i saw mommy kissing…who?
pairing: clark kent x afab reader, superman x single mom!reader
summary: it’s winter break, and your son has been so good. all he wants for christmas is this one toy. problem is that it’s sold out everywhere in metropolis. guess it’s a good thing you both know someone that’s more than willing to go the extra mile
wc: 2.8k
content: christmas, holiday season feel goods, kissing, misunderstandings but get resolved, fluffy feel good
continuation of it’s what all the heroes do
buy me a coffee | winter romance masterlist | masterlist
Dear Santa Claus, I want you to know that I’ve been a very good boy this year.
I’ve gotten good grades, watered the plants daily, and stopped barking back at the neighbor’s dog, just like my mom asked me to! See? Super good! Don’t worry about what my mom says, she’s not a trusted source.
But if you need further proof, you can ask my best friend, Superman! That’s all the proof you need for me to be on the nice list.
That being said, here’s what I would like for Christmas this year:
- superhero action figure set! - hover board - remote-controlled car…
You tilt your head and let out a weary ‘tsk,’ bemused by your son’s boundless confidence as you fold his letter to store away. The metallic click of your mug against the coffee table echoes through the silent room as memories from the past year swirl: endless debates with Isaac over broccoli florets, his candid—and sometimes exasperating—answers born of pure childhood wonder, the Great Underwear Fiasco that somehow birthed a whole new laundry crisis.
And, of course, brought into your lives Superman. How one desperate letter led to a lunch, then a dinner, and he never quite left.
Now he’s part of your routine: filleting vegetables, quizzing Isaac on fractions, offering you an unexpected oasis of adult conversation. You cherish that, the chance to be more than “Mom,” to feel seen as a woman with her own quiet thoughts.
Your eyes drift to the balcony door, a habit that’s formed since Superman, no Kal-El, began slipping in after dark. He insited on you and Isaac using his Kryptonian name, that hearing you both call him Superman consistently was weird. He later confessed to you that it felt impersonal, and that he wants to truly build something with you both, and that starts with his name.
He promised to swing by tonight with the nearly impossible gift: the new hero action figure set that every shop in Metropolis claims is sold out of. You insisted that he didn’t need to do that, that Isaac would be fine without it, until the stores get it back in stock. But you knew from the glint in his eyes that he already had a plan in motion, and wasn’t gonna give up.
You rise, smoothing imaginary wrinkles from your sweater as you look around the apartment, trying to distract yourself and attempting to display patience. Your eye catches the new paper snowflake garland, recalling the evening’s earlier task.
Earlier, Isaac bounced home from school clutching paper strips, eager to show you how to fold and snip. But halfway through, his attention drifted to “A Miser Brother’s Christmas” on TV, leaving you alone amid half-finished lace patterns.
You persevered, creating a garland of paper under the tv, only for him to leap up at bedtime, sign the central snowflake with a grin, and declare, “Wow, we did such a good job!”
Now, settled back on the velvet sofa, you thumb through the streaming menus for a gooey Hallmark movie, the plastic click of the remote mingling with the faint rustle of tinsel. Then—a soft rap at the balcony door. A breath catches in your throat as you rise, heart fluttering like fresh-fallen snow, and tiptoe across the cookie-scented room toward the knock that might just hold the world’s best Christmas surprise.
The door swings open to reveal Kal-El standing there, Santa hat tilted jauntily on his dark curls, cradling the exact toy that topped Isaac's wish list.
"You're amazing," you whisper. "Please, come in. Why do you always wait outside?"
"Just basic manners," he murmurs, stepping into the living room. "Even Superman doesn't barge into people's homes uninvited." His boots make a soft thud against the hardwood. You both freeze, listening. He catches your eye and gives a reassuring shake of his head—Isaac is still asleep. After easing the door closed, you both pause again, confirming the coast remains clear.
Together you stand before the Christmas tree, its lights casting a warm glow across his face as he studies the decorations—popsicle-stick creations from Isaac's art class, a framed photo from his birthday, a photo of you pregnant with Isaac, and the little ceramic school bus commemorating his first day of kindergarten.
"Beautiful tree," he says softly, his voice quieter than usual, almost reverent. His gaze drifts over the twinkling lights, the uneven handmade ornaments, the soft glow reflecting off the windows. There’s something about the way he looks at it — like he’s not just seeing a tree, but a life.
"You two really outdid yourselves."
“Thank you.” You smile, a little shy under his attention. “Just so you know, Isaac made a Superman ornament that he’s been waiting to hang with you.”
Kal-El’s face lights up instantly, his entire expression softening into something boyish and open, like joy comes easy around you and your son. His eyes actually shine.
“Oh man, I can’t wait to see it,” he says, warmth threading through every word. “Should I wake him up now?” He turns toward Isaac’s room immediately, already lifting one foot as if he might genuinely sprint down the hall if you let him.
“Don’t you dare,” you laugh softly. “He’s barely gone to bed.”
He chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck in mock surrender before following you instead as you head toward the hallway closet to grab the wrapping supplies.
The whole thing feels easy. Natural. Like you’ve done this a hundred times together already.
You spread the paper across the counter, and Kal-El fills the quiet with stories from his day — gentle, vague things about helping people, about the city, about little moments that stuck with him. His voice is low, relaxed. Comfortable.
When his fingers brush yours while passing the tape, it sends a small spark through you. Not electric like lightning, just something warm and intimate. The kind that lingers.
He leans just a little closer than necessary, his shoulder brushing yours, his breath warm against your ear.
“You know…” he murmurs, hesitating for the first time all evening, “…I’ve never met anyone like you.”
You pause slightly.
“Someone who gives me space to just… be,” he continues, voice huskier now. “Not Superman. Not anything else. Just me.”
Your heart softens.
“Everyone deserves that,” you say gently, carefully creasing the edge of the paper. “Even mysterious men who disappear at strange hours.” You tell him, looking him directly in the eyes.
He laughs — deep, warm, fond — but there’s something else under it now. Thoughtfulness. Weight.
“About that…” he says slowly, more serious now. “I think I’m ready to tell you everything.”
Your breath catches, just a little. You smooth the silver ribbon, hands suddenly aware of how much this moment matters, but nervous enough to avoid looking him in the eyes. “Only when you’re ready,” you say softly. “No pressure.”
His hand covers yours, making you look at him to see his gaze. Steady. Certain.
“That’s exactly why I am,” he says quietly.
There’s something in his eyes now; resolve mixed with vulnerability, the look of someone standing at the edge of a leap.
You both exchanged small smiles, before focusing on finishing wrapping the gift. Absorbed in tying the bow, in keeping your hands steady when your heart isn’t, you don’t notice when he steps away.
When you finally turn toward the kitchen with the finished gift in your hands, he’s waiting in the doorway, mistletoe hanging above him.
You freeze.
His eyes darken just a little when they meet yours, his mouth curving into a slow, knowing smile.
“Caught you,” he murmurs, stepping forward and gently pulling you close until your bodies meet, his hands warm and secure at your waist, his lips hovering just above yours — not rushing, not demanding.
Just waiting. His lips hover just above yours, teasing, taunting. He’s not rushing or demanding, simply savoring the way you look at him, truly him.
He leans in, eyes searching yours for approval, before closing the distance.
The kiss had started gentle — a soft, tentative press of lips under the mistletoe — but it didn’t stay that way.
It deepened naturally, like both of you had been holding something back all evening and finally let yourselves feel it. His hands slid more firmly to your waist, warm and steady, grounding you as he leaned in. There was nothing rushed about it, but there was everything in it. Affection, relief, longing, trust, all poured into the quiet way his mouth moved against yours.
For Kal-El, the world narrowed to you. To the warmth of your lips, the faint hitch in your breath when he kissed you back.
To the way your fingers curled into the fabric at his chest like you were anchoring yourself to him.
The city, the house, the night — all of it fell away.
The small gasp from the hallway cut through his haze of affection, his superhuman hearing catching the soft intake of breath a moment too late.
He’d been so lost in the warmth of your lips that he’d forgotten to listen for the telltale creak of Isaac’s bedroom door… or the padding of small feet across the hardwood floor.
He barely had time to pull away when Isaac charged into the room, pajamas rumpled and hair sticking up at odd angles.
“Oh no, I don’t think so!” the boy declared, voice thick with sleep but fierce with determination.
Before either of you could react, Isaac wedged himself between you, tiny hands gripping your wrist as he tugged you backward.
“I’m sorry Santa,” he announced with all the gravity a seven-year-old could muster, “but my mom is taken. She’s dating Sup—” His eyes widened as he caught himself. “Er, a super great guy, so she can’t date you. I’m sorry.”
You and Karl-El exchanged bewildered glances until understanding dawned.
From Isaac’s bleary perspective and position by the doorway, all he could see was a tall man in red — Clark’s cape draped over his shoulders — and the Santa hat perched crookedly on his dark curls, stealing a kiss from his mother.
A laugh bubbled up from your chest as Kal-El’s face softened, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners. His heart swelled knowing your son would defend his alter ego so fiercely. While Isaac’s bedroom was plastered with Superman posters, he yearned for the boy to admire the man beneath the symbol. The parts of himself he could actually share without compromising the secret that kept them all safe. With the way Isaac willingly and fiercely defended him, he feels like that’s been done.
Isaac then turns to look at you, his eyes heavy-lidded with sleep but somehow still managing to look stern beneath his hair. His Batman pajama top is rumpled and twisted halfway around his small torso.
“Mommy,” he says in that particular tone children use when they’re mimicking adult seriousness, “did you think about super great guy’s feelings? I know you’re pretty — like, really pretty with your sparkly eyes and beautiful hair— and honestly this is hard on me because, I mean, he’s Santa Claus with all his powers, so I hope he doesn’t hold this against us, but I thought you were already dating…”
“Isaac, it’s okay, bud.” Karl-El’s deep voice rumbles gently through the room. “It’s me. Your mom didn’t do anything wrong. But I appreciate you standing up for me the way you have.”
Isaac turns towards the man, blinking owlishly in the soft lamplight. His small mouth drops open as recognition dawns across his features like a sunrise, his eyes widening until they’re perfect circles in his face.
“Mr. Superman! I mean, Kal-El! You’re here!” he gasps, bouncing on his toes. “Are you going to spend the night? Oh, sorry that I thought you were a mistress.”
“Isaac, how do you know that word?” Your voice cuts in a little sharper than you mean to, your arms crossing instinctively over your chest.
Isaac shrugs, picking at a loose thread on his pajama sleeve, blissfully unaware of the awkwardness he’s just unleashed. “Kelly at lunch said it. Something about her mom calling the music teacher her father’s mistress!”
A weighted silence blankets the room — thick, warm, awkward — the kind that settles when adults suddenly realize a child has wandered into a conversation far beyond them.
Kal-El clears his throat softly.
Before either of you can quite recover, Isaac barrels through it with the resilience only children possess.
“You should stay,” he declares suddenly, grabbing Kal-El’s massive hand with his tiny fingers and tugging it with earnest insistence. “We already have pajamas for you! Mommy spent a long time picking them out — she kept holding them up and smiling all weird — so we have a couple of sizes so you can be comfy since we didn’t know what to get you! And guess what? They’re matching ones too! Blue with little yellow stars! That way it’s easy to see that we’re a unit!”
Kal-El lets himself be led toward the couch, his laugh low and helpless, his cape swaying behind him as Isaac rambles happily. The worn cushions dip beneath his weight, bathed in the soft gold glow of the Christmas lights twinkling in the corner.
Then he turns his head to look at you. Brows slightly raised. Mouth soft. Eyes warm and hopeful and careful all at once — asking a question without words.
It wouldn’t be his first night in your bed. But it would be the first he didn’t slip away before morning.
The first he stayed knowing he was wanted.
The first he stayed knowing your son knew he was there.
The subject has hovered between you before — in half-finished sentences, in lingering glances, in the way he always hesitates just a little at dawn.
You swallow. Then you nod, just once.
But it feels huge.
A slow smile spreads across his face, almost as if he’s relieved. Like something heavy has lifted off his chest.
Later, tucked beneath your faded blue comforter, the streetlight outside spilling soft silver through the curtains, you lie facing one another in the hush of night. Isaac is finishing getting ready for bed again, and you two were relaxing in the silence that’s awarded to you.
Your knees brush. His hand finds yours under the blanket.
“I’ve wanted this,” he whispers, thumb tracing the back of your fingers. “Not just tonight. All of it.”
You smile into the dark. “Me too.”
Your whispered confessions drift between you — small truths, quiet hopes, gentle promises until the desire to sleep starts makes your eyelids impossible to keep open.
“Good night, Superman,” you murmur, your voice already heavy with sleep.
“Clark,” he whispers instead, his breath warm against your ear.
Your eyelids snap open when you register what he’s said, your gaze finding his already waiting for you — open, earnest, a little nervous, and achingly vulnerable.
“Hm. Okay… good night, Clark.”
The name settles between you like something sacred.
“Clark,” you mouth to yourself silently. A slow smile spreads across your face as the meaning of it blooms in your chest — not just a name, but trust. The piece of himself he keeps hidden from the world, handed to you freely.
You’re struck with the knowledge that your life has just made an irreversible change.
From the doorway comes a small, incredulous voice.
“…Clark?”
Then there’s the rapid patter of bare feet on hardwood before a pajama-clad bundle launches himself between you, as Isaac wedges himself into the space like he’s always belonged there.
He props himself on his elbows, face inches from Clark’s, eyes wide and searching.
“Clark?”
“Clark. Clark. Clark,” Isaac repeats, rolling the name around in his mouth like a new candy. First quietly, then louder, then with a giggle he tries and fails to suppress. He tilts his head, hair falling into his eyes, studying Clark with exaggerated seriousness.
He leans in closer.
“So… are you sure?” he asks solemnly. “Clark? That’s the name we’re going with?”
You clamp your lips together, turning your face into the pillow to smother your laughter.
Clark blinks, then raises one brow, amusement and mild alarm warring across his face. “Oh, sorry that the name my mother gave me isn’t up to your standards And what name would have been acceptable to you?” he asks gently.
Isaac considers this deeply, tapping his chin.
“Hmm. I dunno.” He brightens suddenly. “Oliver! Or Bruce. Those are classic.”
You feel Clark stiffen just slightly.
Then Isaac gasps again, eyes sparkling with a brand-new thought. “Hey! Are you guys gonna have a kid? Can I get a little brother named like that?”
“Okay,” you laugh, sitting up to scoop him into your arms, “that is enough future planning for one night.”
Isaac settles easily against you, cheek tucked into the hollow of your shoulder, his small body fitting there like it always has. Within seconds, his breathing evens out again, soft and warm against your collarbone.
You finally look back at Clark.
Not Superman, or Kal-El. Clark.
The name feels strange and wonderful all at once. Like seeing someone you love in a completely new light and realizing you love them even more for it.
Your eyes meet his.
His are soft, a little misty. Grateful in a way that needs no words.
And in that quiet, glowing moment — with your child warm against your chest and the man you love finally fully known beside you — you realize that whatever this is…
…it’s home.
a/n: merry christmas! i hoped you all enjoyed, and have a wonderful holiday season! i meant to post this last night but got busy and forgot!
as always, likes, comments and reblogs are always appreciated! heres a kiss from me to you for reading! 💋
with that, the main stories of winter romance are done! i just have some drabbles to post!
