sweet mr kent
summary: clark found every excuse to be near you; fixing, helping, pretending it was harmless. but every smile, every soft 'thank-you' dragged him toward a line your youth made unforgivable. you were temptation itself, and even the good men fall.
clark kent x slightly younger ! reader
themes: pining, whining, yearning, fluff just how we like it!! you're v innocent and sweet, 8 year age gap but to clark that may as well be 30. very suggestive, slightly smutty. v domestic, he does everything for you. enjoy!xo
one | two
You were the most beautiful temptation Clark Kent had ever known.
He’d been through wars, heartbreak, and the unending ache of carrying the world. He’d stood at the center of storms, shouldered collapsing buildings, listened to the small cries of people miles away.
But nothing, not even the sound of cities breaking, shook him quite like your laugh spilling into the hallway at 6 a.m. on a Sunday.
He’d told himself it was just neighbourly love, a fondness that came with sharing the same ZIP code. That was all. You lived across the hall, young and unguarded, with a way of talking that made the most ordinary things sound like invitations to stay.
You called him Mr. Kent because that’s what his box in the mailroom said, and every time you did it, he felt something inside him falter. It wasn’t the teasing tone that got him; it was the warmth. As if you really believed he was that safe, steady man whose door you could always knock on.
And you did knock. Constantly.
The first time, it was a dripping pipe. Your landlord was useless at the best of times, but Pa Kent taught Clark how to gut a house from the inside out from a young age- so naturally, he was more than happy to help.
The next, your grocery bags split on the stairs. The third was a window that left a permanent draft in your bedroom, one that he sealed up carefully with filler, his bare hands and a pleased smile.
Once, your cat Minnie darted into his apartment and hid under the couch, and he’d crouched beside you to coax it out while trying not to breathe you in. You always looked up at him with those wide, hopeful eyes, trusting him in a way that scraped at his chest.
He was supposed to protect people, not crave them.
Then came the morning you opened your door in an oversized hoodie and socks, nothing else that he could see. Your hair was a halo of sleep-tangled softness, your mouth still swollen from dreaming.
You asked, sweetly, if he had a flashlight- the power had flickered out again- and he tried to look anywhere but at the hem of that hoodie, so brief it might have been a whisper on your thighs.
He handed you the flashlight with both hands, careful not to brush your fingers. “Keep it,” he’d said, voice rougher than it should’ve been.
You smiled, unbothered. “Thanks, Mr. Kent. You’re my hero.”
He had to step back then, because if he didn’t, he might have told you that he didn’t feel like one at all. Not when he could lift a building but couldn’t lift his gaze from you.
After that, he tried to keep his distance. He filled his evenings with work, typed until the letters blurred, watched the news until dawn. His 33rd birthday came in the midst of his panic and he'd stayed out all evening in hopes of not running into you on the stairwell- only to come back to a box of celebratory cupcakes on his doormat, a note drenched in your perfume and handwriting, Happy 33rd, Clark. <3
But sometimes, through the wall, he could hear your music; soft and low, and he’d imagine you moving through your small apartment- barefoot, humming, hips swaying the same way they did when you stumbled home tipsy after a night out with your friends.
And then there was that night.
A faint, rhythmic buzzing reached his ears. His senses caught it before his mind did, the way they always did.
He frowned, thinking maybe an appliance had been left on. It wasn’t completely out of the ordinary- after all, you’d been at work one time and asked him before to slip the spare key from under the doormat just to make sure you hadn’t left the hair straighteners on.
He almost went to check, but then he heard the smallest sound- a stifled breath, a quick, soft exhale. His hands froze above the keyboard.
Realisation came slow and heavy, and it burned him with guilt. He should have tuned it out. He tried to. But his hearing betrayed him; every sound from your apartment was a gravity he couldn’t escape.
He turned on the television, volume low, pretending to work. But the noise lingered, and with it the image of you- flushed, vulnerable, lost to your own arousal. The idea made him feel both holy and ruined.
He pressed his palms over his eyes until the hum inside his body quieted again, until the blood rushing below finally started to dissipate.
Then he saw you the next morning, hair damp, sweater hanging loose on your shoulder. You greeted him like always. “Good morning, Clark.”
It was rare for you to call him by his first name. The other one seemed more familiar somehow, a term of endearment he'd grown to love.
But this instance, he welcome the latter and nodded, forcing a smile. “Morning.”
You didn’t notice how long it took him to meet your eyes.
From your side of the hall, Clark Kent was a mystery. Older, kind in a way that made you feel safe. There was something about him, an energy that pulled without asking.
He disappeared sometimes, his apartment empty and quiet for days on end. You knew he was a reporter and chalked it down to week-long expeditions on the latest national news, but you always hated those days he wasn't around.
Clark had become a comfort to you. He was lovely, soft around the edges but still strong- like your father taught you a real man should be. He remembered things about you- about your friends, your cat, even the small anecdotes about your job that other people wouldn't care to find as fascinating.
You'd be lying if you said that you hadn't thought about him in that way. An older, kind, beautiful man that took care of you, living just across the hall? Not to mention his gorgeous face, incredible build and everlasting patience for the people around him? Come on.
Clark was perfect. But perfect came with the one memory you'd had since he fixed your wardrobe, a happy smile accompanied with that one, earth shattering sentence, "All fixed, kid. I've hammered it into the wall, shouldn't move as much then."
You thanked him genuinely, but inside, the word broke you.
Kid.
You had no idea who you were trying to fool. Of course Clark didn't like you, not like that.
You were eight years his junior, and although it didn't seem like a lot, it was plenty. Because you were you, and you still had so much growing up to do- and Clark Kent was a man who got front page news and interviews with Superman and seemingly knew how to tackle every single household chore in the world.
He wouldn't want you. He probably had a mirage of different girls on his roster- women, at that. Strong, fierce, capable, independent women- who thought about him max five times a day and could control their thoughts about him in the confides of their bedroom.
Surely, right? A man like that had simply made a choice to be single. And when that time came for him to want to settle down... well, you just hoped she loved him as much as he deserved to be loved. Even more, actually.
Sometimes, when you looked right at him; past the charming facade and the endearing face he put on for the world- you could see it.
There was a sadness in his smile that you weren't very well acquianted with. Sometimes. Other times it was just gentleness, as if he carried the weight of the world and still found room for everyone else’s troubles.
He listened to you. He cared about you; what book you were reading, what plans you had for the weekend, if you needed him to do anything for you while you were out. He left you notes on your door and took in your packages when he knew you were probably still asleep, dead to the world.
You liked that he never made you feel small. When he fixed your sink or brought in your mail during a storm, he did it without expectation, without lingering- except for the way his gaze softened, like he couldn’t quite look away.
You didn’t know what that meant, not really. It definitely wasn't what you wanted it to be. You only knew that when you knocked on his door, you felt steadier.
The winter outage came without warning.
A city transformer blew, plunging half the block into darkness. The wind howled through the cracked window in your bedroom, carrying a thin drizzle that found every weak seam.
You awoke to gentle taps of water on your forehead. A soaked pillow took up space next to you as you shot up, eyes wide.
The living room wasn't much better; the temperature worse than it had ever been in previous Decembers. It was unliveable, a catastrophe that seemed to have taken place between the time you fell asleep and were waterboarded awake.
You tried towels, buckets, a pan under the slow leaks. Still, the sound- the endless dripping, the antarctic conditions of your apartment that flooded every other room- wore at you.
You thought of Clark.
You hesitated before crossing the hall. It was late. But your place was freezing, and your phone battery was nearly dead, and Clark had told you countless times before to come get him him if that window seal broke again or the dripping came back. He'd fix it, he said, right then and there.
So, you wrapped yourself in a blanket and knocked.
The door opened almost instantly. He must have heard you coming. “Power’s out,” he said softly, holding a lantern. His face looked different in the dim glow, sharper, somehow, like the light had peeled away the disguise he wore for the world. "You okay, hon?"
You explained about the leak, about the cold, stammering your way through the feeling of intrusion. You felt awful, but it was either this or curl up on the cold IKEA chair he'd built for your vanity for the rest of the night.
He didn’t interrupt. When you finished, he nodded once, the way he always did before doing something he’d already decided.
“Come on,” he said. “You can stay here tonight.”
"No, no, I couldn't-" You started to protest, but he was already pulling a blanket from the couch, shaking it out.
“It’s warmer in here,” he added, almost apologetic. “The walls are thicker.”
You were wordless, the blanket around you slightly suffocating now. This wasn't the outcome you were expecting.
Clark could sense your apprehension, feeling guilty for not jumping at the chance to fix what was broken in your home. Normally, he would. But the lack of dry roof to cement shut meant that he wouldn't have been able to, anyway.
He gestured to the couch, face kind in the way it always was. “I'll stay here, you can take the bed. It’s more comfortable.”
“I couldn’t,” you said again, but your voice trembled, and he heard it.
He tried to laugh it off. “I don’t sleep much anyway. Shall I get Minnie?"
You shook your head softly, "No, it's alright, thank you. She's at Mark's." his body stiffened slightly at the mention of another man's name, knots forming in his shoulders until he remembered the one and only man you'd ever introduced him to, months ago.
"Hi, Mr Kent! This is Mark. He's staying with me for the week while his boyfriend's in Gotham on a business trip. We'll try to keep it down."
You stepped inside, the cold air clinging to you. He caught the smallest shiver in your shoulders. Something protective- something reckless- rose in him.
“Go on,” he murmured, wrapping another layer around you. “You’ll freeze otherwise. Would you like something to drink? I can make you that hot cocoa you like."
You shook your head no, thanking him gently as you looked around the walls of his home.
You hadn’t expected his apartment to feel so lived in. You'd seen it in brief spats, glances inside as you spoke to him in the hallway. It smelled faintly of paper and rain; of clean cotton and well-loved books.
They lined the shelves, hundreds of them, their spines cracked and thumbed. Old mugs occupied the counter space next to the sink, a cardigan draped over the chair.
When you brushed past him, you felt the warmth radiating from his body, far more than the lantern’s glow could give. He looked younger somehow, less official, as he stood in the center of the comforts of his home.
He handed you a dry shirt- his. It hung to your knees as you slipped it on, discarding your own shirt underneath it. It swallowed you whole. “Until the power’s back,” he said.
You nodded, clutching the fabric close. “Thank you.”
"I just changed the sheets this morning, should be all good. If you need anything," he began, eyes on you, "Please. Let me know. Help yourself if you're hungry, or let me know of you want me to make you something."
"Okay, Mr Kent. I'm sorry again, for ruining your night,"
Clark shook his head, "You haven't ruined anything."
He smiled then, small but real, and the sight made something in your chest flutter. You disappeared into his bedroom, mind racing as you sat on the edge of his bed and the door shut behind you.
Back in the living room, Clark sat on the couch, pretending to read, but every creak from the bedroom door made his pulse thrum.
He told himself it was fine. She’s safe, he thought. Safe, warm, sleeping well. That’s all that matters.
But his mind betrayed him again. He pictured the curve of his shirt against your skin, the way your damp hair would leave faint dark streaks along the collar. He wanted to stop thinking. Wanted the discipline he’d always had to come back, but it didn’t.
A faint shuffle caught his ear. You’d come back to the living room, blanket around your shoulders again, eyes uncertain in the low light.
“I feel really bad,” you said softly. “And it's- really cold. I think it's colder out here than in there,” You hesitated. “Should I take the couch?”
He set the book down slowly, chest warm at the sight of your distress over the thought of him being uncomfortable. “You take the bed, sweetheart. Please.”
You looked at him for a long moment. “But it's your bed,"
“That’s fine.” he said in amusement.
Your voice lowered to almost a whisper. "But, you don't understand- I feel really bad. That you're out here,"
"I don't get cold easily,"
"Clark, it's minus five degrees," you frowned. Then, you said it before you could stop yourself.
"... maybe we can share the bed?"
You tried to smile, but your words came out more ridiculous sounding than the concept in your head.
Clark Kent would do alot for you, you realised. He'd water your plants. Fix that dodgy step on the fire escape you loved to sit at. He'd babysit Minnie like Mark, your literal childhood best friend, did; making sure she felt so loved that often, the cat wouldn't even want to cross the hall back home.
But sharing a bed with you? Well, you weren't too sure about that.
He felt the air go still. For a heartbeat, neither of you moved.
“I don’t think-” Clark began, then stopped. The words tangled. “It wouldn’t be- you wouldn't get much sleep with me in there."
Then, as if the realisation of his own words dawned on him like a shadow, his eyes widened. "N-Not like that, I didn't mean it like that! It's just- I'm a big man..."
“Penguins huddle to conserve body heat,” you said simply, and he could see it in your eyes, on your face; the innocence and belief in your words. To you, he could do no harm.
Pure, unfiltered sweetness that you were offering, tainted by the visions in his mind of his head between your legs and your back arched in the filthiest way.
That undid him.
Of all the things you could have said, and all the thoughts he could have had- that was the one that shouldn't have stripped away his resistance. But it did.
He drew a long breath, eyes closing.
He could say no. He should. He could remind himself of the years between you, of all the reasons he kept himself apart.
But the gentleness in your voice, the trust in your eyes- those things were stronger than any argument. You trusted him. So much so that to you, sharing a bed felt the same as asking him to help you figure out the age-old stove in your kitchen.
It weakened his resolve rapidly.
“Okay,” Clark said finally. The word left his throat rough and quiet. “If it helps you rest.”
You nodded, relief softening your features.
He'd sleep in his own bed. You'd be warm. A win-win situation; and it didn't have to be weird, not at all. You could even top and tail it.
"Thank you, Mr. Kent.”
He rose from the couch just as you disappeared back into the bedroom, giving him time to gather himself; to blow out the candles that were lit, to back out if he really wanted to.
The lantern light brushed along his shoulders as he turned towards the bedroom. Each step felt heavier than the last.
When Clark reached the door, he paused, hand on the frame. He could see the faint outline of you beneath the blankets, small, waiting, socked feet rubbing against each other in a last ditch attempt at warmth.
For a moment, he let himself breathe. He thought of all the strength he’d ever used- every act of will, every feat of power- and how none of it compared to the effort it took now, to walk forward without giving in completely.
The wind rattled the windows. The city outside was dark.
And Clark Kent stepped into the room.
this may very well be my fav ive written so far!! hope you enjoyed and lemme know what u think <3
