creak under his weight. You leaned against his side, and he wrapped an arm around your shoulders, the other hand automatically finding your belly again.

“I love how excited you are,” you told him. “But I also love you. The real you - not the version that stays up all night stress-reading. Let me take care of you too, okay?”

He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, lingering there. “You already do. Every day. Carrying our baby… being patient with me when I hover… You’re the strongest person I know.”

The days blended into a gentle rhythm of Clark’s loving overprotectiveness. He flew to Smallville every weekend to bring back fresh produce from Martha’s garden (“No pesticides, and the soil has the perfect mineral balance”). He insisted on carrying you up the stairs even though you were only six months along and perfectly capable. When morning sickness hit in the first trimester, he had held your hair, rubbed your back, and flown to Paris at super-speed for the exact brand of ginger tea that helped.

One particularly tired evening, you found him in the nursery again, this time folding tiny onesies with meticulous care. He held up a soft blue onesie with a little red “S” emblem stitched on the chest—clearly handmade by Martha.

“I know it’s early,” he said sheepishly when you walked in. “But Ma wanted the baby to have something from home. And I… I might have stress-ordered a few more in every colour online.”

You laughed and walked over, wrapping your arms around his waist from behind. “It’s adorable. Our little one is going to be so loved.”

He turned in your arms, careful not to press too hard against your belly, and cupped your face with both hands. “I’m scared,” he admitted quietly. “Not of the baby. Of not being enough. My dad - Jonathan -taught me everything about being a good man. What if I can’t teach our child the same things? What if my powers make everything harder?”

You rose onto your toes and kissed him softly. “You already are enough. You’re kind, and gentle, and you love with your whole heart. That’s what our baby needs. Not perfection - just you.”

Clark’s eyes shimmered with unshed tears. He kissed you back, slow and deep, pouring every ounce of love and worry into it. When he pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours.

“Thank you,” he whispered. “For letting me be scared and still loving me anyway.”

The third trimester brought new waves of his stress-reading. You’d wake in the middle of the night to find him cross-legged on the floor with a stack of books and a dog-eared copy of ‘What to Expect’ open to the chapter on labour. He’d look up guiltily, glasses askew, and offer you a sheepish smile.

“Can’t sleep?” you’d ask, patting the bed beside you.

He’d climb in, carefully, curling around you like a protective shield, one hand always on your belly. “Just making sure I know every possible scenario. What if the baby needs more yellow sun exposure right after birth? Or what if they… cry at a frequency that shatters glass?”

You’d laugh and pull him closer. “Then we’ll handle it. Together. Like we handle everything.”

One lazy Sunday afternoon, you caught him baby-proofing the entire apartment again. Corner guards on every table, locks on the cabinets, even special reinforced glass on the windows “just in case.” He was testing the stability of the crib by gently shaking it - using exactly the right amount of strength so it didn’t break but was clearly secure.

“Clark,” you said from the doorway, hands on your hips. “The baby isn’t even here yet.”

He straightened up, rubbing the back of his neck. “I know. But I want everything ready. Safe. Perfect for them… and for you.”

You crossed the room and took his hands. “It already is perfect because you’re here. Come sit with me. The baby’s been kicking like they want to say hi to Dad.”

That always worked. Clark followed you to the couch like a happy puppy, helping you settle before kneeling in front of you. He rested his ear gently against your belly, listening with that super-hearing that could pick up the baby’s heartbeat from across the city.

“There’s their heartbeat,” he whispered, awe filling his voice every single time. “Strong and steady. Just like yours.”

You carded your fingers through his dark hair. “They love you already. I can tell.”

He looked up at you, eyes shining. “I love them so much it scares me sometimes. And I love you - more than I ever thought possible.”

The final weeks brought the sweetest version of his stress. He started carrying you everywhere - “Doctor’s orders,” he’d claim with a grin, even though the doctor had said nothing of the sort. He cooked every meal with nutritional precision, flying to different continents for fresh ingredients if he read they were beneficial. He sang softly to your belly lullabies his mother had taught him, voice low and soothing.

One night, as you lay together in bed, the baby doing somersaults, Clark rested his head on your chest and listened to both heartbeats - yours and the little one’s.

“I used to think my greatest purpose was being Superman,” he said quietly. “Saving the world. But this… feeling them move, knowing we made this life together… this is the greatest thing I’ll ever do.”

You kissed the top of his head, tears slipping down your cheeks. “You’re already the best dad in the world, Clark Kent. And our baby is so lucky to have you.”

He lifted his head, eyes bright with happy tears of his own, and kissed you softly—full of love, wonder, and the quiet promise that no matter what powers their child inherited, they would grow up surrounded by gentleness, laughter, and two parents who would move heaven and Earth (sometimes literally) to keep them safe and loved.

As you drifted off to sleep in his arms, Clark stayed awake a little longer, one hand on your belly, whispering promises to the baby in the soft glow of the nightlight.

“I’ve got you both,” he murmured. “Always.”

a/n : i love fluffy yapping smooshy mushy shit like this can you tell

cw:smut Clark Kent x virgin!reader

------------------------------------------------------------------------

“So what does this do?”

You pressed the little nub eagerly and Clark hissed, jerking clear off the bed.

You released him immediately, wide-eyed, terrified you’d hurt him.

He caught your hand and kissed your wrist. “No… it’s fine, darling. Just—don’t touch that until we’re done with the lesson, okay?”

A look he knew too well entered your eyes and he groaned. “Seriously. Don’t touch it or the lesson’s over. That’s my cum button.”