#Emmy's | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

palevcr · 15 days ago

Text

clark kent when… he has a size kink.

Ი︵𐑼 MDNI +18

Clark had always known he was big. It was the first thing anyone ever said about him, even as a boy—tall for his age, broad-shouldered, built like he belonged to some older century. He’d been careful his whole life, trained by experience to minimize himself. To keep his strength folded inward, hidden beneath polite smiles and lowered voices. He broke things easily. He frightened people without meaning to. He had learned not to reach too quickly, not to hold too tightly, and not to exist too loudly. Even before the powers revealed themselves—before he could melt steel or see through walls or hover two feet off the hayloft floor—he had been a boy afraid of his own hands.

But she never looked at him with fear. That was the part that undid him.

She didn’t flinch when he moved. She didn’t step back to see him better—she stepped closer, as if proximity made him less impossible. Her gaze never flickered to the width of his chest or the breadth of his shoulders with caution; she tilted her head back and looked at him like he was a sunrise breaking over the horizon. Not a threat. A marvel. Her lips parting just slightly, eyes widening—not with apprehension, but with something soft and unguarded, something almost worshipful.

He remembered the night she borrowed his sweatshirt—some old thing from college, sun-faded and loose, the cuffs frayed from too many winters. He hadn’t thought much of it, just draped it over her shoulders when the evening air grew cool. But then she’d tugged it on, and the moment caught like a snare in his throat.

It dwarfed her.

The sleeves hung well past her wrists, the hem brushing her thighs. The collar slipped wide, exposing one shoulder, bare skin, and delicate against the worn cotton. She hugged herself in it with a lazy, contented sigh and murmured something like, “Smells like you,” as if that wasn’t a weapon. As if she didn’t just speak the words that would echo in his mind for the rest of the night like a church bell in a hollow room.

Something shifted then—not loudly, not visibly. Just the subtlest crack across a lifelong restraint. A thread pulled from a tight seam. He hadn’t known he could want something so quietly. I hadn’t known desire could be so soft, so reverent.

He was meant to be gentle. Polite. Considerate to the point of disappearing. That’s what Ma had always told him—don’t give people a reason to be afraid of you. And he never had. But watching her swim in his sweatshirt like it was made to drown her, watching the way she curled into him at the end of the night like she belonged there—it made his restraint feel suddenly cruel. Like denying something holy.

It started subtly. He'd brush his knuckles along her cheek and pause longer than necessary, caught in the way her skin fit beneath his touch like porcelain molded to the cup of his hand. He’d place his hands on her waist and feel how his fingers could nearly meet at her spine. When he kissed her—slow, cautious, always asking permission in every breath—he couldn’t stop noticing the way he had to lower his head so far just to reach her mouth, how she rose onto the tips of her toes to meet him halfway, as if it were a dance they’d always known the steps.

It started slowly—because with Clark, it always had to. Not out of hesitation, not anymore, but out of respect. Out of reverence. Because she was something fragile in a world that too often begged him to crush. He kissed her like a man undoing a knot he didn’t know had been tied around his throat for years, hands trembling not from nerves but restraint—always restraint. And she let him, whispering promises against his skin, coaxing him out of hiding with nothing more than soft sighs and the unspoken vow that she wanted him, all of him, exactly as he was.

He entered her with his brow furrowed and lips parted, breath stalling somewhere between disbelief and awe. She was so warm. So tight. So small it made his eyes flutter shut. Her body gripped him like she’d been carved to hold him and only him—soft and impossibly snug, like her form had folded itself around the shape of him.

He exhaled her name like a prayer, his forehead pressing to hers, his chest heaving. “God… sweetheart…” The words bled from him, disjointed, barely tethered. “You’re—Jesus, you’re so…”

Her arms were wrapped around his neck, lips brushing his jaw, her body trembling beneath him as she adjusted, as she took him inch by inch, whispering that it was okay, that she wanted it, that she could take more if he gave her time.

But time was a thing Clark always had in excess. So he gave her all of it.

He moved slowly—agonizingly so—rocking into her with deliberate caution, holding her hips steady as though she might vanish if he gripped too tightly. The room was silent save for the rustle of sheets and the broken, wet sound of her breath catching every time he pushed a little deeper, stretched her a little further. Her thighs shook around his waist, clinging to him, and her nails dug into the broad planes of his shoulders in a desperate attempt to hold onto something real—to ground herself against the weight of him.

And then it happened.

It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t something he even realized was possible. He drew his hips back and then sank into her again, this time deeper—just a little deeper—and she let out this sound, a high, gasping sob that stole the air from his lungs. His eyes dragged downward, across the slick heat of her chest, her stomach fluttering beneath him—and he stilled.

There, just above her navel—faint but visible, pressing out against the soft curve of her belly—was him. His cock. The shape of it, a protrusion that shouldn't have been possible, that wasn't supposed to happen. And yet there it was, plain and devastating and real.

His breath hitched, eyes widening with something close to disbelief. “Oh my—” he broke off, swallowing hard. His palm spread across her stomach, large and trembling, and when he pressed gently—just gently—he felt himself beneath the skin. He felt her flutter around him in response, whimpering beneath his touch.

He blinked down at her, lips parted, utterly speechless.

“You—you can see me,” he whispered, his voice cracked open with reverence, like he was witnessing something divine. “I’m inside you, and—Christ—you can see me.”

Something in him—whatever dam he’d been clinging to, whatever fragile thread of self-control he’d kept taut through years of carefulness—snapped.

He didn’t mean to. But he pushed.

Not rough. Not cruel. But deeper. With intention.

She gasped, fingers clawing at his back, and the bulge pressed up again, more prominent now, her stomach tightening beneath his palm. His hips stuttered. Then rolled again.

And he watched.

He watched himself move inside her.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he groaned, his voice thinned to a whisper, desperate and adoring. “Look at you. Look what you’re doing. Look what you’re taking.” He kissed her—sloppy, fervent, too full of feeling—and when he pulled back, there was something glazed over in his eyes. Something wrecked.

He wasn’t holding back anymore. Couldn’t. Not with her moaning beneath him like this, not with her belly rising to meet his hand, not when the very thing he’d spent a lifetime shrinking from now made her cry out in pleasure. In praise.

His rhythm grew rougher—not violent, but fuller. More grounded. Each thrust deeper, more deliberate, chasing that moment over and over again—not for dominance, but because the sight of himself inside her had ruined him. Shattered him. And he needed to see it again. And again. Her belly bulging, fluttering under his hand like her body was trying to hold all of him but couldn’t quite manage it—and he loved her for trying.

She sobbed his name. Not in pain. In disbelief. In stunned pleasure.

And Clark—Clark, who had been taught to hide every ounce of his strength, who had been taught to be soft and careful and small—gripped her hips, pressed his forehead to hers, and let go of every lie he’d ever told himself about needing to hold back.

“You’re made for me,” he panted, brokenly, as her body pulsed and squeezed around him. “Look at you—you’re made for me.”

And she was.

And he took.

He should have stopped. He should have slowed, steadied, and reminded himself that he was too much for anyone—always had been. But the sight of her beneath him, trembling and flushed, the deep arch of her back, the wet sheen between her breasts, the way her stomach lifted with every punishing thrust like her body was giving him proof of what he was doing to her—it was too much. Too much beauty, too much proof, too much love. He’d never seen anything like it. He had never imagined anything could make him feel like this—so wrecked, so reverent, so on the edge of feral.

He was fucking into her hard now—hips snapping, thighs taut, every movement carving a deeper place for himself inside her. She was clinging to him with everything she had, legs wound tight around his waist, nails biting into his back as she moaned and sobbed his name against the hollow of his throat. Her voice was breaking, slipping into incoherence, her body straining to take him, to hold him, to keep him inside—and it only made him want to give her more.

His palm splayed across her lower stomach again, feeling the bulge with every thrust, watching her flesh rise and fall beneath his hand like he was moving inside a body too divine to be real.

And he couldn’t stop.

“I’m sorry,” he gasped, brokenly, his forehead pressed against hers, his voice cracking like glass. “I’m sorry, I—God, sweetheart, I’m—” another thrust, deeper this time, dragging a high whimper from her throat, “I don’t mean to—I can’t help it. You feel—fuck, you feel too good.”

And he did mean it. He was sorry—not because it hurt her, because it didn’t. Because she was moaning, her body trembling around him, her face a vision of overwhelmed bliss—but because he knew he wasn’t being gentle. He knew he was driving into her with too much force, too much want, because the sight of her taking him was undoing him. He couldn’t look away. He couldn’t tear his eyes from the obscene, gorgeous swell beneath her navel, where he could seehimself inside her. It was like something sacred. Like watching a prayer be answered in real time.

His hand slid up her body, cradling her ribcage, his thumb brushing under the curve of her breast as he fucked into her again, the mattress groaning beneath them. Her body jolted with every thrust, soft gasps tumbling from her lips, her head thrown back in helpless surrender.

“You’re so small,” he whispered, reverently, as though in awe of his own undoing. “You’re so perfect—I’m sorry, I just—I need to see it.” His voice trembled. “I need to feel it.”

And he did.

He thrust in again, harder than he meant to, watching the bulge rise again under his hand, impossibly vivid and obscene, and he groaned—deep, low, and animal—something closer to prayer than pleasure. “Jesus, baby,” he breathed, kissing her temple, her cheek, and her open mouth, “I can feel myself inside you. I can see it—look at you. You’re taking all of me. All of me.”

She was shaking, breathless, her thighs twitching around him, hips arching like her body didn’t know whether to run or pull him deeper. Her lips were red and parted, tears threatening at the corners of her eyes, but she wasn’t crying from pain—no, it was something else. Something more. Something he understood, because it was tearing through him, too: the overwhelming pleasure of surrendering to something bigger than both of them.

“You’re doing so good,” he choked, kissing her, letting his thumb stroke along her jaw. “So fucking good, baby—so good for me, letting me in like this.”

And still—he couldn’t stop moving.

Couldn’t stop the way his hips kept rolling forward, chasing that same motion, needing to feel that resistance and watch the way she swelled to accommodate him. His cock dragged along her walls, dragging wet, fluttering sounds from deep inside her, and she keened—Clark—her voice raw, her body arching like she was about to break apart beneath him.

“I know, I know,” he murmured against her mouth, breath hot and ragged, “I’m sorry, I know it’s too much—but I can’t stop, baby, I can’t—you’re letting me, you’re—God.”

Another thrust. Another bulge. Another wave of strangled pleasure curling up his spine like fire.

He wanted to live here—in this moment, in this body, in this girl who took everything from him and begged for more, who looked at him not like he was dangerous, but divine. She didn’t flinch. She opened. She let him see himself in her—on her—and Clark, for the first time in his goddamned life, wasn’t scared of what he saw.

He was in awe.

#˙ . ꒷ emmy writes. 𖦹˙—#clark kent x female reader #clark kent smut #clark kent x y/n #clark kent x reader #superman #superman x reader #superman x y/n

5K notes · View notes