the-resident-vampire

[the-resident-vampire]

this is the dad I got

[the-resident-vampire]

happy birthday to me, happy birthday to me ✨

[the-resident-vampire]

it’s my birthday!

[the-resident-vampire]

I turn 25 tomorrow ✨

[the-resident-vampire]

rpf and fanfic books are the live action remakes of the publishing industry

[the-resident-vampire]

my brain: you got a corporate visit, stores gotta be perfect

also my brain: so new Clark Kent is a freak right? You should write smut, jk, you’re gonna crash moment you hit the pillow when you clock out

[the-resident-vampire]

I love that Clark Kent canonically listens to All Time Low and Florence and the Machine according to James Gunns playlist

[the-resident-vampire]

first off I love your writing so so much it’s so nice to read as someone who has a hard time visualizing text. second, if requests are cool can I please have Clark x reader whos having her first time with him and he’s doing everything in his power to be gentle but he’s so so big and she’s so so tiny. please and thank you :)

warnings: explicit sexual content・size difference・unprotected p in v ・f!reader | MDNI 18+ note. thank you so so much for the kind words anon

at least clark had the decency to look a little sheepish about it when he took his briefs off.

you’d sort of seen it before, hard through fabric, but seeing it bare, up close, fully erect—it was profane.

not so much a cock as a physical punchline, anatomically satirical in scale and proportioned with the kind of overkill that feels biologically implausible. pendulous, heavy between his thighs, thick veins ridging the shaft in ropes. it curved faintly to one side, looming rather than standing. his cock wasn’t just large—it didn’t look like it belonged to an earthly man. it looked like the last thing someone saw in a fertility cult nightmare.

you stared. then glanced at your own body.

“where’s that supposed to go?”

eyes downcast, clark rubbed the back of his neck, “it’s uh—yeah, i know. we don’t have to do anything. really.”

it’s a goddamn weapon, you thought, and swallowed hard. he kissed you again, like he was trying to gentle the mood back into something manageable. but once he had you underneath him, big hands petting along your sides, lining himself up with the trembling slick of your cunt, his restraint was working overtime. “okay,” you breathed. “you’re gonna go slow, right?”

“so slow.” he repeated, solemnly.

it took effort. lube, patience, several pillows, and his constant stream of soft reassurances. and to his credit, he tried. god, he tried. you felt the thick head nudge against your entrance and every instinct screamed to tense and to close up, but his hand is stroking your back and his lips were on your neck, whispering between kisses, “breathe, honey.” one palm slipping up to cradle the base of your skull. “you’re doing so good. you feel like heaven.” the stretch was unlike anything you felt before. it burned like a slow wildfire, trying to take him. the sheer accomplishment of taking in the head made your water, fingers clutching his bicep as though it were a lifeline.

“too much?” he asked, voice hoarse. you shook your head defiantly, even as tears blurred your vision. inch by inch, he fed it in, until your belly felt full and your walls pulsed around him like it couldn’t decide whether to accept or reject the intrusion. clark looked down where you were joined, watching himself disappear into you with a sort of dazed disbelief. his hand came to rest on your lower abdomen, palm spreading just beneath your navel.

“look at this,” he marvelled. voice an octave higher than usual. “that’s me.” stroking where the obscene outline of him pressed from the inside. you keened, clenching around him. a wet, strangled groan escapes him.

“don’t do that—please don’t, ’m barely holding on.”

and clark, sweet clark, buried his face in your neck and mumbled an apology before he reared back his hips just to carefully rock back in. a gasp punched out of you, unbidden. legs locked tighter around his waist.

“you okay?”

you smiled, dazed.

“ask me that again when i can walk.”

[the-resident-vampire]

Me searching for fanfics after watching a series/film/videogame/reading a book and becoming obsessed with that character:

[the-resident-vampire]

LADIES, LADIES, LADIES! ONE AT A TIME PLEASE 🤚

[the-resident-vampire]

"holy shit they finally confessed, what comes next--"

[the-resident-vampire]

OH MY CLARK!!!😭😭💞💞😍😍

I don't have words to describe what I am feeling. This is THE NERDIEST CLARK we ever got. He literally tumbled out of comics.

[the-resident-vampire]

DAVID CORENSWET Behind the scenes of SUPERMAN (2025)

[the-resident-vampire]

gods and monsters. (c.kent) //masterlist

“Put your hands on my waist, do it softly Me and God, we don't get along.”

the plot:

Violet Blackwood has been the center of attention, not like she's ever not been. The gossip sites devour her romance with Bruce Wayne, and her heartbreak - the press tears apart her father, and the rest of her family, Blackwood & Falcone alike, are either dead or scattered out to parts of the world that no one would dare to look.

Moving to Metropolis should hopefully be a new start.

timeline: After the events of The Batman (2022) and The Penguin, and before the events of Superman (2025).

pairing: Clark Kent x socialite!OC

disclaimer: mob ties, mentions of past traumas, mature themes and canon typical violence. angst, a lot of angst. eventual smut.

contents:

One > Cupid Intervention (coming soon to a news stand near you!)

[the-resident-vampire]

CARNALITY

CLARK KENT X AFAB!READER

SUMMARY: you have an itch that you can’t scratch—an itch so severe, that only your boyfriend is capable of handling it. in other words: you’re ovulating and all you want is clark.

CONTENT: 18+, mdni!! this shit is pure porn (but it's still romantic, okay?). established relationship; piv; oral (fem!receiving); (mentioned) masturbation; ovulation/breeding kink; hella fucking; size kink, ofc (clark is big, but we all knew that); creampie; overstimulation - reader just wants to be dicked down and clark is happy to help

WORD COUNT: 2.3k

NOTES: if you couldn’t tell, I wrote this while I was ovulating.

•

You tried to resist the urge to jump Clark’s bones the second he got home.

Really, you did.

It looked like he had a long day. All drowsy and sleepy-eyed from the moment he opened the front door. Even the first few buttons of his shirt had been undone; tie and suit jacket uncharacteristically draped over the crook of his arm.

You knew he was exhausted.

Because of that, you told yourself that you shouldn’t ask him to fuck your brains out.

It just wouldn’t have been fair. Clark needed rest. He needed you to coax him into the shower, to massage his tender muscles afterward, pull him into your lap and fall asleep to the sound of each other’s breathing.

And that was okay. You could wait.

Sure, you would’ve been incredibly pent up, and probably would’ve had to tuck the comforter between your legs for some relief, but you could wait.

You were willing to wait.

But then Clark—the love of your love; your sweet, doting Clark—just had to go and be himself.

Of course, he had to look at you like that—all lovestruck and practically melting on the spot. Of course, he greeted you with a kiss—dreamy and ardent, using every ounce of energy he had left. Of course, he just had to groan a hearty, “missed you” into your mouth. And then, to make matters worse, Clark decided to ask, rather innocently, what you had been up to all day.

By that point, your resolve had completely crumbled, and you ended up telling him everything.

You mentioned the 7am cycle tracker notification. You told him that you tried to get yourself off so many times, you’re pretty sure you killed your vibrator. And you even confessed how unsatisfied you still were. You just couldn’t stop talking—couldn’t stop saying his name; couldn’t stop telling him you missed him too; couldn’t stop whining about how badly you needed him.

After that, things were a bit of blur.

One minute you were kissing him in the hall, and the next, you were writhing on the dining room table while he mercilessly ate you out.

He had already pulled one orgasm out of you—a consequence of your hyper-sensitivity. It was so abrupt, you didn’t even realize what happened until you felt the tension building all over again.

“Oh—shit, Clark.” A particular flick of his tongue had you gasping and carding your fingers through his curls. “Fuck. That’s—oh, that’s…” Another purposeful flick, another broken moan.

“I know, honey,” Clark coos. “Try to relax. You deserve this.”

You almost laughed at his words.

He was the one who deserved to feel good. He should’ve been receiving toe-curling head, not you. But that was just your boyfriend: selfless, chivalrous.

Clark smiles into your folds, making random noises that force your thighs to clamp around his head.

You reason then, that it’s truly incredible how much you lucked out with him.

“It seems like you’re doing more thinking than relaxing, honey.” When your eyes meet Clark’s, you nearly come on the spot.

The man has stopped lapping at you, but his face still hovers closely to your cunt—skin flushed a pretty pink; lips swollen and glistening. Impressively broad shoulders cage you in, keeping you all to himself and away from the prying eyes of the world. It looks like he’s guarding a meal.

It’s a rather dangerous sight, honestly.

“…Can’t help it,” is all you manage to say.

He nods, playfully. “Mind sharing, pretty girl?”

You pause. He waits. “...I just…get caught up with the thought of you, I guess.” That blinding smile of his starts to appear. Shy eyes flicker between your face and the mess between your legs.

“You and me both. I’m always thinking about you. It drives me freaking crazy.” You laugh at his use of ‘freaking’, and Clark smiles, a little mesmerized, because of it. “Gosh, you’re so beautiful.”

The words are intensely affectionate. So much so, you have no other choice but to look away.

Clark starts smoothing his hands over your hips, toying with the flesh as if amusing himself. “Now, please relax, and let me get back to what I was doing. You needed me today, and I wasn’t here—I gotta make it up to you, baby.”

You want to remind him there’s nothing to make up. Not really, anyway. But with the way his icy blue eyes bore into yours—pleading and craving—you think it’d be downright evil of you to refuse.

Clark doesn’t waste any time once you give the go-ahead.

He mouths and sucks at your clit, over and over, continuing the ministrations until the straining knot in your stomach threatens to snap. “Clark...”

“You’re okay, baby. I got you. I got you.”

It’s the feeling of his flattened tongue at your entrance that has you letting go.

Clark guides you through the murkiness of your release. He maps out your sensitivities in ways only he can as you shudder and sigh. He’s the one you trust most—with anything and everything.

You even trust him to know that you still need more. That you still need more of his mouth, his chest, his hands, and that goddamn weapon currently straining in his pants.

When you’re ready, Clark helps you meet him at the edge of the table. He discards of your shirt, and patiently waits for you to undress him.

It’s an indulgence for the both of you.

Ever since the start of your relationship, you’ve been enamoured with taking his clothes off. Most of the time, you take it slow and you tease him. But not tonight.

Tonight, it only takes a few seconds for his clothes to join yours on the floor.

Mouth reaching for his, you tug at his upper lip and explore your own taste on his tongue. A quiet noise akin to a huffed whimper escapes him. “Want you, Clark. Need you so fucking bad.”

You’re nuzzling his neck now, inhaling the faint scent of his cologne. Rough hands forcefully inch down your back, drawing you closer. Your head spins from how heavy he is between your legs. Heavy and delightfully warm.

“Clark, please,” you whine.

He’s fallen into a pattern of marking your chest. A nip to your chin, a kiss to the curve of your breast, a bruise sucked into the junction of your shoulder. “Just wanna take care of you. Please, baby, let—agh—” He nearly chokes when you begin to stroke him.

For a man—Metropolis’ most beloved hero—who was supposed to be stronger than anything, he was so incredibly sensitive, so wondrously fragile at your touch. It drives you crazy, knowing you’re the only one who gets to see Superman like this.

“Don’t. Umph. Stop. Stop. Wanna—wanna c-come in you.”

You bite back a devilish grin. “Sorry, did you say don’t stop?”

He moans your name in gentle warning.

Eventually, you let him go—but only when his tip is a blushing red and he starts rutting into your palm.

Eyes locked on each other, you lie back down and wriggle your hips against his.

The ridge of his brow is set with a new sense of determination as he lines himself up with your weepy hole.

The stretch that comes after is obscene.

It pries a silent scream from you. Has your back violently arching to better accommodate the too-big cock bullying through your walls.

A hoarse cry breaks free from your throat, and Clark is on you in an instant. “I know, I know. ‘M sorry. So, so sorry.” His hands grab yours and lace your fingers together before easing them back down to the table. “You gotta breathe, baby, remember? Have to breathe for me.” You nod helplessly, eyes screwed shut as you try to do just that.

By the time Clark bottoms out, your third orgasm is well on its way.

As you adjust to the full sensation, Clark moves your hips in a way that allows him to sit comfortably in you. “Just—ah—tell me whe-en.”

Clark starts off slow when you assure him you’re ready. It’s his go-to: shallow thrusts that test the waters of your tolerance. Only when the sound of your whimpering grows louder does he finally pick up the pace.

He grunts through gritted teeth, swallowing a sharp breath each time your hips meet. “Can—agh—can f-feel you.”

“Wha-what?” You almost can’t hear your voice over the sound of slapping skin.

You even almost miss Clark’s response. “You’re warmer. Wetter. I feel it.”

It takes a bit to catch up to what he’s saying, but you think he’s talking about your cycle. In that, he can feel, maybe even see, the inner-body workings of your ovulation.

With a slipping grip, Clark repositions your lower body—one arm hooking both of your legs over his left shoulder while his hips keep time. You can tell he’s close—muscles in his arms stiff, cock throbbing deep inside you.

The echo of your name is enunciated with a single powerful thrust. It hits you deep, eliciting a rather strangled sound.

“Shit, Clark, m’close,” you warn with a squeak. “Wanna come, Clark. Fuck, I’m gonna—”

His gaze flashes up to your face. “Me too. So, so close, baby. Just—just hang on.” He comes once he’s fully sheathed within you; your own release following suit a few moments after.

The warmth that pools in your lower belly has you grinding your hips and smiling all stupid. But even as you come down, your hips keep rolling: lazy movements that don’t really amount to much, but are enough to tell Clark you’re not done.

The man mouths at your thigh tenderly. “You sure? ...You seem tired, sweetheart. We can take a break—“

“No.” You surprise yourself with your own harshness. “I can take it. Please, Clark.” He visibly gulps. “Need you to fill me up. Please, please, I want you. Want more—”

The speed at which you’re lifted is startling.

Your limbs desperately flail to wrap around him, despite knowing he’d never drop you. The ground below passes by as Clark navigates furniture and the overall layout of your shared apartment.

Suddenly, you’re placed against a wall, held up only by sheer strength of his arousal. It’s an action that sets a match to something raw and exciting deep within the space of your ribs.

Appreciative and giddy, you kiss the tip of Clark’s nose. “I love you,” you say quite loudly. Boldly.

The man in question glides his lips along your pulse point. “Think I love you a little more, sweetheart.”

“…Gonna prove it?”

You don’t even have to ask.

With the remnants of your slick and his seed, Clark shoves into you with one thrust. Ankles crossed around his back, hands white-knuckling the thick cords of his shoulders, you brace yourself.

The pace he settles on—a combination of fucking into you, and pulling your hips down to fuck him—is absolutely filthy. Pornographic, even.

One particular rut has you screaming; neck craning backward in a way that honestly should be inhumane. Clark at least has half a mind left to put a hand behind your head so you don’t get hurt. You would thank him, but you’re still focused on the sounds he’s ripping from you.

“I’m sorry, so—you just feel too—feel so amazing, baby. Taking me so well,” he grunts. “Pretty sure you were made for me.”

Grabbing a fistful of his hair, you lift his face to meet yours; to look him in the eye as you both fall—exactly how he likes it.

“Making me feel so good, Clark,” you cry. “So, so, so good.” Another growl that sounds a lot like your name fills the space.

Clark’s hips start to stutter, likely from the feeling of you clenching down hard onto him. It’s all too much, so much, and yet not enough. You make a point of clenching again.

“Stop that,” he begs. “I-I, shit—fuck, baby, I’m gonna come if you keep doing that.”

You can’t help the smile that stretches across your face. It’s a direct reflection of your ego—a smile only reserved for him. The kind that seems to come out once in a blue moon when you manage to get Clark Kent to swear.

Your hips feel like they’re on fire. Sore, and nearly satiated. And Clark’s rock hard, but he’s close. So close. His thrusts are frenzied, and less precise, but still brutal.

At this point, you’re clawing at him, desperate to ground yourself as each slam of his hips brings you closer and closer to that edge.

“You take such good care of me. Agh—fu-fucking me so good.” You swallow hard over nothing. “You gonna come for me, Clark? Shit, ple-please come for me. Fucking—oh my god, I’m coming. I’mcomingI’m—” The crashing feeling that spreads out from your lower back makes your vision cloudy and leaves you a twitching, hiccuping mess.

With a loud groan, Clark spills into you: thick and gooey and molten—the kind of fullness that makes you think you’re walls will be permanently coated.

His hips come to a lazy stop, somewhere between him mumbling something about “doing so good” and you nearly passing out then and there.

“Are you okay?” You let out a contented hum.

“...A warm bath sounds kind of awesome right now, don’t you think?”

Clark gives you a dopey smile, and presses his forehead to yours. “Whatever you want.”

[the-resident-vampire]

soft dom!clark kent teaching inexperienced reader | 18+

he keeps one hand braced behind him on the mattress, the other cradling your the back of your head. callused fingers splayed at your nape, thumb grazing the hinge of your jaw. your lips part, wrapping around him tentatively, eyes flicking up toward his face. the warmth of his cock fills your mouth in increments, the unfamiliar weight heavy on your tongue. your jaw aches already. sensing your trepidation, he strokes the side of your face.

“go slow,” clark murmurs, “just—mhgm, yeah. just like that.”

your mouth eases off him with a quiet pop, until only the engorged tip rests between your lips. lick a long strip down the veiny length, then take him again, deeper. his cock presses past your palate, and spit gathers at the corner of your mouth, dribbling down your chin as you bob your head. “keep your tongue under,” he instructs softly, rubbing his thumb slowly against the apple of your cheek. “don’t worry about mess.”

“fuuuuck.. that’s it. such a fast learner.” clark sucks in a deep breath through his teeth, the cut of abdominal muscle twitching when you hollowed out your cheeks. “doing a great job, baby.” more confidently, your fingers wraps around the base, stroking in compensation for what your mouth can’t reach. a groan bubbles deep from his throat, low and strained.

you gag once, tears prickling.

“don’t rush,” he shushes, fingers scratching soothingly against your scalp. “just—keep going like that. f-fuck—you’re perfect.” there’s gravel in his voice now; strain bleeding through the seams. his grip in your hair tightens, as his cock pulses against your tongue. another twitch.

“baby wait, you don’t have to. you can spit if you want—oh.”

you swallow him down before the sentence finishes. thick spurts hit your tongue, warm and saline, carrying a bitter tang but not unbearable. the reflex takes effort, but you manage, throat working around him while tears slip from your lashes. cock twitching with residual spasms, he moans through grit teeth.

clark eases himself from your mouth, the rosy pink tip glistening. large hand cradles your jaw, wiping at the slick corner of your mouth with the back of a knuckle. “c’mere,” he tucks himself away with one hand and, with the other, guides you to sit back on the mattress. kneeling down, he settles between your legs and presses his lips to the inside of your thigh.

“my turn.”

[the-resident-vampire]

HIS FAVOURITE POSITIONS . CLARK KENT

contains : smut ‧ established relationship ‧ fem!reader ‧ soft dom!clark ‧ unprotected p in v ‧ headcanons | MDNI 18+ note. english is not my first language, ignore typos

missionary is his default—and without question, his favourite. no, not from laziness or lack of imagination. clark could fuck you standing, airborne, even upside-down against the ceiling if you asked. but this position offers him something else entirely: clarity. an unfiltered view of you, beautiful and beneath him, offering up every tell: the slight quiver of your lashes, the stuttering syllables that break apart upon your tongue. the reedy hitch in your breath each time he angles his hips just right.

he presses your wrists into the mattress, spanning both with a single hand. the other slips beneath your lower back, lifting you slightly to angle you just so, tilting your pelvis until your body yields, and the thick head of his cock slides past resistance and into that aching, receptive place that only he can reach. he leans down and fucks into you even deeper, barely needing leverage. and the stretch burns in the sweetest way, your velvety walls fluttering helplessly around him as he settles fully inside. he touches where your own fingers couldn’t dream of reaching, and you swear you can feel him in your stomach—though the rational part of your brain insists that’s impossible. the whole time, his sky-blue gaze never strays from yours. clark never looks more in love than when he’s fucking you face-to-face.

prone bone is his answer to your worst behavior. when you’re riding the edge of insolence—petulant, flashing him that do-something-about-it-mr-superman smile as if the hero in question isn’t already thinking about fucking the brattiness out of you. he simply hauls you to the bedroom and lays you flat, one palm braced between your shoulder blades, the impossible weight of his body blanketing yours. you squirm halfheartedly, a little breathy clark slipping from your throat that sounds more performative than penitent. he lowers his chest to your back, mouthing kisses along the cartilage of your ear. you feel the flex of his abdomen each time his hips grind forward, cockhead sliding slick through your folds—leisurely, almost casual. this is the position where you feel all of him. your body opens by instinct, pussy yielding to the stinging pressure of his cock pushing in, deeper, deeper—until your lower belly tightens under the stretch. he’s merciless. slow, yes, but also inexorable. every thrust carefully angled to keep you just on the brink without ever letting you fall. his cock pressed flush to that tender spot inside you that aches when he withdraws and throbs when he returns. you’re caught in the exquisite ache of it, the slow torture of being filled past capacity and held there. because you asked for this. clark never withholds what you need.

mating press is for when he’s been gone too long. off-world emergencies, global catastrophes. days—sometimes entire weeks—where he’s had to wear the mantle of saviour instead of simply being your lover. and when he finally returns, he folds you beneath him, knees pulled tight to your chest, ankles resting over his shoulders like a promise he’s come back for good. his cock pushes in sinfully deep, every inch filling you in a familiar way that resonates through your whole body—stealing the air from your lungs and thus robbing your voice before you can form a sound. you lose track of how many times you’ve cum, and still, clark holds your thighs apart as he fucks the loneliness out of himself. hips pounding into the mess between your legs, his brow furrowed in grief because hurts to be away from you that long. his voice breaks when he tells you how he missed you. words fail to reach your lips because you’re fucked so deep it feels cervical, whole galaxies exploding behind your eyes. when he cums, it’s a guttural, raw release—spilling inside you, just as your walls fluttering and sucking him deeper, pulsing in perfect, thunderous synchrony with his own hammering heart. clark can never bear being away from you for too long.

 𝐅𝐄𝐀𝐑-𝐈𝐒-𝐓𝐑𝐔𝐓𝐇 2025 — all rights reserved. do not modify, repost, translate, or plagiarise my content. ꕀ