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-` NEWTON'S THIRD LAW ´-

clark kent x f!telepath!reader

ᯓ★ synopsis: He could only pin you down as long as you allowed it. He didn't pull his punches with you because he knew they wouldn't hit. You never let them. That was what made you the perfect sparring partner for Superman. Or, what happens when an immovable object meets an unstoppable force?

ᯓ★ wordcount: 3.7k — ao3 | masterlist | fic notifs

ᯓ★ tags/warnings: 18+ mdni, dom/sub dynamics, dom!reader, sub!clark, unprotected piv, oral sex, dacryphilia, degradation, slight corruption kink, clark kent’s huge cock, clark is desperate and pathetic, sparring, clark has a safe word, reader is implied to work out but this fic is size inclusive

Punch to the right.

Duck to his left.

Imbalanced. Adjust footing.

His left flank is unguarded. Strike now, now, now!

Each breath left his mouth like it was heavy, like it took effort. He was almost there, almost ready.

Let him circle. Step to the right.

Mirror her angle. Shift left.

His momentum is dulled. Weather the charge.

The mat hit your back with a dull thump; the weight of Superman settling atop you. Sunlight spilled across the room, limning every sturdy inch of him in liquid gold. The large windows halfway up the exposed brick were a testimony to the building’s first life in the industrial sector, framed in steel painted over with rust by the passage of time. The property was dirt cheap, and it payed off to have a discrete base in the city. Not every vigilante could fly to the damn arctic on a whim.

You let yourself bask in the scent of him for just a moment. The scent of salt and ozone. A hint of spearmint from his breath and the dust of urban smog.

Whether it was at the Daily Planet or in a seedy gym that skirts the edge of Hob's Bay, there was something inherently suggestive about the way Clark Kent worked. At least, there was when he was working with you.

Today it was especially distracting. His biceps flexed in the windup before a punch hit the mat a hair's breadth from your cheek. His thighs were so tense they felt like stone as he bracketed you beneath him. The barely-there gasp when you capitalized off the opening he left as he shifted for another blow. Throwing Clark off balance, you flipped positions.

He could only pin you down as long as you allowed it. He didn't pull his punches with you because he knew they wouldn't hit. You never let them. That was what made you the perfect sparring partner for Superman. You couldn't read other people's thoughts, not exactly, but you could sense their intentions. In a fight, with your lightning-fast reflexes, that was enough to make you practically unstoppable. How could your opponent win, if they could never land a hit.

With every perfectly timed dodge, with every block and parry, you got just a little more smug—and Clark got a little more desperate.

The rubbery scent of foam mixed with the musk of Clark's sweat as he laid breathless beneath you. A self-satisfied grin pulled at one corner of your lips. You had him right where you wanted him.

When you first started training with him, Clark—Superman—was not used to losing. But by now, he knew how this went. Every week for the past year your sweet, nerdy, gentle giant of a co-worker showed up so the two of you could try and beat the shit out of each other on the sparring mat.

For a while, everything was above board. Just two acquaintances in a professional partnership. And if you caught yourself staring at his Adam’s apple as he gulped water between rounds, you were ensuring maximum preparedness by studying your opponent. If the air between you was so charged it felt like your hair stood on end, it was just that the conflict stimulated a heightened state in your sympathetic nervous system.

The pet-names, everything else that came after the fight—that was still new. So, when Clark said, "baby– baby please," voice between a pant and a whine, your heartbeat quickened in your chest.

It always ended this way: he could never land a clean blow on you, and your hit after hit after hit couldn't bend the man of steel. The data indicated that the result should be a stalemate.

But when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object, beautiful things happen. Your fists were far from the only weapons you could wield against Clark Kent. The beads of sweat you didn’t bother to wipe away, that trailed from your brow, your neck, slipping beneath the collar of your tank top; each simpering taunt; each time your gaze caught his for just a moment too long: all of it calculated. All of it designed to strike between his ribs and pierce that vulnerable space they guarded.

Clark knew better than anybody what you could do, that you played mind games as well as you threw a punch. But that didn’t help him. After all, it turned out that Superman wasn’t immovable after all. And kryptonite was decidedly not his only weakness.

Maybe that meant you played dirty. But the way his hips arched so his bulge brushed against the cotton of your sweatpants told you that he didn't mind one bit.

Propping yourself up with elbows on either side of his head, you lean in so your words brush against his ear.

"Got something to say to me, Kansas?"

The only thing that escaped his lips was a needy whine.

Your voice dipped even lower, dripping in faux sympathy. "Superman's all tongue-tied, hm? Poor baby."

You shifted your weight, ready to get back to your feet and keep sparring if he had some more fight in him yet. But then his hand locked around your wrist, softly begging you to lower yourself onto him again. Got him.

"No, no, no, no," slipped from Clark like a single word. "You win, you win, you win." He paused before he added in a whisper, barely audible, "jus' don't leave."

At the Planet he carried himself with a humble certainty; took criticism of his work with a smile. In the cape, he had that single minded focus on identifying the right thing to do and just doing it—consequences be damned. When you looked at him, all solid muscle and steady purpose, you saw a fortress. Wave after wave could break against him and he would hold fast. The stones would never crumble and fall with a thundering crash into the sea. He could rearrange the Earth and mountains would heed him. You were certain of it.

But here, sweat darkened his white t-shirt; now, a silent tear ran down his cheek. You had taken him apart, brick by brick, at the base. Even the strongest rampart heeds the call of gravity. The vision of Superman, of Clark Kent, writhing beneath you, jaw hitched and eyes squeezed tight like he’d fall apart if he let out a single sob? You weren’t sure what tasted sweeter: his surrender, or the power it proved you wielded.

It would've made a better person’s cheeks heat. But you? It got you fucking soaked.

Your core pulsed around nothing, drawn downwards by something like magnetism, before you finally—finally let yourself grind against him. Heat seared where your bodies touched, white-hot even between layers of clothing. Your heart pounded like a drum, sharp breaths whispered through air between your mouths. For this one moment, there was nothing relaying from Clark’s mind to yours. It was utterly blank. Utterly yours.

You slid your hips back and forth along his bulge. One pass featherlight, the next hard and claiming. If the way you teased him was a little bit cruel, it was only because you had to last the entire work week putting up with him saying shit like “oh golly,” and “gosh,” when something didn’t quite go his way. The way he smiled at you innocently across the bullpen, oblivious to the fact that he was a walking sex symbol employing the vocabulary of an overgrown boy scout. Like every time your eyes met you weren’t imagining how those curls look when they’re stuffed between your thighs.

That corn-fed motherfucker deserved a little taunting. So, you almost didn’t feel bad when he whimpered beneath your ministrations. A soft warmth filled your chest at how tame he was, how docile he got for you.

“Such a good boy for me, Clark,” you cooed. “You want a little reward?”

Those bright blue eyes lit up with excitement. He only barely got out “y-yeah, baby, please,” before he slumped in disappointment when you lifted yourself from where you straddled him.

The gym itself was a large, open room. Above you, the beamed ceiling sat at least three stories high. The beat-up lifting equipment and weathered punching bags stood vigil as you hushed Clark’s complaints and slipped out of your sweatpants and sneakers.

“Stay still until I’m ready for you, Kent.”

He fought desperately to obey, to stop himself from grinding against the air. You didn’t need to see the way his abdomen tensed with the effort; your feet didn’t even need to feel the slight shift in the mat as he fought to control himself. It was always the mind that betrayed.

Can’t keep still, can’t keep still, can’t keep still—

And then the silence of relief.

Tsk, tsk, tsk, as you clicked your tongue in disappointment. Your panties were already halfway down your legs, apologies falling from Clark’s lips, but now you pulled them back up. Kicking away your discarded shoes and pants, you knelt again. This time over Clark’s face.

“Oh baby, you tried so hard.” A beleaguered sigh, a slow shake of the head. Your whole body dripped condescension, hips circling your clothed crotch less than a foot away from his desperate mouth. “I was even gonna give you a little taste.” You paused, eyebrows drawn together in a pout. “But now I’m not so sure that you deserve it.”

Clark’s face screwed up like you had forged a blade from kryptonite and stabbed it through his gut as he let out a sound between a groan and a whimper. “Please, please, ‘m so sorry, I’ll be good, it was an accident, I’ll be good.”

You tried to be strong. You really did. But you needed relief too, and the way he begged for it had you clenching around nothing, body crying out for friction. Just to make him squirm, you feigned deep thought, savoring his desperate little whimpers. Your gaze was lazy, hooded, heavy as it roamed over the man beneath you. Sweat and tears mixed together on his strong features. Your eyes on him were something tangible as they traced each angle, slow and thick as syrup. Like your fingertips could feel each place you studied.

Sighing as if you had some place else to be, you finally answered him. “Well… if you want to eat my pussy so bad, I guess I can let you...” Clark’s eyes lit up like the open sky on a cloudless day. His enthusiasm was barely dulled as you lowered your hips above his face without removing the garment that separated him from you and coolly added, “through the panties.”

His whispered thank you was full of relief, breath ghosting against the heat in your core. Your own relief was tangible, too, when your cunt finally met his mouth. Clark’s lips latched straight onto your clit through the fabric. His tongue moved against you, fruitlessly trying to toy with your covered entrance before lapping upwards again. Pleasure already sparked down your legs, electrified every inch of your skin. You’d toyed with yourself as much as you’d toyed with him.

Your voice was strained, hands pressing into the mat beside his head to keep balanced. “Jus’ like that, baby, feels so good. So good for me.”

Clark moaned as you ground against his face mercilessly, using his mouth to chase your pleasure. Your underwear was soaked with arousal and saliva, white-hot tension pulling tighter and tighter in your gut.

“Such a good boy, so hungry for me, hmm baby? ”

He nodded his assent beneath you, needy and whining against you. Your skin prickled and heat spread down your back as you clutched his messy curls, riding his face. Finally, when his nose brushed hard against your clit, you came undone.

When the last waves of pleasure ebbed away, you melted against him, curling over until his face smooshed against your chest and your elbows held you above the cushioned surface of the mat. You let your head hang limp for a moment, eyes lingering on the dark tangle of his hair.

Once you caught your breath, you stood above Clark again. His level of dress was entirely unacceptable. You snapped out, “clothes,” as you pulled your own sweat-soaked shirt over your head in a jerky motion. The collar caught for a moment in your impatience to take it off.

Once Clark’s clothing was in a pile on the floor, and you were left in your sports bra and panties, you led him through the room, passing a palimpsest of second, third, or fourth hand gym equipment. Unlike Superman, you couldn’t rely on Kryptonian biology for your strength.

Clark settled where you guided him, on a workout bench positioned so that he could sit reclined. You finally let your eyes peruse his naked form: the pale expanse of skin that wrapped around his sculpted thighs, the dark curls that trailed from his belly button to his heavy cock. Gone was the ocean in Clark’s eyes, darkened by pupils blown wide. Yours must have been the same.

“God, Clark, you’re beautiful.”

His back arched upwards from the bench, hips seeking friction where they would find none. “N-not—nngh, not as beautiful as you, baby,” he managed through a desperate whine.

A shiver traveled down your spine, breath hitching. Whatever desperation you saw in Clark’s gaze, in his tremulous movements, you felt it tenfold in your own racing pulse.

He made a broken sound deep in his throat, and in an instant your restraint snapped. Suddenly you were on him; all lips and teeth and tongue on skin. You kissed him like it was a biological necessity, and maybe it was. His moan was shaky as you murmured empty praise between harsh nips and sucks. In that moment, you never wanted to stop. Never wanted his skin to be parted from yours. Never wanted to lose the hardened weight of him between your legs.

Now, you rode his cock through your soaked underwear like you did his mouth. It had only been moments since you came, and the sensation was almost too much in all the best ways.

“Clark, Clark, shit, need to fuck you, yeah baby?” You panted, “gonna be a good boy for me’n take it?”

He keened, hips rutting upwards to meet where you moved against him with an erratic nod of agreement. “Yes, yes, yes, yes, please baby, please, I’ll be so good, n-need—nngh, need it so bad.”

His huge palms explored your back while your nails dug into his shoulders; you cleaved to each other like a lifeboat in a thundering sea.

“First things first,” you breathed, tearing yourself out of your sports bra, letting your breasts spill free. Your nipples had long since pebbled, and you leaned backwards to give him access. His hands on your chest were euphoric, always finding just the right spot, just the right pressure.

Just one more teasing roll of your hips before you moved your panties to the side. The flushed tip of his cock leaked precome onto your slick folds as you sunk down onto him. Clark sucked in a sharp breath. It was always a stretch—he was big. Biggerthan anybody you’d taken before. It was easier if you stretched yourself out on your fingers first; or better yet, on his fingers. But your patience was frayed at the edges from another day of work without touching him, without the taste of his lips, without the sweet burn of him inside you.

You worked yourself open on him, sheathing every inch of him in your slick heat. Biting back a moan, your hips rolled gently as you adjusted to his size. Your forehead pressed against his. The whole world narrowed to the bright adoration as Clark watched you ride him, the heady musk of sweat and sex, his high-pitched grunt when your hips quickened.

“Oh, oh gosh— gosh, baby you feel so good,” came his empty-headed murmur. He thrusted upwards to meet you and his cock brushed so deep, you couldn’t help but release a breathy cry. His speech, his movements, he was so far gone that they were all subconscious. Not a single thing to read from his pretty head. “Keep goin’ sweetheart, d-don’t stop, please don’t stop, baby, you’re s-so warm, feel so good, please—” he cut himself off with a drawn out whimper.

His mindless babbling did more for you than you’d care to admit: arched back, bitten lip, thighs sore as you fucked him even harder.

A tear made a little river down his cheek, and you wiped it away with a faint smile. His hands rested around your waist, absently rubbing gentle circles. “Oh, Clark, fuck—” your clit brushed against the patch of curls between his legs, hips writhing as your nerves somehow burned even hotter. You were close again, each thrust hitting right where you needed it, but you clawed back your composure with straining knuckles.

“You love it when I fuck the brains out of that sweet head, hm? Love to be a good boy for me?” Your lips brushed his ear, voice husky, “when you don’t have to be Superman, just a cock for me to use?”

Clark choked back a sob, hips rutting upwards hopelessly. “G-golly, you shouldn’t say things like that!” His frantic movements betrayed how much he enjoyed exactly what you’d said.

A punishment, as you slammed down on him hard and stilled. Your walls clenched around him in complaint, and Clark rushed back into your head.

Be good, be sorry, be good, don’t move, be good—

You gripped his chin, guiding him so his eyes met yours. “I don’t take notes from you, unless it’s your word. Did you want to use your word, Clark?”

He knew the rules. You knew the answer.

No word, no word, no word, no word—

Still, you waited to hear it. “No ma’am, ‘m sorry, ‘m sorry, don’t wanna use my word, don’t wanna stop, I just—”

Your nails dug into his cheeks before he could say anything more, hard. Silencing him. Lifting yourself up until his tip nearly slipped out of you, your gaze was steely. “Then don’t.” Plunge. “Tell me.” Bounce. “What to do.” Pump. Head tilted to the side, your movements resumed, reckless and mean. “Remind me, Superman, who is in charge?”

His answer was immediate. “You are, you!”

“And what are you?”

Clark’s cheeks were tear streaked and crimson in your grip. “I’m just— j-just a cock.”

The tenderness with which you brushed away the moisture belied the command when you spoke. “And what are cocks for, hm? Are they for speaking?”

When he quivered beneath you, and the climax you’d postponed burned back to life. “They’re for… jus’ for f-fucking,” Clark choked on the word. How you relished making a sweet little farmboy from Smallville utter such depravity.

You bounced up and down on him, relishing the hard planes of him beneath you, and how they’d soften to putty in your hands. Another tear slid slowly down Clark’s cheek. But he looked at you like the north star. You traced its path upwards with your tongue, savoring the bite of salt. A gentle kiss to the corner of his eye. You mumbled “good boy,” into his cheek. Then, the only sound was skin on skin. The sensation of him inside you, buried deeper with every thrust, pushed you closer and closer towards that cliff’s edge.

Your hand trailed downwards to rub at your clit, fingertips matching the pace of your hips. Clark’s palms slid upwards again, cupping the curve of your breasts before he circled your peaked nipples. The ache between your thighs grew and grew and grew. Your pulse sped, eyes rolling back in your head as you frantically slid yourself up and down his cock, until you couldn’t stop it any longer.

“’M gonna come on you, baby. S-shit, Clark, I’m gonna come—” Cutting off with a cry, you threw yourself over the edge. Heat spread through every limb. Your climax pulsed around his cock, pace erratic as you rode it out. Finally, your hips slowed. Despite his bitten-lip attempt at restraint, a whine escaped the back of Clark’s throat. He was trying desperately not to writhe beneath you.

A soft chuckle, a kiss pressed gently to his curls. A teasing lilt when you said, “oh baby, where are my manners?” You caught his lips for a moment, and he groaned into yours. When you pulled back, you widened your eyes like it was a surprise. “You wanted to come too?” His wild hair bobbed in a fevered nod. “Silly boy,” said through a chuckle. “Don’t worry, baby.” Your grin melted into something darker. “We’ll get you there again, and again, and again.”

The first time he came, it was in your pussy, his warm seed deep inside you as your velvet heat pulsed around him again. The second, in your ruthless grip as he spilled across himself, pearly spend painting his abdomen. The third was in your mouth. Clark’s tongue had lolled when you spit his come onto it.

You shifted, so now you sat on the bench. He rested his head in your lap as you both came down. The leather was dotted with a heady mix of sweat, arousal, and semen. You’d have to wipe it down. Gentle fingers ran through Clark’s hair, and he hummed through a loose smile, eyelids droopy. As you let yourself relax into the moment, you studied the blush on his cheeks, the freckle on his shoulder, the way his back rose and fall.

When you asked if he had enjoyed himself, he murmured, “more’n anything, sweetheart.”

You tried to fight the soft smile that blossomed, nourished by the warmth in your chest. Unknowable. Dangerous. But there were some blows your powers couldn’t help you dodge.

Clark’s eyes darted past you, before they made contact with yours. Big and blue and hopeful. There was the slightest tremble in his voice when he asked, “would you wanna get dinner sometime? With me. Dinner with me. Like a date.”

A date with Superman.

Maybe for the first time, you made an utterly reckless decision, and answered by pulling him into a kiss before he could stammer nervously on. The words, spoken against his lips—“I’d like that, Clark.”

a/n: whew, thank you so much for reading! i'm so insanely horny for this man it's lowkey embarassing. this fic feels insane, but i really hope you enjoyed it!

dividers by the lovely @saradika-graphics

reblogs/comments mean the world!!

#reblogging so i remember to read #clark kent x reader #superman x reader #superman 2025

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