arachine - Tumblr blog

arachine · 25 days ago

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the only clark fic ever, actually.

𝐻𝒪𝒩𝐸𝒴𝒞𝑅𝐼𝒮𝒫!

❤︎ ₊ ˙ ⊹ visiting clark’s farm-home means sticky summer heat, a slipping dress, and tension so palpable it tastes like sin.

CONTAINS ⨾ ⸻ ( 7k+ ) words of ⨾ nsfw / smut, ( farmer!clark kent / superman ) x southern belle fem!reader, established relationship, food play kinda lol, fingering, unprotected sex, creampie, lowercase intended, minors shoo!

my love letter! ⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪ i’ve made superman my muse ever since i walked out the theater, and i can’t seem to get this farmboy out of my mind >.< i wanted clark in his natural habitat, but all in all, this is just a lowdown, dirty roll in the hay lol . please enjoy, reblogs are appreciated, and thank you so much for reading! 🍎

the kent farm is alive. it smells of apple skin and warm earth, hums with the lazy heat of late afternoon— golden and honey-thick. it’s the kind of place that ripens everything it touches.

your lover’s had a typical day. hauling hay bales, sprinkling fertilizer across fifty acres of rich land, plowing harvesting lines into fields and whatnot. you’ve had quite the time yourself watching him do so.

the sun’s low enough to gild the outstretched treetops, but its heat still beats down on the crown of your head, your skin all flushed and dewy from roaming around the farm. somewhere above, cicadas whir. somewhere behind you, his footsteps stop.

clark’s finally returned from the orchard field, his white cotton undershirt clinging to his back and sunlight playing on the rims of his glasses. he watches you from just a few paces back, looking like the very personification of rural americana— faded-red gingham, sleeves rolled, forearms browned and strong. his collar’s askew and open at the throat, chest damp and a button missing. you surely don’t mind.

there’s a honeycrisp apple in his hand. freshly plucked, still warm from the sun. he tosses it once, then catches it with a lazy smile.

“you ever had one right off the branch?” he asks, voice all slow charm and kansas drawl. he pushes up his glasses to tame the wild ringlets of dark hair falling into his brow.

you shake your head, watching the way his fingers curl around the fruit. big, careful hands . . . the kind that could tear you apart or cradle you whole.

he takes a bite. crisp. loud. juice trickles down his wrist, glinting in the sunlight.

your throat goes absolutely dry.

“mm, sweet . . .” he murmurs, wiping the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. he holds temptation right there in his very palm. “here,” his offer is gentle, “try it.”

your rosy-tinted smile is light and easy, peering up at him through the soft veil of your lashes. the breeze teases the hem of your ivory milkmaid dress while sunlight pools over your collarbone and shoulders. “you sure make it hard to say no,” you say, half to him and half to the ache curling in your chest.

he steps closer, slow and certain, until your back grazes the sun-warm siding of the farmhouse— splintered redwood pressing through cotton. he looms at your front, all broad and radiant and impossible to look away from. his entire shadow spills across you, and he smells of rich kansas soil and faint, sugary traces of mcintosh. the fruit lingers in his hands, ripe and flushed with color, but it’s that look in his sky-blue eyes that tempts you most.

he holds out the bitten apple like something sacred. your dainty fingers brush his calloused ones as you reach for it, and the touch alone is enough to make your stomach twist. your eyes meet. there’s something burning-hot swirling in his gaze; it’s unreadable. heavy. starving.

the apple sits heavy in your palm; ripe, red, split down one side where his teeth have already broken the skin.

“bet it’s the best thing you’ll taste all day.”

you arch a soft brow, tilting your chin up. “why don’t you feed me, farmboy?”

that gets him. his mouth twitches at the corner, and he brings the fruit to your lips himself, like you knew he would. he spurs you on with a slow command, “open.”

you lean in without a word, lips brushing the side of the fruit where his fingers cradle it. you sink your teeth in, and the apple gives way with a sharp crack. it floods your mouth with sugar and tang and sun-warm juice, trailing down your lip, all slow and glistening— a bead of gold slipping from the corner of your mouth to curve down your chin. his gaze follows the droplet. it feels forbidden, almost.

clark’s breath leaves him in a broken sigh. he doesn’t move. “jesus,” he exhales like it’s been ripped out of him.

when you look up again, clark’s already watching your mouth— entirely smitten, barely restrained. his gaze doesn’t waver. his own lips part ever so slightly.

“you’ve got juice,” he says softly, touch ghosting towards your jaw, resisting the urge to catch it, “right . . . here.”

he wipes it off with his thumb, then brings it to his mouth. sucks it clean.

it’s a sin— good god, it has to be. the way he looks at you like you’re the only thing sweeter than eden’s first god-given fruit; like he’d pull you into the hayloft, press you to the rustic walls and taste every drop of paradise off your skin.

you swallow hard. he hears it, you know he does— hears the slow gulp of your own desire, the thud of your heartbeat pounding wildly beneath your breastbone. his thumb doesn’t leave your skin, lingering at the edge of your plushy lips.

the apple falls into the grass, forgotten.

“you’re real quiet all of a sudden,” clark says, light and playful. you blink up at him. your chest is rising too fast. he watches how your breasts heave against the fragile confines of your lacy neckline, a tremble of breath beneath satin. “cat got your tongue?” the rasp in his voice is delectably thick and undeniably southern, touched with a bit of something wanton.

your lips part helplessly, but nothing comes out. just the lucent ghost of his name, a miserable attempt at ‘ clark ’ that unravels him enough to close the space between you.

his hands, warm and delightfully large, find your waist. he draws you to him—not roughly, no, because clark never isn’t gentle. but with such an assured certainty, like your body belongs right there slotted against his. soft upon solid, heat wafting in the middle.

“say something . . . anything,” he sounds hushed, hoarse. you don’t usually still like this when he teases; it halts him. his face is ever so close, the straight bridge of his firm nose grazing yours, dark brows knit in a quiet, aching hunger. one hand lifts, his fingers slipping behind your nape, cradling tenderly as though to anchor you.

your soft hands slide beneath his checkered shirt to meet boiling warmth, solid sinewy muscle, taut tanned skin, faintly dusted fine hairs at his pelvis— the rise and fall of an all-powerful man barely holding it together.

he’s well over six feet of thick, sculpted brawn, hard to reach even in the custom hand-stitched boots he gifted you. and so, you rise onto your tippy-toes, lips skimming along the shell of his cartilage. the warm scent of cedar and vanilla cling to your skin, and sweet, sinful aroma seeps warmly into him. it makes him throb hard in his boxers. you prompt him with a soft, saccharine whisper makes his ears flush pink:

“kiss me.”

his mouth is on yours in the next breath— no hesitation, not a single question. just heat. perhaps a bit of hunger.

it begins unhurried, with a slow suckle here and a drawn-out lick there, like he’s afraid you’ll slip through his fingers and vanish, or you’re made up of dreams that he wouldn’t dare shatter.

but then you whimper. so soft, broken. just like that, it undoes him like the slip of a ribbon. his lips claim, part, press . . . then his tongue slides in, slow and molten, tasting of you like he’d been dying for it.

your gasp catches against his mouth, and it’s just about the holiest thing he’s ever heard. his own growls follow; dark, guttural and drawn from somewhere so primal even he’s scared to face it.

twitching with want, clark’s fingers flex at your waist, drawing you desperately flush against him. hips meeting hips, chest to chest. your very heartbeat pounds in your body and reverberates through his like it's trying to climb into his chest. the other hand cups your jaw, tilting your face to deepen the kiss—deeper, wetter, needier.

the way clark tongues you down lets you know that his resolve is leaking. his own swirls with yours, coaxing, teasing, then devouring. this kiss must be hunger’s incarnate; open-mouthed and breathless, teeth catching your bottom lip, tugging, then soothing the sting with a velvet lick.

it’s only when you weakly knack his bicep, gasping for a sliver of air, that he pulls away. it feels wrong to be rid of your lips, even for a second.

“god help me,” he groans in that intimate way only you’re meant to hear. “m’sorry, baby, i—“ clark pants, involuntarily pressing into you. his hips roll into yours before either of you can stop it, unthinking and helpless like lust is pulling the strings. when you moan in reply, his cock jumps within his coveralls. “didn’t mean to get carried away.”

“don’t you stop,” you whine, fisting his shirt like he’s the only solid thing left. you lift your knee to graze his crotch, painstakingly stiff and prodding against denim. “i need you. right now.”

“you don’t know what you’re asking,” he grunts out a feeble warning, but his mouth finds your again anyway. when he sucks on your tongue, slow and filthy, you swear you feel the very earth tilt beneath your feet.

your man is capable of a great many things. you’re reminded of that when he’s gone in a gust of wind, then back before your next breath with a timeworn blanket from the farmhouse sofa tucked under one arm, all in mere seconds.

his arm comes under your rear, scoops you up like it’s nothing, and gently lays you down in the grass with dizzying ease. the soft patterned cloth cushions your back as the orchard rustles around you. canopying leaves sway and sunlit-shadows flicker overhead. the golden july sky and towering apple trees are your quiet witnesses; watching, waiting, holding their breath.

clark’s gaze darts to your lips before dipping lower. the way he drinks you in is bashful; almost boyish, like his homegrown manners hold him back. his pupils dilate, jaw tensing. you’re nearly certain he’s using x-ray vision to take the smallest peek beneath the fabric . . . and from the heat flushing his red cheeks, it’s driving him wild.

“tryin’ to be a gentleman here, promise. just . . . not doing a great job right now.”

you look up at him, eyes glinting with a teasing laugh playing on your lips. your arms lift, slow but sure. then your hands find his hair, fingers slipping into the dark fluff of his curls. he bites back a sound when your manicured nails scrape lightly along his nape.

“oh, i know. you’re usually better behaved, kal.” it just isn’t fair, how you say his given name all soft and sweet like you don’t know what it does to him. but you do. you know exactly what you’re doing. and from the way his hands tighten on your waist, so does he.

“tell me to stop,” he rasps, “might do somethin’ reckless.”

“you’re always so careful, clark . . i want to see what reckless looks like on you.”

“y— you sure, sweetheart?” his smile cracks crooked and dazed, like he’s barely holding himself together. you swear he’s got hearts in his eyes.

“you heard me,” you run your finger along the sheen of his chest, just above the neckline. “i thought you were the strongest man on earth.” a sly smile, a dripping voice. you’re goading him. “don’t tell me you’re nervous.”

“oh?” he muses through a breathy laugh. his restraint is cracking. “careful’s what kept me from doing this sooner,” he shifts forwards, settling between your parted thighs and sliding his massive hands up them. body heat rolls off him in waves, and his undeniable hard-on nudges your skin.

“that dress is hanging on by a prayer, anyhow . .” he mutters, gaze pinned to the soft dip between your collarbone and breasts, the barest curve of them rising with each breath. his hand slinks around your backside, grabbing the rounds of your ass through ivory cotton. you arch into him like a flower toward the light, arms cradling his head closer. his other hand drifts up to feel the slope of your spine, palm dragging along warm skin like he’s memorizing it.

“so soft,” he mutters, almost to himself. “everywhere.”

clark’s thumb grazes the hem of your skimpy panties, brushing the little ribbon atop it and teasing the scallop-trimmed edge, while his mouth trails slow, damp kisses along your jawline. lazy at first, then firmer. you feel his breath stutter against your cheek when your hips grind back into his palm.

“you’re killin’ me, baby,” he frees a fragile chuckle, forehead resting on yours. a wild little curl of his skims the subtle angle of your brow. “can barely think, i . . . want you so bad it hurts.”

he grips your ass harder, the thick press of his arousal straining against you. clark’s instinctive grinding pulls gasp from you, but he doesn’t let up; mouth moving to your shoulder, biting just enough to make you flinch and whine.

“say it’s okay,” he pants. “say i can—”

“take it off, kal.”

then, without breaking eye contact, he hooks his thumb under the hem of your dress and presses up, nudging the fabric higher. his gaze holds you in place, asking silently even though he doesn't need to. you’re already his. you truly wonder if seduction or hypnosis falls under the wide array of his abilities. you give a slow nod; eager, breathless, sure.

he exhales hard through his nose, hands trembling slightly as they slip beneath the milkmaid straps resting on your shoulders. the lace-trim cloth is already halfway falling; it only takes the faintest tug before it slinks down your arms, like the peel of a ripened apple curling away. you feel as though you'll be eaten alive like the one that was dropped to the floor— not that the thought doesn’t excite you.

the rest is tugged, peeled, kissed away from your skin. the dress now pools at your shifting hips until he pulls it past your wiggling toes. it’s flung aside, lost in a wide corner of the spread blanket. it lands similar to a fruit dropped from a tree, unnoticed; just like anything else that isn’t you right now.

clark’s touch hovers at your ribs, thumbs brushing beneath the wiring of your lacy butter-yellow bra. his stare is soaked in awe. your nipples brush linen as he nimbly undoes the clamps and pulls it free, peaked and aching like rosebuds. he audibly groans the moment your boobs spill free. you’re picturesque, bare and bathed in dappled sun and orchard-shadow.

his adam’s apple bobs, lashes lowering. clark cups your breasts gently in both hands, kneading and squeezing like he aims to learn the shape of you by heart. a pretty moan slips out before you can stop it.

“god, you’re so . . .” he doesn’t finish. just ogles, like language has failed him. all he can muster up is a breathy little ‘ wow. ’ he’s two seconds away from forgetting how composed he meant to be.

“beautiful,” his knuckles faintly trace beneath the swell of your breast. he revels in how sweetly you whine. “don’t even know how to touch something like you.”

you guide his hands back to your chest, laying your palms over his like you’re teaching him how to worship. you get him to give you a nice, thorough squeeze, just how you like it. he can only stammer. you smile up at him. “you’re doing it right now, baby.”

you sit up, and lord forgive him—his gaze drops, slow and helpless, to the delicious sway of your bosom. he’s more than convinced you’re his temptation made flesh.

“you’ve got too many clothes on for someone who’s touching me like that,” you want to make quick work of his shirt. the fabric between you suddenly feels cruel. “your turn.”

you fingers, intentional and featherlight, trail down the column of his throat. you can see the warm summer flush creeping down. if you were to say a word, he’d only blame the heat. the gingham shirt clings to him, stretched faintly over muscle and modesty. you find the first button and undo it, slow and savoring.

his chest rising in a shaky breath as you move to the next button. one by one, you pry him open. he’s warm beneath all that fabric; golden, flushed, tight with anticipation. you let your knuckles graze his sternum, the ridge of his defined laterals, the dusting of chest hair that makes you ache in places you shouldn’t.

“aw, you’re blushing,” you tease, eyes dancing.

he huffs a laugh, breathless.

“hard not to when you’re lookin’ at me like that.”

you peel the clothes from his back and free him of a layer, then he strips the remaining undershirt over his head. his sinewy arms flex instinctively, like he’s suddenly aware of their size. revealed is sun-warmed skin and taut muscle, each movement deliberate and aching. his broad shoulders roll, flexing with ease beneath the sunlight.

“this okay?” he asks softly, always gentle even when his self-control frays like threadbare cotton.

you nod, brushing the texture of his frictiony coveralls. “now these,” you whisper, tugging one suspender down one shoulder, then the other, until they’ve fallen off either side. the light-wash straps ripple down like dusk falling over the fields.

clark obeys without another word. he shuffles down his coveralls and strips the denim away, past rows of sculpted abs, his firm, meaty thighs and corded calves. underneath, his red boxers are hung suggestively low on his hips. the waistband is tugged down just enough for the shadow of his v-line to flex. he’s straining hard against the cotton, thick and barely contained, the shape of him unmistakable.

“you’re so good like this, letting me unwrap you,” you giggle, giving the bold imprint a once-over. his erection stored beneath flimsy fabric twitches as you lean in.

“this is all for you,” his voice is hushed like he’s pleading, “always was.” clark’s strong arms fold around your waistline and pull you flush to him like he intends to merge. his blue eyes drink you in with a need so strong it aches. he’s massive, carved as though he was meant to carry the world. yet somehow, he looks at you like you’re the one to worship.

“if i start . . . i don’t think i’ll know how to stop.”

you reach up, brushing the curve of his clean-shaven jaw, and he turns his head, pressing a kiss into your palm like a prayer.

“then don’t,” you whisper, kissing along the impeccable angling of his jawline. “let go with me.”

he dips his head low and just like that, he’s on you again; more urgent now. more teeth. he plants open kisses down your chest, and then his mouth— hot, open, wet, and closes around your nipple. his tongue swirls so intentionally that you can’t help the sounds you make.

“can’t believe i have you under me like this,” he unlatches with a vulgar pop, one hand sliding past lace and under your waistband. “hope the ground’s decent enough for you? sorry, i should’ve asked sooner.” a thick finger dips down and finds you soaked. you yelp.

“i— it’s fine, clark. mm, i promise,” you hadn’t meant for that to materialize into a moan. the pad of his index meets your sticky folds. he stills for a beat.

“. . . christ.”

then he moves. a bit to the left, up the center until he finds the pulse of you. clark starts off with little circles, slow at first, then firmer, with purpose. you emit a stringy gasp, hips rising into him. he anchors you with one imposing hand splayed on your waist, the other rubbing you out, his mouth never once leaving your skin.

he tries working you open and meets resistance, tight heat puckering against the pad of his finger.

“easy now, baby, easy,” he rumbles out, “open up for me— just like that, fuck.”

clark never swears. it’s just not in his nature. so when he does, rough and low under his breath, you clench rapidly and heat rushes to your core like a reflex. it’s so filthy, so unexpectedly fitting of him, and it turns you on far more than it should.

with a slow roll of his wrist, he presses past, sliding further in even when your thighs twitch around his hand. the way your body tightens with need has you clutching onto him like a lifeline.

“c-clark, i— ah!” he pumps another into you, both spanned digits drawing out, and in, and out again. the accompanying ‘ shlick ’ is simply obscene. your whine coils in his chest like a sharp tug, dragging him impossibly closer. he watches your face twist with each drag of his fingers. it’s pitiful. precious, even. nothing’s ever made him feel more powerful than having you leak and pulse under his touch, not even beaming golden sun-rays itself.

his rhythm deepens, curling in with new purpose, and you feel everything. clark kisses your hair when you cry out for him. all of it brings you too close too soon, like he’s studied your body in his sleep. you’re climbing fast, panting through parted lips, muscles locking and fluttering as heat winds up in your belly. you look down, dizzy, met with his soaked hand between your thighs, fingers glistening as they disappear into your body.

“clark—!” you gasp, voice barely there. he grunts against your ear like he’s barely holding on himself.

“that’s it, sugar. thaaat’s it,” his pace doesn’t dare let up. he kisses your nose, your jaw, your neck, “let go, sweetheart. i’ve got ya.”

and you do.

you’re completely come undone beneath him; legs shaking and chest heaving like your world is splitting at the seams. and clark just watches. a heavy palm settled on your hip, jaw slack, eyes blown wide as if he’s witnessing a miracle.

but his hands don't stay still for long. even as you’re catching your breath, he’s already mapping the next place to claim. his ring and middle finger slip free, slick with your tangy sweetness. he savors it with a long, teasing lick; just as he did after that first bite of fruit.

“please,” your trembling hand finds his bulge and latches on, soft but insistent, prying a low moan from deep in his throat. “want more of you, kal. ”

he inches down the last barrier between you with shaky fingers, breath heavy, knuckles pale from restraint. his eyes never leave yours. it’s not about the mechanics—never was. it’s about you. the way you look beneath him; flushed, soft and easily corruptible, textured hair fanned across orchard grass like you bloomed just for him.

finally, clark frees himself and—good god. you don’t even realize that you’d broken eye contact just to stare. he’s so fucking big. you’ve seen him before, but somehow it always feels new. and even if you hadn't, you’d simply look at the sheer breadth of him and just know. you’d expect the man of steel to be quite endowed anyway; full, girthy and fat, with a soft thatch of curls at his root, dark and damp with heat. he leaks steadily for you, swollen tip glossy with need.

you’d love to touch him—stroke him slow, savor the heavy heat of him in your palm, but you don’t get the chance. sizeable hands are braced on either side of your hips, trapping you beneath his strong and steady frame. clark’s already leaning in and sizing you up. he drops the full weight of himself against your bare belly and rests it there. thick, flushed, and heavy where it throbs over your pelvis.

“you gonna let me in, hm?”

he flicks his hips and grinds the underside of him right over your slit. there’s so much want, so little left between you. you nod, spit-slick lips parted. you blink up at him, dazed, and something in his expression fractures. “please, papa . . want it so bad.”

that’s all it takes.

clark pulls back just enough, breath hitching as he aligns himself with your sticky, fluttering hole. his cockhead catches onto your thrumming clit and you whimper. with his typical dopey smile, only half assured, he drags his fat tip through the slick mess he made of you earlier. the pair of you release your own raw noises in tandem when he starts to push in.

the entirety of him is too much at first. it always is. slow and unrelenting with such splitting width, like he’s carving out space inside you. your mouth falls open. he sinks even further and the searing stretch alone steals your voice completely. your fingers dig into his shoulders, rounded milky-pink nails catching on taut muscle. he’s thick. too thick. and yet your body opens for him like it’s been waiting all your life.

clark groans, low, guttural and helpless. “you’re so tight. jesus, baby. i can’t— i jus’ can’t—”

he bottoms out.

you both go still. his forehead, matted with sweat-drenched curls, presses to yours. a long, syrupy whine of his name tumbles out of you, and your parted hips are pressed flush to his, bare and burning. entering you isn’t nearly enough— he pushes in further, grinding in deep and slow; practically buries himself in you. the more he sinks in, impossibly so, the tighter your squeeze the length of him. his breath shakes in his throat.

“it’s yours, baby,” he moans out like a vow, eyes squeezed shut, “it’s all yours, it’s all yours . .”

now that you’re writhing and full of him, he kisses you again—deeper now, slower, like he needs to taste all of it. all of you. your puffy lips, your jaw, the curve of your throat. you revel in every wet stroke, every sultry flick, every soft lash of muscle. his teeth graze your skin, and the drag of his tongue is so hot it draws shivers. every part of him feels too firm, too solid, too much to take . . . but god, do you want it.

“you doin’ okay, sweetheart?” he rasps, lips brushing your temple. you nod, just barely. “mhm. you just . . feel so deep,” his hips make a deepening tilt forward and you gasp again, already breathless. to that, he smiles against your skin. “that’s ’cause i’m home now, baby— alllll the way in,” he bites down what’d have been a pitiful noise. your slick walls flutter, clenching greedily.

clark gathers both your wrists in one hand, fastens them over your head, and draws his hips back; just enough for the loss to echo inside you, leaving you to clench desperately around empty summer air. you whimper just in time for him to thrust forward again, splitting you open until your walls spasm around him in soft, rippling pulses. the further in he presses, the more you find yourself unraveling beneath him.

“y— you feel that?” his hips drag back, slow and torturous, before sliding home again. deep, unhurried. he watches pleasure break open across your pretty face. “please, baby,” he draws out and retreats again, stopping at the peak of his throbbing tip, then snaps back in, sinking into your warmth. his hand crawls down to play with your puffed clit, and you almost scream. he revels in your tight, rhythmic spasms. “tell me you can feel it.”

you moan, nuzzling your face in the heat of his wide flexing bicep, your legs instinctively curling around him. he catches your thigh in one steady grasp, hikes it higher up his torso, and plunges in hard. the air leaves your lungs in a sharp gasp, practically fucking knocked out of you. he’s stirring you up all over. he’s kissing everywhere. he’s inside everything.

“oooh— uh-huh,” your head tilts back into the quilted fabric underneath you, and he dives in low to nip at your jugular. all while you take him, the only thing you can muster to do right now anyway. your drooling pussy stretches wide around the shape of him, insatiably sucks in every inch. he splits you open and fills you so wholly, you couldn’t let him go if you tried. “can f-feel you, mmh . . everywhere, clark.”

“oh my god— you’re taking me so good, baby. so, so good.”

clark follows up with long, deep strokes, each thrust drawn-out like he’s savoring every drag. your feet cinch together around his back, breath hiccuping. his pelvis grinds into yours with perfect, aching pressure, brushing somewhere inside that makes your eyes roll back into your skull. each thrust brings about the thick swing of his weighty balls, landing sharp and heavy against the curve of your ass. his hands roam like he wants to crawl inside you and stay for good.

then he finds it—his thick cockhead grinding into that one devastatingly spongy little spot that has your body seizing around him. you arch and cry, able to make such delirious ruin appear so holy. clark licks a salty rolling tear off your cheek, pins down your waist with both hands, and holds you in place as he bullies his way into it, humping and fucking on the one spot that makes your body lurch. over and over, like he’s engraving his very name in your walls. you sob his name, fingernails sunk into his hair and scratching at his scalp. clark groans like he’s never gonna stop. he’s claimed a place nobody else could ever reach.

“there?” he asks, grinning now, voice sticky-sweet. he’s clearly pleased. “that’s the spot, right, sweetness?” you can’t even answer, barely conscious, shaking legs treating to give, brained fogged with the heat, with him. he bucks forward, chasing the wet clap of your bodies meeting, the sound that rips from your chest isn’t human. you can’t breathe. can’t think. he’s splitting you wide open like a peach pulled apart by hand— and you continue wanting for more.

you whine and sputter from every gut-stirring thrust, and the sight of you beneath him; flushed, leaking, so messily beautiful while clinging to him like he’s the very air you breathe, finally snaps the remaining thread of his reserve; clark’s even shocked he still had any left over. he can only thank Rao for the shred of kryptonian restraint still anchoring him. without it, he probably would’ve mauled you by now— snapped completely and fucked you right into the floor.

it’s gone now, so clark lets go. fucks you harder. he hates losing control, hates how it makes him feel like he could ruin you. but he knows that just as much, you love when he isn’t gentle. and your body shows it; so pliant, so eager, sucking around him with every hungered slam of his sturdy hips.

“you hear that?” he murmurs low and ragged, tone shaking with need. the resounding squelch of your soaked cunt rings loud between each slam. “that’s you, baby. so wet for me . . . all that just for me.”

“oh my god, c-clark— fuck, papa, i wannittt,” your pussy stretches wide around the heft of him, drooling and desperate, swallowing him inch by aching inch. he’s thick, heavy, unrelenting—and you take it all, the shape of him carving pleasure into you with every vigorous thrust. he leans down to you, so low that your breasts are bouncing against his solid chest. clark splits you open like a gift, perhaps something sacred, and stuffs you so full it’s dizzying. you clamp down so fast it’s obvious—your body won't let him leave.

“say it again,” his voice rumbles low and rough against the side of your throat he nuzzles into, hips snapping into you with brutal precision, “say you want it.”

“i, mmm— want your cock, want all of it . .” you break off with a sharp cry, legs trembling from the force of him inside you. “fuck me harder, jus’ fuck me, please—!”

“you beg so pretty, don’t stop,” the expanse of clark’s sweaty palms press down on your coiling belly. his cock drives up so deep it knocks the breath right out of your lungs, stealing sound and sanity alike. “takin’ it so good, sugar,” he coos into your ear, feeling tempted to bite it. your hands scramble for the broad plane of his firm back, desperate for something to anchor you, nails dragging and digging; nothing you do could ever mark him. he drives his feet into the ground to propel him, thrusts again and you nearly sob. juices slide down your slit and pool messily beneath your ass. “too deep, i-i can’t . . i need it, please— keep going, keep going,”

“i’ll give you everything, baby.” he whispers, awed and undone. you’re soft and spasming around him, bulging where he sinks deep. it drives him half-mad, the way he doubles you in size— thick and imposing enough to leave an outline in your tummy. you’re crying harder now, quaking on his lap, and it only spurs him further. his grip is hot and sure, pistoning in and out of you in a punishing rhythm. you wail for more and he gives it, fingers sweeping your pearly center, making you bounce on him like it’s instinct. his face is pink, ears burning, and he doesn’t even notice—too focused on breaking you apart just right.

something in you begins to crack and splinter. you can’t necessarily recall the very moment when, or which of clark’s actions had even prompted it— maybe the mouthwatering pressure he’s been rubbing onto your nub, or the way he keeps hammering into your pussy, paced so deliciously brutal. but you just know it the moment the world blurs and your limbs don’t listen anymore.

you lurch forward and feel everything slipping, clawing for something solid; his shoulders, his name, the earth itself. he feels you tighten around him, toppling over the edge. the moment your body pulses around him, his thrusts falter. he can fucking hear it; the stirring of your insides, the obscene squelch your sopping pussy makes, the single snap of a tightly drawn coil deep inside you.

“c-close,” you squeeze out, “oh, sweetheart. you gonna cum, hm?” his voice is dark satin, frayed with strain. your legs are trembling, thighs slick and twitching around his hips, and your cunt clenches so tight he nearly sees stars himself. your body screams yes for you when your mouth just can’t.

clark sees it; the flutter in your lashes, the wet, desperate gape of your lips, the starlight blinking out behind your eyes. something in him breaks. he groans along with you, his own noise raw and guttural like it’s being torn from somewhere buried. clark hauls you against the thick grind of him as he drives deeper, harder, messier. his face buries in your neck, lips dragging hot across your skin, drinking in every gasp you can still manage to make. he doesn’t dare stop; not when you’re this tight, this close— not when he’s the one pulling you apart so beautifully.

“oh yeah— there you go. come on, baby, come for me, i know you can do it. let me feel it, lemme—”

you completely undo.

your body obliges before you can answer. pleasure bursts wide open and crashes through you, white-hot and all-consuming. you cling to him, jolting with a full-body tremor, hips locking tight. he catches you fast, holding you upright as your cunt spasms ceaselessly around him. it’s too much. it’s not enough. there’s a pleasurable twinge of satisfaction settles low in his gut, what with being able to make you come like this. he holds you steady, murmuring your name like holy prayer.

“ohhh, that’s it. such a good girl, you’re so f—fucking good,” he grits his teeth and a foreign curse slip out. he feels your own orgasm ripple through him, a vice of heat and slick. “f-fuck, clark—mmnh, can’t—” you choke, words barely forming. they follow into gasps that he swallows up in a wet, devouring kiss, his tongue slotting into your agape mouth as he braces his forearm tight across your spine.

clark doesn’t stop. he fucks through the heat of you; every convulsion, every aftershock, until you’re sobbing, shaking, slurring broken pleas against his throat. he lets out a needy, bitten-off moan and buries his warm face in your neck.

his own unraveling nears, and it starts with a stutter in his pace, a helpless twitch of his hips. he drools onto your skin, panting with his mouth open and chest heaving, the trembling weight of his body suspended just barely above you, forehead pressed to yours. his thrusts falter, sloppy now, sweat slicking every inch of him as his forearms tremble beneath the strain. the pleasure is immeasurable. it’s breaking him. you must be his very own goddamn kryptonite.

“mmm, k—kal,” you hiccup, head lolled against the quilt beneath you. you try to say something, anything, but it only comes out in shattered gasps and breathless keens. clark plants a shaky kiss to your cheek. he understands. he always does.

“o-oh god, baby,” he slurs, moaning your name, voice raw. the sound is wrenched from deep in his ribs. “you feel what you’re doin’ to me? i’m almost—can’t hold it, feels so good, i’m, ah, i’m gonna—”

he comes. hard.

it overtakes him; balls tight, cock buried, hips jerking forward, body tensed like a struck chord as clark spills into you hot and deep. he growls into your neck and fucks you through every pulsing stream of inhuman cum, pushing through one final grind. he moans your name so low and reverent, breathing out a shaky prayer onto your collarbone as you milk him of everything—

— but there’s more. you should know by now; he’s a sun-born alien, of course he isn’t finished with you. “i’m gonna . . hngh, g’nna fill you up, honey,” he moans deep, wild and unrestrained in your ear, when another pump of cum follows. warm, heavy spurts flood you, coating every spongy inch. he practically sobs through it, flushed face buried in your neck, murmuring expletives and your name like a prayer. he keeps fucking you through it as you convulse, lazy now, slow and aching, even as he twitches and groans with every overstimulated drag.

your legs wrap tight around his waist as he stills; sealing him in, holding him down. he doesn’t try to leave— he can’t pull out. he won’t. clark simply grinds in deeper as if he’s trying to disappear inside, like his sticky-hot skin against you still isn’t close enough. he can never stand a breath of space between you after he comes.

there’s a wet warmth trickling out of you—his cum easing down the seam of your ass, thick and slow. you mewl, and he groans softly at the feeling. you gaze up at him, eyes glossy, lashes damp, barely breathing. it’s only the resounding thud of your heartbeat within your chest that lets him know you’re still here; that he didn’t take it too far.

“clark,” is your hoarse whisper. your hands lie beside your head, and he intertwines his own with them, his thumb tenderly grazing your knuckle. “i . . feel so full everywhere.”

clark cradles your face, letting out the softest laugh, and the sound carries something adoring; breaks halfway into something reverent. he kisses your cheek, your lips, and sweat-slicked temple. his heart thrums when you smile up at him weakly. then, the subtle shift of his hips, softening cock still plunged inside you, makes you twinge.

“sensitive?” he asks, and you release a breathless ‘ mhm. ’ “didn’t mean to go so hard,” clark murmurs, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear with trembling fingers. “you just looked so pretty, begging for it.”

“don’t be sorry,” you hum, a dazed little sound. you look like you’re still trying to remember your name, where you are, who he is. your hand unravels from his own to stroke up the expanse of his damp back. “it was perfect.”

“you’re perfect,” he breathes out. “can i clean you up, sweetheart?” his voice is low, gentle. “or just . . . hold you like this a little longer?”

you muster to lean upwards and peck the cleft of his chin, bliss-drunk when you air out, “hold me.”

so he does.

you lie tangled together, skin still sticky from sun and sex, limbs loose with the buzz of satisfaction. the blanket sheet is a crumpled mess around your legs, and clark’s fingers are tracing lazy, featherlight shapes along your hip; like he doesn’t want to stop touching, even for a second. he teases at your warm skin with a tickle, and you laugh all soft, delighted, a little shy beneath the heat of everything that went down.

your laughter draws him in, so he nuzzles into the damp crook of your neck, lips brushing your loud, beating pulse. with a weighted hand at your waist and his thumb stroking your cheek, clark kisses you slow and indulgent, like he’s savoring the incomparable taste of you all over again.

“next time,” his hand slips down to knead at your ass. you moan sweetly into the kiss. “i’m skipping the apple and going straight for you.”

#‹ ୭̥⋆*｡ 𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐄 𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐃 .ᐟ ๑՞. ›#BITCHHHHH #THIS WAS SO HOT SUUU #icr verbatim #but him saying smth like #“idk how to touch something like you” or wtv...#mmfhshbhdb #ugh he's sooooo #reader calling him kal...#that one line about him being carved to carry the world #but he's worshipping reader in this moment #loved that #girl how the fuck u come back after a year of not writing #and drop gold #fomffff #so good loved it

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arachine · 25 days ago

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"𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐖 𝐌𝐄, 𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐓𝐋𝐄 𝐇𝐔𝐌𝐀𝐍"

✧﹕sesshomaru x reader

╰ content warnings: dub!con, pregnant sex, rough sex, predator/prey dynamics lowkey... power imbalance, marking, mating bond, jealousy, angst w/ porn. i'm sorry for writing this (*ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈)

There’s a reason why it’s uncommon for demons to mate with humans. The size difference, the frailty of humans, and numerous other complications made it more often a nuisance than something desired by demons.

Despite all that, a certain dog demon found himself bound to a mortal woman.

“Sesshomaru!” Your nails rake at the ground, his thighs, anything you could reach.

“Be quiet,” he growls between thrusts, pushing your thighs higher, they were nearly touching your chest and your rear wasn’t even on the ground anymore. “You continue to test me, little human. Why is that?” His sharp fangs graze your neck, demanding an answer, but the best you can muster is a whimper.

“I try to abide by your wishes,” he nudges deeper, almost touching your womb. “But you continue to act recklessly, like you do not know what you carry inside of you.” Your little bump was hardly noticeable, most people in the village had not noticed, especially the guy who had been pursuing you for years. He’s the true reason you are in this predicament.

It all started because of a stupid talisman. The innocent (but very persistent and a little annoying) young man offered it to you after hearing about how you frequently became ill and so weak that you couldn’t get out of bed some days lately. Little did he know it was because you were growing a demon’s baby inside of you.

Sesshomaru saw the entire exchange, and naturally, it didn’t sit right with his instincts to protect you.

So could you blame him for claiming you in the woods, only a short distance from the village? Could you blame him for losing his temper? Could you blame him for trying to leave his mark on you again since human males are so ignorant to the obvious signs he left?

No, it was your fault. If you hadn’t let that village man touch you so casually.

No one touched his mate but him.

“Mine,” he growls into your neck, tongue laving over the mark behind your ear that was still healing. Perhaps he should leave another, but in a spot that no one will miss. He considers it as his mouth travels south to your collarbone, leaving kisses that involve more teeth than lips.

“Sesshomaru, please!”

A grumble of displeasure sounds from him before he pulls back, sitting up on his knees as he grabs one of your ankles and hoists your leg up high over his shoulder. “Please what? Please have mercy on you? I’ve tried that.” He pushes deeper, this time nudging your cervix. It makes you clamp your legs, well at least attempt to, but his broad frame is in the way and he easily pries them back open.

“You are stubborn,” he starts with a grip on your face, forcing you to look at him. “You are arrogant. And you are far too naive for your own good.” He hurls each comment with a hiss and rough thrust to match, unfazed as tears brim your eyes. “I shouldn’t have to watch over you everyday like a porcelain doll. Not when you can just be by my side.”

He shouldn’t have made that deal with you. Instead of allowing you to stay in the village in exchange for keeping his child, he should’ve just taken you with him. That’s what his brain, crazed with primal instincts, believed right now.

You helplessly push at his chest.

“Why do you fight me at every turn?” He takes your hands and pins them above your head in the dried leaves on the ground. You’ll smell of dirt and his scent, but he preferred that over some random male who shouldn’t even be looking in your direction.

“You’re hurting me. Be gentle!” A tear escapes but it doesn’t tug at his heartstrings one bit.

“Your actions do not warrant gentleness, little human.” His words are terse. Besides, if he were truly hurting you, you wouldn’t be relying on his name and meaningless words like ‘no’ and ‘stop’, instead you’d be using the safeword.

So save your fake tears.

He doesn’t even slow down when your release causes you to tremble in his hold, only tightening his grip. “See, I was merciful enough to let you orgasm. But you are selfish,” he says, leaning closer so that his weight is pushing your thigh against your chest, toes curling behind his back.

“Do you want me to breed you again? Is that what you want?”

“No!”

“Then what?” His voice is loud, startling the birds nearby. When you begin to sob he finally stops his ceaseless plundering. He’s stunned with confusion. Did he truly hurt you? He needed answers, and he’s about to press for one as he wipes your tears but you offer it willingly.

“I just want you to love me!”

For the first time in his life, the demon was lost. He was unsure if his mate had gone mad with hysteria — which was not uncommon when mortals are subdued to the nature of demons.

“I do love you.” Is this not how humans show their love? Do they not mate and consummate a child?

“This is not love Sesshumaru. I am not cattle for you to breed whenever you desire. It takes more than that to love someone.” From the way he tilts his head, he does not understand. “You have to spend time with me. Cherish me. Sex is not everything.” Instead of courting you as humans did, he skipped straight to forming a mating bond.

A huge misstep on his part.

He tries to process this for a moment, his golden hues never leaving yours. “Can you show me how, my little human?” It’s one of the few times there’s no malice in the words ‘little human’, he means it as a term of endearment. Not the best nickname for his lover but it’s a step in the right direction.

His hold on your slackens, and you craddle his face to ghost kisses over his sweat-glistened skin. You carve a path from his lips, up his right cheek to his forehead. He throbs inside of you, and you tell from his tense muscles that he’s holding back from ravaging you again. “You treat everything as a conquest, but love is not a battle.”

You kiss him deeply, grinding your hips against his, a silent request for him to continue. His body responds with a slow wind of his hips, as if he was carefully stoking the fire in your core this time around. The leaves are crumpled into flakes on either side of your head.

It was like he didn’t know how to properly hold you.

“You never hold my hands,” you murmur softly after breaking the kiss and sliding your palms under his, urging them to relax and intertine with your delicate fingers. Sesshomaru’s hands dwarfed yours, another reminder of the imbalance between the two of you.

“Will you stay after?”

“What?” It comes out strained and laced with confusion. All of his mental power was focused on pleasure so he couldn’t figure out what you were asking of him right now.

“Stay with me, for just a little while.”

He never stayed after making love to you. The significance of doing so was beyond him despite his experience and knowledge of how to please a woman. But to be fair, you never asked for him to stay either and given your initial refusal to remain by his side, he assumed that you wanted space. It was already bad enough that he forced this entire situation upon you so suddenly…

“Is that what you truly wish for?”

“Yes, spend time with me. Hold me for a while and promise me it’ll be okay. Do you know how lonely it is for us?” His heart cracks a little when he hears your sad tone and the mention of the small child in your womb. This might be the first time you’ve ever acknowledged its existence — albeit indirectly — since discovering you were pregnant.

It seems you both are working through growing pains that have stemmed from this new bond. A hand returns to your face, gently cupping instead of grabbing, “Then I’ll stay. And I will bring you the spoils of my hunt in the morning.”

“Please no more dead rabbits at my door,” you groan playfully.

“Okay, no dead rabbits then.” There’s a faint smile as he hugs you a little closer, continuing this act of coupling on the forest floor.

Such a simple promise on the surface, but it’s meaning runs deeper than it appears.

#‹ ୭̥⋆*｡ 𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐄 𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐃 .ᐟ ๑՞. ›#idk...#been rewatching inuyasha #ignore me

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arachine · 26 days ago

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man who cums in you in prone bone then flips you over to do it again immediately in missionary

#BGHGCLUFK #omfg #:: — thirsts !

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arachine · 28 days ago

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how the fuck do you employed ppl have the time to work your 9-5s and still have the energy to go home and write 10k word fics...wtf

#what is y'all's secrets #when i was a teen #this was light work #but i close almost every other day #i physically cannot

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arachine · 28 days ago

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To match your freak I’m requesting a hiccup smut fic. This is where the reader is like 5 foot exactly meanwhile (if you look it up it tells you) Hiccup is 6 foot 1. This could be like the reader just always getting flustered when hiccup has to look down to look at her because of his height. not going to lie I’m such a freak for hiccup though so I will gladly match your hiccup freakiness

i don't take requests, i only write and expand upon thirsts/concepts.

#‹ ୭̥⋆*｡ 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 :: 𝐮𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 ´͈ ᵕ `͈ ๑՞. ›

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arachine · 28 days ago

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𝐻𝒪𝒩𝐸𝒴𝒞𝑅𝐼𝒮𝒫!

❤︎ ₊ ˙ ⊹ visiting clark’s farm-home means sticky summer heat, a slipping dress, and tension so palpable it tastes like sin.

the kent farm is alive. it smells of apple skin and warm earth, hums with the lazy heat of late afternoon— golden and honey-thick. it’s the kind of place that ripens everything it touches.

there’s a honeycrisp apple in his hand. freshly plucked, still warm from the sun. he tosses it once, then catches it with a lazy smile.

“you ever had one right off the branch?” he asks, voice all slow charm and kansas drawl. he pushes up his glasses to tame the wild ringlets of dark hair falling into his brow.

you shake your head, watching the way his fingers curl around the fruit. big, careful hands . . . the kind that could tear you apart or cradle you whole.

he takes a bite. crisp. loud. juice trickles down his wrist, glinting in the sunlight.

your throat goes absolutely dry.

“mm, sweet . . .” he murmurs, wiping the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. he holds temptation right there in his very palm. “here,” his offer is gentle, “try it.”

the apple sits heavy in your palm; ripe, red, split down one side where his teeth have already broken the skin.

“bet it’s the best thing you’ll taste all day.”

you arch a soft brow, tilting your chin up. “why don’t you feed me, farmboy?”

that gets him. his mouth twitches at the corner, and he brings the fruit to your lips himself, like you knew he would. he spurs you on with a slow command, “open.”

clark’s breath leaves him in a broken sigh. he doesn’t move. “jesus,” he exhales like it’s been ripped out of him.

when you look up again, clark’s already watching your mouth— entirely smitten, barely restrained. his gaze doesn’t waver. his own lips part ever so slightly.

“you’ve got juice,” he says softly, touch ghosting towards your jaw, resisting the urge to catch it, “right . . . here.”

he wipes it off with his thumb, then brings it to his mouth. sucks it clean.

the apple falls into the grass, forgotten.

your lips part helplessly, but nothing comes out. just the lucent ghost of his name, a miserable attempt at ‘ clark ’ that unravels him enough to close the space between you.

“kiss me.”

his mouth is on yours in the next breath— no hesitation, not a single question. just heat. perhaps a bit of hunger.

your gasp catches against his mouth, and it’s just about the holiest thing he’s ever heard. his own growls follow; dark, guttural and drawn from somewhere so primal even he’s scared to face it.

it’s only when you weakly knack his bicep, gasping for a sliver of air, that he pulls away. it feels wrong to be rid of your lips, even for a second.

“tryin’ to be a gentleman here, promise. just . . . not doing a great job right now.”

“tell me to stop,” he rasps, “might do somethin’ reckless.”

“you’re always so careful, clark . . i want to see what reckless looks like on you.”

“y— you sure, sweetheart?” his smile cracks crooked and dazed, like he’s barely holding himself together. you swear he’s got hearts in his eyes.

“so soft,” he mutters, almost to himself. “everywhere.”

“say it’s okay,” he pants. “say i can—”

“take it off, kal.”

“beautiful,” his knuckles faintly trace beneath the swell of your breast. he revels in how sweetly you whine. “don’t even know how to touch something like you.”

you sit up, and lord forgive him—his gaze drops, slow and helpless, to the delicious sway of your bosom. he’s more than convinced you’re his temptation made flesh.

“you’ve got too many clothes on for someone who’s touching me like that,” you want to make quick work of his shirt. the fabric between you suddenly feels cruel. “your turn.”

“aw, you’re blushing,” you tease, eyes dancing.

he huffs a laugh, breathless.

“hard not to when you’re lookin’ at me like that.”

“this okay?” he asks softly, always gentle even when his self-control frays like threadbare cotton.

“you’re so good like this, letting me unwrap you,” you giggle, giving the bold imprint a once-over. his erection stored beneath flimsy fabric twitches as you lean in.

“if i start . . . i don’t think i’ll know how to stop.”

you reach up, brushing the curve of his clean-shaven jaw, and he turns his head, pressing a kiss into your palm like a prayer.

“then don’t,” you whisper, kissing along the impeccable angling of his jawline. “let go with me.”

“i— it’s fine, clark. mm, i promise,” you hadn’t meant for that to materialize into a moan. the pad of his index meets your sticky folds. he stills for a beat.

“. . . christ.”

he tries working you open and meets resistance, tight heat puckering against the pad of his finger.

“easy now, baby, easy,” he rumbles out, “open up for me— just like that, fuck.”

with a slow roll of his wrist, he presses past, sliding further in even when your thighs twitch around his hand. the way your body tightens with need has you clutching onto him like a lifeline.

“clark—!” you gasp, voice barely there. he grunts against your ear like he’s barely holding on himself.

“that’s it, sugar. thaaat’s it,” his pace doesn’t dare let up. he kisses your nose, your jaw, your neck, “let go, sweetheart. i’ve got ya.”

and you do.

“please,” your trembling hand finds his bulge and latches on, soft but insistent, prying a low moan from deep in his throat. “want more of you, kal. ”

“you gonna let me in, hm?”

that’s all it takes.

clark groans, low, guttural and helpless. “you’re so tight. jesus, baby. i can’t— i jus’ can’t—”

he bottoms out.

“it’s yours, baby,” he moans out like a vow, eyes squeezed shut, “it’s all yours, it’s all yours . .”

“oh my god— you’re taking me so good, baby. so, so good.”

“say it again,” his voice rumbles low and rough against the side of your throat he nuzzles into, hips snapping into you with brutal precision, “say you want it.”

“i, mmm— want your cock, want all of it . .” you break off with a sharp cry, legs trembling from the force of him inside you. “fuck me harder, jus’ fuck me, please—!”

“oh yeah— there you go. come on, baby, come for me, i know you can do it. let me feel it, lemme—”

you completely undo.

he comes. hard.

“clark,” is your hoarse whisper. your hands lie beside your head, and he intertwines his own with them, his thumb tenderly grazing your knuckle. “i . . feel so full everywhere.”

“you’re perfect,” he breathes out. “can i clean you up, sweetheart?” his voice is low, gentle. “or just . . . hold you like this a little longer?”

you muster to lean upwards and peck the cleft of his chin, bliss-drunk when you air out, “hold me.”

so he does.

“next time,” his hand slips down to knead at your ass. you moan sweetly into the kiss. “i’m skipping the apple and going straight for you.”

#to read later #BEEN WAITING FOR THIS ONE

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