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here for you, always.

summary: the only thing on clark's mind when he's poisoned with kryptonite is coming home to you—the wife who's a closely kept secret—to feel the warmth of your reassurance.

tags & cw: nsfw, fem afab reader, clark has a secret wife (it's you hehe), smitten clark, emotionally distraught clark, smut with feelings, shower sex, fluff and angst, unprotected p in v, canon scene rewrite(?)

wc: 8.8k SERIOUSLY IDK HOW TF THIS HAPPENS LIKE WHAT AM I EVEN TALKING ABOUT WHAT

a/n: PLEASE READ!! This fic was heavily inspired by this oneshot by the lovely @finelinevogue so please go check out their work as well! I also drew inspo from Clint Barton in Age of Ultron. ALSO given the new deleted footage we got today this feels just...ugh.

I hope you enjoy! Likes, reblogs, and comments highly appreciated :)

want some more clark content? Check out my clark masterlist!

You were the only thing on his mind. Lingering just in front of the grief and shock of his last few days was the thought of you. Your voice, your warm skin and equally warm smile, holding him close and telling him everything would be alright, that this was okay. That you would still be there.

As he fought to breathe through the poison in his lungs and the pain blurring the lines of his vision, he was thinking of you with exceeding desperation.

He had to see you. Hear your voice. Let himself be held by you. Let the radiance of your proximity wash over him, sustaining him better than the sun ever could. He didn’t call you sunshine for nothing.

Gosh, it was all he could think, after everything. It was all he could say.

Sunshine. My sunshine. Have to see my sunshine.

Lois was giving him odd looks that he caught whenever he managed to keep his eyes open for longer than thirty seconds. He was well-accustomed to her scrutiny, but the way she was looking at him now gave him the impression that she was far more concerned about her friend than she was journalistically inquisitive. Even so, Clark knew her well enough to know that she was undoubtedly dying to pry—to wedge the shovel of her poison pen beneath his weakened exterior and dig up the history in his pleading eyes.

The fact that she did not question a single thing said a lot about their friendship. Distantly, Clark thought to thank her later with a gift card to Jitters. Maybe a freshly baked platter of cookies that he’d take the credit for but really he owed everything to his Ma’s recipe, scribbled in the margins of a small notebook she’d given him for college.

He would write a little note as though pen and paper could make up for the hell he’d put her through. Sorry you had to save me from a pocket universe, it would read. I promise to try and not have another identity crisis that results in my incarceration and slow, painful torture from which you feel obligated to rescue me from.

Unfortunately, any remuneration would have to wait until he could lift his head without feeling like he was going to nosedive through the floor.

“I think we’re here,” he heard Lois’ voice, steady and even despite everything that she’d been through in recent hours.

Hours. Had it already been hours? Time passed funny when you were wading in and out of consciousness.

“Sunshine,” he was mumbling before he could stop himself. “M-my sunshine—”

Thankfully, he had enough of his wits about him to not say your actual name, at least not until the T-Craft had landed safely on the edge of the Kents’ forty-some acres of farmland. Who knew what kind of bugs Mr. Terrific had in his aircraft. And no one—not even the members of the Justice Gang—knew about you. Of course, Lois was surely about to find out, but the ramifications of that were the furthest thing from his mind.

My sunshine. I need to see you. I’m coming home. I think I’m almost home.

“Yes, we’re here, Clark.” Darn it, he must’ve said all that out loud. “You gotta help me, okay?”

Yes, he sighed, and his lungs burned in protest. Internally or externally he could hardly discern. Please. I need to see her.

Krypto was prancing in anxious circles the moment the aircraft touched the ground. A violent shiver wracked Clark’s body when Lois appeared at his side, struggling to curl his arm over her shoulder and hoist him out of the comparatively small seat. His hulking size didn’t help matters, though Clark did everything in his limited power to help her.

Unfortunately, most of his brain was preoccupied with finding you. Seeing you. Hearing you. Feeling you.

My sunshine.

Golly, his head was spinning.

“C’mon, big guy,” Lois strained with the effort of lifting him. He felt horrible. Guilt-ridden and ashamed that she had to see him like this, broken and battered. He worried about his parents’ reaction, too; because of course he’d inherited his obsessive level of worry from them.

Everything about everything was just…awful.

Please, oh please. My sunshine. I need you to make it better.

The stairs of the T-Craft whirred mechanically as they unfurled. Together they trudged down the stairs and into the misty midwestern night. Clark had no idea what time it was, but sincerely hoped it wasn’t too late. His Ma and Pa needed their rest. He shouldn’t be disturbing them like this, least of all after what they’d just learned. For Pete’s sake, he shouldn’t even be showing his face—

His parents were in front of him, worried expressions drawn tight across their faces. And the guilt was quickly replaced with relief at the familiarity of their warm eyes.

Family. Home.

“I’m Martha, this is John,” Ma explained as Pa stepped forward to help Lois.

“Lois,” she greeted as Krypto loped across the dewy lawn.

“Oh, goodness gracious. What on earth happened?” Ma was frantic, eyes scanning his disheveled body as the four of them trudged slowly to the ranch.

“Very long story,” he heard Lois mumble. “He’s…it’s from Kryptonite,” she offered as Ma urgently scanned his tattered face. Her own face fell at Lois’ words.

Perhaps a little selfishly, Clark was still mostly distracted by his thoughts of your proximity and how close he was to being in your arms. Your shared residence was about a two hour drive West of Smallville, which was a hell of a lot closer than he usually was to you in Metropolis.

If he were in better shape, he could find you by your heartbeat. He’d done it so many times, it was like breathing. But breathing right now was a grueling effort, and his senses were depleted. He wasn’t himself, in more ways than solely physical. Simply put, Clark didn’t know who he was anymore.

But you did.

You carried a piece of him with you, always. Perhaps without realizing. You cherished every part of him in ways he’d never understand, and right now he needed more than anything to have you remind him of who he was. To the world as Superman, but more importantly, to you as Clark Kent.

He must’ve been babbling again, because his Ma was hushing him in the same tone she’d used when he would cry as a boy. “You’re alright, son. It’s okay. She’s on her way, comin’ as fast as she can.”

She’s on her way.

The relief punched through his body harder than the Kryptonite had.

He didn’t remember being ushered up the front porch, down the hallway of his childhood where he struggled to fit in. Now, in more ways than one. The pictures that lined the walls felt mocking; representative of a life he thought he’d known. A weight he thought he knew how to carry.

Pa and Lois helped him onto his bed, which was uncomfortably small. Even as a sprouting teenager, the twin XL did little to contain his abnormally large frame. As a grown adult, his feet hung awkwardly over the end of the bed, calves digging into the footboard.

Clark hardly knew what was spewing from his mouth—garbled sounds, distressed huffs. A few incoherent words, distraught pleas to his Ma and Pa about the ugly truth of his heritage, as tears seared down the sides of his sweaty face. But once again, you were always right there, lingering just beneath the surface of his pool of sorrow.

Sunshine. Sunshine. Sunshine.

It was too dark without you.

“She’s on her way, sweetheart,” Ma spoke, and nonsensical as he was, he could still hear the pain bleeding into her voice at the sight of her son, so obviously wounded beyond what the eye could see. Pa was on his other side. He could feel a hand, calloused as his own, resting gently on his shoulder.

“Who is she?” it was Lois, somewhere across the room. Curious, as always, but careful.

Pa says your name. Even hearing it is like feeling the sun caress the cockles of his heart. “Our other Mrs. Kent,” he adds.

There was a pause. Then, the single, incredulous “oh,” from his colleague.

“Sh-she’s almost here?” Clark hears himself ask Ma, because he can’t help it.

“Yes, Clark,” Ma says, her fingers in his hair. He doesn’t know how much longer he can stay awake.

“I had no idea that he was…” Lois trails off, sounding slightly mesmerized.

“Nobody does,” Pa supplied. “And we’d sure like to keep it that way, hm?” Pa’s voice was threatening in the way that calm lingered before a storm. Most often, the cell would pass with nothing but the threat—the smell of rain, a warning of downpour. But the threat, the promise, was there.

“Of course. I would never say anything,” Lois responds. She sounds sincere. Lois Lane is sharp and cunning and full of more spitfire than the Kaiju he’d fought, but she is always sincere.

“Ma,” Clark could feel himself fading. “Ma. I need her. Please, I n-n—”

“I know, Clark. I know. You just relax. You’ll be alright. If you can't wait up for her tonight, you’ll see her in the mornin’, okay?”

He’d been about to protest when he felt it. Felt you. Even with muted senses, there was no denying the slam of the screen door. The spike in his hearing, reaching out to listen for your breath. He felt his body lift slightly off the bed, only to be gently pushed back down by his parents.

Sunshine?

He calls for you. Your real name, this time.

“Clark?!”

Your panicked voice makes his stomach twist.

No, don’t hurt, sunshine. Please, it’s alright.

You burst into the room and the entire atmosphere shifts. Pa gives his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. Ma loops her arm through Lois’, whose eyes had immediately locked onto yours. Everyone vacates the room quickly and quietly; even Lois goes with nothing more than a questioning look, though Clark knows he owes her an explanation in the near future.

Meanwhile, you haven’t torn your eyes from him.

“Oh god, oh god,” your face twists in misery at the sight of him. And although he hates to see you hurting—especiallybecause of him—the selfish bits of his soul can’t help but feel relieved. He feels it in every bone in his body, the way you lift the burden of his sorrows simply by existing in the same space, pouring your light onto him without even trying.

Between the two of you, you had always been the stronger one. He’s not afraid to admit that.

Despite his body’s protests, his shaking arms encircle you the moment you’re within reach. His nose burrows into the junction of your neck and shoulder, and he doesn’t even care that he’s crying anymore. Can no longer hear the sound of his own warbled voice above the pounding tempo of your heart.

“Clark,” you breathe, voice low and trembling.

“My sunshine,” he stammers. “You’re here.”

“Of course I am, baby,” you say as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. He shakes beneath you. You’re real and warm and smell like home. He can no longer discern why he’s crying—physical pain? Emotional turmoil? His parents’ message? Or is it nothing more than the relief of feeling you?

“Oh Clark.” Like him, you’re shuddering. “You…they told me…are you—” you start and suddenly stop when his muscles spasm with phantom pain. He doesn’t mean for you to see, but close as you are there’s no hiding the way his body shakes like it’s just now remembering the poison in his blood.

The usual firmness in his embrace is lacking and he knows it. You know it.

“Okay, okay. Just relax,” you say next, and your voice shifts like day to night, slow and seamless. It’s remarkable how easily you’ve slipped into the tone he needs—soothing, calm. Simply present. Your palm splays at the top of his head before combing through his messy curls with the kind of tenderness that makes him think you’ve forgotten that he’s indestructible.

Well, maybe not entirely.

“I’ve got you, Clark.”

His jaw quivers against your skin. “D-did…you see the…the video–”

“That doesn’t matter right now. Just breathe, rest.”

“I’m so sorry, I–”

“It’s okay.”

“Tha-that’s not me. I would never hurt anybody– please, I—”

“Clark,” he feels a kiss pressed to the crown of his head. When you pull back to look at him, there’s a desperation in your eyes that he’s helpless to ignore. “I know that. Right now you have to focus on healing, okay? You’re very hurt.”

“M’fine,” he tries. A last-ditch effort to abate the deepening concern in your eyes.

“Right. And I’m Batman.”

“M’jus’ a little banged up…”

“It’s Kryptonite poisoning, Clark. That’s more than a little banged up.” You’re examining him, he realizes. Cupping his cheek and tracing the lines of his face, neck, and shoulders with your worried eyes. Gosh, he can’t stand it. Can’t stand to see you fretting over him. Even if it secretly means the world, even if all he wants is the reassurance that someone still sees him for him in spite of the world’s shifting view. But he doesn’t want you to suffer for it.

He tries to speak, but his voice catches like sandpaper against his dry throat. The sound is mangled, rough. It pinches your brows together and you’re cradling his face now. Horrifically, he sees your eyes turn glassy. He moves his shaking hand to rest over yours.

“Oh god, Clark. You could…you could’ve died—”

His heart clenches again.

It’s okay.

I’m okay.

Don’t worry.

All that comes out instead is a disoriented whine.

“Don’t go.” he finally manages instead of the comforting words he’d wanted to give you. “Please. Don’t go.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” you say with as much finality as you can muster. But then you try to move like you’re leaving, like you’re lying, and he can’t have that.

“Stay,” he slurs, and uses what little strength he has left to ensnare you in his hold.

You grumble in protest. “I am. There’s just not enough room for both of us.” You’re right, but he doesn’t care.

“Stay,” he repeats, and that’s all it takes. Maybe you’re equally as helpless in denying him as he is in denying you. Maybe you both care a little too deeply and that’s part of why he can’t let you go and why he knows you wouldn’t actually leave this room if your life depended on it.

You clamber awkwardly onto the bed, and it squeaks as you give your best attempt to get comfortable in the tiny rectangle of space that remains after he’s filled almost the entire mattress. You flinch like he’s burned you when he winces as you’re getting settled, and all he can think about is how badly he wants to kiss away the pinch in your brows.

“Clark, I’m going to hurt you,” your eyes threaten to spill over. “I don’t want to make it worse. You…please. You need to heal.”

Unfortunately, he’s already content to doze off now that you’re here; one arm draped across his chest, your legs carefully brushing his. He reaches a hand down to the bend of your knee and swings your leg over his waist to bring you closer.

“Could never hurt me,” he mumbles into the top of your hair. “Jus’ stay. Need you t’hold me, sunshine. Please.”

He hears a sigh of defeat leave your lips when he shudders through another sharp ache that wracks his entire body.

Right, Kryptonite. He was poisoned. He was injured. He is hurt. It’s easy to forget when you're this close.

“Oh, Clark,” you whisper. The hand across his chest moves to caress his cheek, fingertips ghosting over his stubble before tracing the black tendrils of his sickened veins down the side of his neck.

“My sunshine,” he manages as his eyes slide closed. He sounds pathetic, and although he wants nothing more than to be strong for you he knows it’s more than he can manage right now. You’re right—he needs rest, but he couldn’t have gotten it without you.

“Shh, I’ve got you,” you exhale into the space beneath his jaw. “It’s okay. I’m here. Just rest. It’s okay.”

“M’ s-sorry…”

“It’s alright. I’m here. I love you, Clark. I don’t care about the video, okay? I’m here because I love you. Without exception.”

I love you. It makes his heart want to sing it back, but he’s just too tired. So he hums low in the back of his throat, attempting to let his body relax now that you’re at his side.

As it always does, your presence works like cough syrup around a sore throat. Soothing and calming the inflamed bits of him.

“We’ll talk tomorrow, okay?”

He vaguely feels himself nodding.

My sunshine.

You settle over him like dusk, and he slips into a dreamless sleep.

~~~~

It’s just his luck that he wakes feeling almost as miserable as the night before. Despite being physically restored, the doom and gloom of his thoughts did not seem to evaporate overnight. He wakes feeling just as bad about everything—the video of his parents, Mali’s death, his failure to save the rest of the prisoners in Luthor’s pocket-prison, Lois and Terrific putting themselves in danger for his sake. Heck, he still feels awful about the Justice Gang’s rather violent elimination of Kaiju.

And of course, he’s sickened by the stress he’s put you under. Because he knows you as well as you know him, and he’s aware that you worry yourself sick every time that he’s gone. Which recently, has been more than he’s preferred. Now, with everything that’s happened, he knows you were beside yourself at the news. At the unknown. And he despairs over the fact that he couldn’t get to you sooner to explain—that you were the one finding him, and in this wretched state no less. Really, he should be the one comforting you.

But golly, does it feel nice to be on the receiving end of your warmth.

When he wakes, you’re no longer in bed with him. He’d expected as much; it wasn’t ideal trying to sleep whilst half hanging off the mattress. In your place is the white fuzzy mass of his cousin’s mutt, tail thumping rhythmically against the comforter with barely contained energy.

Clark sighs, bringing a hand to stroke Krypto’s head when the door creaks open.

Krypto’s ears flop up, the left one obnoxiously high in his signature look of curiosity, and he starts shaking in excitement at the sight of you. He pushes off of Clark’s stomach, and his groan of protest makes you scold the dog softly.

“I thought you’d be in here. Hey! Gentle. What did we talk about?”

For whatever reason, Krypto listens to you more than he listens to…well, anyone. The dog gives a soft whine before nuzzling your legs as you approach. Clark smiles at the sight, sitting up in bed as you give Krypto a scratch behind his perked ear.

“Alright. I think Ma cooked up some extra bacon. Go pester her for a bit, yeah?”

He gives your shorts a playful tug before loping down the hall. You close the door softly behind him and wander over to the side of the bed.

You look tired in the way that someone who just woke up does, and he adds your lack of sleep to the long list of things currently dampening his mood.

“Hey,” you say.

“Hi,” he greets. Although he is just as lost for words as he was when he was writhing in pain, Clark is sure his eyes convey enough of his inner turmoil given the way that you sit at the side of the bed with a steadying breath.

His hand immediately seeks yours. He brushes his thumb over your wedding ring, eyes settling on your face. Right away, you get the message.

With a shy smile you remove your hand from his to click open the large, intricate locket you never go anywhere without. It sits right over your heart, made from bits of the Fortress’ sunstone crystals. A single ring falls into your palm, and you click the necklace shut again. Then you’re grabbing his left hand to slide the band home at the base of his ring finger. You press a kiss over the jewelry. Then another for every knuckle.

Clark is watching you fondly the entire time, like you hold the sun itself in your hands. His smile broadens when a gorgeous flush appears on your cheeks under his stare.

Your eyes dance across his face and upper body. “How are you feeling?”

He can’t stop looking at you. “Better. Normal.”

You nod with a shaky sigh. “Good. That’s good.” Clark watches your throat dip as you swallow, before looking between his eyes with a raw sort of pain that all at once makes his chest feel like it’s being cracked open. “I was so worried,” you say in a whisper.

“I know,” his voice is just as quiet. “I’m sorry. Gosh, I’m so sorry, baby…” he lets his head thunk back against the headboard.

“Hey,” you grip his fingers. “Don’t. Don’t do that, Clark.”

“What?” he asks.

“Talk like everything bad that’s ever happened is a result of your personal failure.”

His jaw clenches. “It sort of feels that way right now.”

“I’m sure it does,” you say. “But that doesn’t make it true. You’re a good person, Clark. The best I know. The best any of us know.”

He can’t look you in the eye as he huffs derisively. “Doesn’t matter. None of it was real. None of it was honest.”

“Why?” you challenge. “Because your birth parents said so?”

Clark shakes his head. How is he supposed to explain? How is he supposed to tell you how utterly unwound he feels? As though someone unstrung his innards and used them to spell out his truth for the whole world to see? How is he supposed to tell you that he's responsible for an innocent man's death? That that very thing is what his parents would have wanted?

“You don’t understand,” he says weakly. “It…I thought I knew who I was. That I was sent here to help people. To keep them safe.”

“You are. You do.”

He shakes his head. “It’s not the same anymore.”

“It is to me,” you say firmly. “Clark, you’ve dedicated your entire life to helping others. That doesn’t stop or magically go away because the context of that video is different from what you originally thought. And…” you pause for breath, and maybe for courage. “And I don’t believe that you’re the person you are today solely because of your biological parents. I’m sorry, but I don’t.” You hold his hand a little tighter. “You never knew them. Not in the ways that mattered. And I know that’s bothered you, but…if that's who they were, then you're nothing like them, Clark. You’re an amalgamation of the people who know and love you now, the people you’ve helped. Your Ma and Pa. Kara. Me. Lois and Jimmy. Every cat you’ve rescued from a tree. Every person and life you’ve saved.”

He can’t break away from the fierce determination in your eyes even if he wants to. With the gravitational pull of a burning star, you draw him in. “You get your never-ending caring and hope for this world from the people you’ve surrounded yourself with. They’re just as much a part of why you do what you do as your birth parents were.”

Clark feels his jaw tremble. Feels the words seep in through his skin like rays of sunlight. This is why he needs you. Why you, above everyone and everything else, were more precious than anything.

Still, it’s difficult to believe, even coming from you. How is he supposed to accept that his parents’ intention was for him to destroy the planet? To harm the very people he’d sworn his life away to protect? Even if he was the result of his upbringing, the foundation of his morals as Superman were all wrong. Corrupted. Misguided.

“I don’t know how to exist without that part of me,” he says.

“No one said you had to,” you say gently. “You’ll always be Kryptonian. But it’s what you value about that heritage that counts. And to me, what you’ve valued the most is the very thing that sets you apart from the rest of us.” He grounds himself in the way your fingertips brush across his knuckles. You continue with a fire in your eyes that warms him to his core. “The strength. The speed. Every other one of your gifts. Clark, you’ve spent your life using what makes you different not to harm, not to conquer, though you so easily could. But to help. To do good. And I think that selflessness is what makes you just the same as any decent human who’s ever known what it means to be different.”

He’s lost for words any longer than, “thank you. I love you. I’m sorry.”

He doesn’t realize he’s pulled you close until you’re nearly chest to chest in an awkward standing-sitting hug.

“You don’t have to be sorry,” you say. “I love you too.”

“Thank you,” he breathes. “For just…just being you. Being here.”

“Of course, Clark. We'll get through it together, okay?” you soothe, and he feels your breath travel down his neck. He wants you closer. You hesitate at the push and pull of his hands.

“I’m better. Promise. No more pain,” he reassures you.

Through the curtains, the early afternoon sun flickers across your face, and it makes the sparkle in your eyes dance as you allow him to pull you into his lap. Your arms go around his neck and then he’s falling into your chest, letting you cradle his skull as he breathes you in.

“I missed you,” he mumbles, the cool chain of your locket pressing into his cheek.

“I missed you more,” comes your response.

“Is Lois still here?” he asks. He’s certain that she’s buzzing to interrogate him.

“Left early this morning,” you say. “Something about Jimmy’s unimaginable penchant for snagging women and saving the day.”

Clark presses a kiss to your collarbone, making a mental note to send her a text. Right now, though, he’s content to feel the way you rise and fall slightly in his lap with every one of his breaths.

“Are you upset that she knows?” he asks, because he’s genuinely curious. When Lois had pieced together for herself that he was Superman, there was no talking himself out of it. She wasn’t a sharp-witted, Pulitzer-prize winning investigative journalist for no reason. But for as long as you two had been together, Clark had kept your marriage a successful secret from everyone who knew of his alter ego. You’d agreed it was better off that way, even if it was difficult.

He’d been Superman for nearly three years now. He believed in the good of humanity, but he’d also seen some of its worst. If the wrong people got word that he was married, he might as well paint a giant red target on your back, and he couldn’t stand the thought of you put in danger because of him.

“No,” you say carefully. “I liked Lois from everything you’ve told me about her. And she was very understanding when we spoke this morning, if not a little shocked about the whole thing. But I trust her. And I know you do too.”

He absently rubs his hands up and down the length of your back. You’re in one of his high school t-shirts; he’d long outgrown them and had been more than happy to donate them for a better cause.

“Okay,” he says, before kissing the heart-shaped dip of your collarbone.

Clark withdraws slowly to look at you. You’re beautiful. So, so pretty. He doesn’t deserve you. Your kindness and honesty. Your willingness to be patient with him, to understand when he has to miss dates or anniversaries and still welcome him with open arms when he returns to you. To stand at his side even when the rest of the world has turned against him. To patch his wounds in the ways only you know how.

That beautiful blush reappears, and you give him a bashful smile. “Stop it.”

“Hm?” he hums innocently.

You fiddle with the fabric of his cape. “Looking at me like that.”

“I’d apologize, but I’m not actually sorry, so that’d be a lie.” He rubs his thumbs over the apples of your cheeks. “I just like looking at you. You’re so beautiful. So bright. It’s like having my own personal sun following me wherever I go.”

You lean in to brush your nose with his. “You’re a hopeless romantic,” you say breathily, and he hears the way your heart speeds up.

“Not hopeless. Heartfelt.”

You giggle, and it flutters around in his ears like birdsong.

“I’m so grateful you’re okay,” you say softly, nudging his nose. “When Ma told me what happened, I thought—”

“Hey,” he stops you with a reassuring squeeze of your hips. It’s fascinating how he reacts to the intense way in which you fret over him; he craves the attention of the person who knows him better than anyone while simultaneously wanting to prevent anything negative from ever harming your spirit, including himself. “I’ll be okay.”

Your gaze turns firm. “You’re a good man, Clark Kent. Don’t ever let the Luthors of this world make you doubt that.”

“I’ll try,” is the best he can promise you. Because it still hurts, everything about it, and he won’t deny that. But you’ve done your due diligence in assuaging the guilt, just as he thought you would. Like a seasoned surgeon, Clark can feel the stitches of your words piecing him back together with meticulous precision. But scars take time to heal.

You place a gentle, barely-there kiss against his upper lip, and his body reawakens like prodded coals over a dying flame.

“I know the man I married,” you breathe against his mouth, hips shifting above his. “And I know he’s wholly good. Full of kindness. Compassion. Sincerity.” You ghost another kiss against his lips, and he chases you on an exhale as you withdraw.

“What’s the saying?” he asks, firming his grip on your waist to halt your wiggling. It’s making it difficult to focus. “Behind every great man there’s a greater woman?”

You chew on your lower lip, and it takes all his willpower not to pluck it from your teeth with his thumb. “I don’t know if that applies in our case. Is anyone greater than Superman?”

“I think you know my answer to that, sunshine.” Just like that, he can’t take it anymore. He kisses you soundly, reverent and slow. You breathe life into his lungs with the way you press closer, humming in pure bliss. Your fingers curl into his hair, tentative at first as though you’re still concerned with breaking him. Which, to be fair, you absolutely have the power to do so. Just not in the sense he thinks you’re worried about.

Clark often forgets that you need air a great deal faster than he does, but is reminded of this fact when you’re the first to pull back. You don’t go far, especially not with him chasing after you, nosing along your jaw and peppering kisses on any spare inch of skin his greedy lips can find.

After a few long breaths you guide him back to your lips. He lets you tilt his head with your palms across his jaw. He lets you lead. Lets you have anything and everything you want, always.

You’re running your hands down his front, fingers catching over the dirtied crest across his chest when your kisses turn breathier.

“Mmm. You need a shower,” you murmur into his lips.

His answer comes in the way he swings his legs over the side of the bed, easily lifting you into his arms. You squeal in surprise, fingers curling into his cape as you giggle into his neck.

“Ma got breakfast keepin’ warm in the oven?” he asks, relishing in the way your thighs squeeze around his abdomen.

You nod. “More like lunch. It’s past noon, Superman,” you tease, scattering kisses across the muscles of his neck.

“Sorry,” he apologizes. He had been exhausted and more than needed the rest, but he shouldn’t have kept you all waiting so long. But since you already had… “Surely a few more minutes won’t kill anyone.”

In truth, he doesn’t think he could let you go if he tried. He’s drawn to you in a deeply intimate, inexplicable way. Has been since you were bumbling, bashful, teenagers dancing together at Smallville High’s homecoming. And though he’s usually perfectly content holding you without expecting anything more, right now he needs you close in a way that is only satisfied by his baser instincts.

Especially considering recent events, he just can’t help it—he needs your touch, craves it like a bird longs for empty sky, captivated by the promise of freedom and light. In the wake of his reputation’s imminent destruction, he needs it now more than ever. Craves the pacifying nature of your touches; in equal measure, he longs to undo you as much as you undo him.

“Clark,” you’re breathing heavily against the crook of his neck, hiding as he walks down the hallway to the sole bathroom in the Kent residence. “I'm sure your parents will notice if we're hogging the bathroom.”

“You said it's past noon? I’m sure Pa’s already tending to the cows,” he counters. “Ma’s likely on the porch micromanaging. And,” he gently nudges the bathroom door shut with his heel, “you’re my wife. I need you.” He sets you down, and the room feels laughably small as you both crowd the space. He doesn’t let you get far, cradling your skull and guiding you to look up at him as he draws near. “They understand. Wouldn’t have called you otherwise.”

It’s an obvious guilt trip and you both know it. But it works. Golly, does it work. Because you’re looking at him with a face full of surrender and he can smell the way the air turns between you.

“Please?” he asks next. He always does. It’s more than a courtesy, it’s about reciprocation. He only wants you if he knows you want him too. “Please touch me, sunshine? I needed you so bad these last few days.”

You nod, and in the next beat he’s already slanted his mouth to yours. You kiss with the blended weight of anticipation and relief, and when you touch each other next, clothes start hitting the tile.

He’s working down your shorts as you fumble with the faucet you both forgot to turn on so the water could heat. Your hands struggle with the clasp of his cape and the zip beneath. It’s always an adventure trying to get his suit off, and after all these years Clark has accepted that there’s simply no sexy way to do it. You share a few laughs and at one point he almost falls over trying to get down the ridiculous trunks, but he’s easily distracted by your scaldingly warm hands over his bare chest.

When the last of his uniform finally hits the ground, it feels like shedding a second skin. Despite everything, Clark still cherishes being Superman—it's a privilege and an honor. By now, it’s so intricately interwoven into who he is that sometimes he can’t distinguish between the two parts of himself. However, for once he lets himself accept the wave of relief as red and blue crumple on the floor. The weightlessness that comes with finally getting to be Clark Kent again. He has a lot to work through in the coming days, what with trying to re-learn what the cape means to both him and the rest of the world. Right now, though, he’s giving himself some grace. He’s being selfish.

He's forgetting it all in favor of feeling you, and letting you feel him in return.

Your hands light a trail as you explore the planes of his body, which twitches and tingles beneath your warm fingertips. Clark is equally as exploratory, pinning you softly against the countertop as his palms skirt the outline of your naked body.

He'd been with you just over a week ago, but each time feels new, somehow. He gets the same thrill out of touching you that he did the very first time. He chalks it up to your mysterious ability of making him feel born anew every time you touch him—as though the way you beam unto him causes him to blossom into your light. In fact, he becomes so overwhelmed with the feel of your skin beneath his hands that he shakes.

"Clark…" you notice right away, because of course you do.

"I'm okay," he pleads, words muffled because he can't take his lips away from your skin. "Just…I missed you so much."

That seems to shatter something in you, a broken whine rattling from your chest as you arch your body into his. In an attempt to not run up his parents' water bill, Clark blindly shoves the shower curtain aside, guiding you into the cramped space.

You hiss in discomfort when you step over the lip of the tub. Clark quickly steps in behind you, bearing the brunt of the still-cool water that is clearly taking longer than it should to warm up. He'll have to take a look at the water heater later.

As is the rest of the Kent ranch, the shower is quaint and by all means not designed to accommodate a 6'4 Kryptonian, let alone a 6'4 Kryptonian and his wife. But you've made it work before, and you're both too eager and too overcome with longing that you're willing to ignore the claustrophobia of the small tub.

Clark's head sits a good few inches above the line of the shower curtain, but he doesn't mind at all. Particularly because he's not spending much time standing straight anyway, head and lips preoccupied with leaning down to ravage your mouth with his.

Your bodies dampen quickly under the spray and every touch becomes slippery. Your nails clutch his shoulders as he tucks you against the corner of the shower furthest from the warming water; you're generating enough of your own heat, anyway.

"Clark," you whine his name like a desperate prayer and he knows instantly what you're asking for. If he didn't, surely the way your hips were moving against his solid thigh would've clued him in.

He manages to wrench a hand away from your beautiful face to slide down the front of your body. He detours at one of your breasts, distracted by the way your nipple—already almost fully erect from the cold water—hardens further under his attention. He can't help himself, leaning down to replace his fingers with the warm muscle of his tongue. You arch into him instantly, hooking a leg over his hip and shamelessly grinding against his cock as your head tilts back against the acrylic wall.

Even with the water swirling over your bodies, he can feel the wetness of your cunt as it slips against his cock, intoxicating in its invitation of heat. He can't help his groan, mouth popping off of your breast when the sensitive tip of him just barely catches at your entrance.

Suddenly there's two tight little hands entangled in his damp hair.

"Clark," you beg. "Please, just…just—"

His brows pinch together as he attempts to distract you with a kiss. "Gotta prep you." His thumb finally swirls over your engorged clit as he says it, and the reaction is instantaneous, evidenced by the change in pitch of your whines.

He's not trying to be cruel, but Clark knows he's—as Jimmy once crudely suggested—"largely endowed". Hell, he remembers the bulging of your eyes the first time you'd been about to have sex. He'd blushed profusely and stammered through reassurances, promising he'd take as much care and time as you needed to prepare for him. Suffice it to say that penetration had not been successful that night, but that was perfectly fine with Clark. It was the first time you'd let him go down on you as an alternative.

Of course, several years of marriage later and he's gotten it down to a science. You weren't nearly as prepared to take him as you could—as you should—be. Especially standing up.

Apparently, you're hellbent on torturing him today. Which is so, so cruel. Don't you remember the last few days he's had?

"I don't care," you shudder the words against his mouth. "Please, I just want to feel you. I want…I want you to feel me, use me, just…just please."

Good golly. He's stronger than this. He knows he is. But you reduce him to fragments of the man who's saved the world countless times. Fragments only you have the power to put back together with your lips and your hands and your sweet, sweet, pussy that's so warm and so wet and he can smell how eager you are—

"I don't want to hurt you," he forces himself to say it. In part because it's true, but also because it's the only way for him to cling onto his wavering restraint.

You understand his hesitation. He knows this because when you guide his eyes to yours, they're purely soft. The lust lingers, simmering at the surface of your blown pupils, but the look on your face is gentle. Reassuring. Wanting.

"You won't, I promise," you whisper. "I missed you, I missed having this. Especially with everything that's happened." You place a gentle kiss on his lips. "I want you to make love to me, Clark. Just wanna be close to you."

The decision is made before you even finish speaking. All it took was one flash of those soft, overly delicate eyes for him to melt.

Clark plants a peck on your kiss-swollen lips. "You'll tell me if it's too much?"

You nod. "You know I always do." Then your hips are resuming their torturously slow grind against his, and his eyelids flutter at the feeling.

You kiss him as he reaches between you to align himself. He makes a show of rubbing the sensitive head over your clit, just enough to make the need boil over and drive you both mad with anticipation. When he can no longer stand it, Clark pushes into you slowly. Everything around him narrows to the singular point of your pleasure—the way your expression sharpens at the intrusion; the way your nails bite into his biceps.

"Oh, sunshine." The sound he lets out is low and obscene, but in an attempt to be mindful of his lurking parents, he presses it into your mouth instead.

You smother your own cry against his lips too, gasping at the feeling of being split open by him. The pause he gives you to adjust lingers longer than usual, because he'd meant what he said about not wanting to hurt you. That, and the feeling of your velvet-coated cunt wrapped so snugly around his cock demands a moment's hesitation lest this be over before it starts.

He takes your impatient squirming as the sign to move. Clark starts slow, pushing himself deeper while pulling out slower. Several times, he slips out entirely, sliding the length of him through your sopping pussy up to your throbbing clit. You make the sweetest noises, soft in your attempt to keep them at a respectable volume.

"Okay?" he checks in on a particularly deep thrust.

You nod, lip between your teeth with a look that borders pain and pleasure; but you're starting to meet his movements and he can hear the way your heart pounds—you're enjoying it as much as he is. Your muttered praises and assurances melt through his skin and flow over every inner piece of him like magma. He feels like he's welded to you, sinking further into the molten heat of your body, helpless to do anything but fuse against your skin.

"Stretching me so good."

"I missed you."

"So glad you're safe."

"God, feel so full."

"I love you so much."

Clark has always been an overly emotional person who feels everything in troves; in moments like these, charged with too many feelings to put words to, that intensity increases tenfold. Telling him you love him nearly does him in. He loses himself in the feel of you, in the way your body feels like safety, your voice sounds like home, and it's simultaneously too much and not enough.

His eyes fall on the silver locket—the one you never take off, especially when he's gone, housing his wedding ring for safekeeping. A piece of him with you wherever you go. He presses a kiss over it, its metal taste amplified by the water. He looks up to find your eyes hot on his, rapt with intensity.

A hand cups his cheek. “Don’t scare me like that again,” you demand, though the sound is breathless and he’s eager to envelop your words with his mouth, but he waits.

"I promise," he says, and he'll spend the rest of his days trying his hardest to keep it. Though, he knows you're aware that he can't keep every one. But you love him anyway, and it feels unfair, and now he feels bad, so he's kissing you again because he adores the way it makes you cling to him that much harder.

When he retracts, there's a floaty look across your features as you tremble in his arms, hips canting to match his rhythm. Clark pinches your chin between his thumb and forefinger, your noses brushing as he guides your dreamy eyes to his. "You okay?"

You let out a breathless moan as you nod, beautiful eyes searching his. "Feels so good," you say, silken and full of yearning.

He presses kisses onto your shoulder. "Feels good for me too, sweetheart."

Clark cradles the crease of your knee, shifting you higher and opening you wider. The angle changes, and you both groan at the subtle, intense difference. The open-mouthed kiss you share is messy, slow, and uncaring as you breathe into each other's mouths. Everything about it is sensual and close and perfect, exactly what his weary soul had longed for.

Naturally, the pace increases as the tension steadily begins to build. He can feel your hard nipples scraping across his chest, the slip and slide of your bodies amplified by the falling water. He reads the focus on your face and can tell you're trying desperately to get there, to meet him in the middle. So of course, he has to help you along, because he exists for the sole purpose of your satisfaction. His own release is nearly inconsequential, a happy byproduct.

Two thick fingers settle just where you meet, and he stimulates the nerves all around your quivering cunt as he moves, feeling the way his cock breaches you on every thrust. Up, down, up, down in sloppy lines that trace the lips of your labia.

Clark watches your jaw fall and anticipates the sound that follows, quickly using his free hand to stifle it.

"Shhh, honey. Not too loud."

It seems that only invigorates your pleasure. Those beautiful eyes of yours roll into your skull. Clark takes the chance to be a little mean, as penance for your earlier goading him into skipping foreplay. His fingers settle at the apex of your thighs, and you jolt against the firm wall of his chest when he begins to circle your clit.

You're moaning becomes unbidden, barely muffled by his hand as he increases the staccato movement of his hips. One of your own hands roots in his soaked hair, the other splayed across his ribcage as you drool into his palm, everything a mix of sweat and water and spit.

You look blissed-out and beautiful.

"I missed you," he breathes. "You're so pretty. I missed you so, so much. My sweet girl, my sunshine. You're everything t'me, did you know that?" He thinks that drawn out moan might be a yes. "M'nothing without you. I love you so—ah—so much. Yeah, I know, baby. It feels so good, doesn't it?"

He lets his hand fall in favor of anchoring himself to your hips.

"F-fuck, Clark—"

He's begun to suspect that you've uncovered his dirty little secret—that hearing you curse drives him wild. He didn't typically enjoy profanities, but hearing them slip from your sweet little mouth entirely on accident, entirely because of him—well, that was a completely different situation.

His hips snap forward and it yanks another expletive from your lips.

"Gettin' close, honey?"

Your nod smushes your nose across his face. "Clark…"

"C'mon," he pants into your ear. "Let go. Let it happen, baby. Oh, I missed you so much—"

The telltale quaking of your thighs alerts him that you're nearly there. Clark is suddenly overcome with his desperation to feel it, fully ignoring the tingling that's settled at the base of his spine, the weight in his balls, the taut feeling spreading through his abdomen. His fingers rock over your clit, frantic but precise, just the right amount of pressure.

Your whines have increased in volume, and distantly Clark prays that his parents are actually outside, because there's no way they can't hear your sharp cries as your nails burrow into his skin, longing to leave marks that'll heal faster than they harm.

He begs you again, your name tumbling out of his pleading mouth as he urges you to cum for him, and that does it. Your release is tense, the shock of your overwhelmed nervous system escaping your body in several jerks. It's too much to feel you clamping around him, and his control snaps like a rubber band. Before he knows it he's fucking you through your release, chasing his impending high.

"Oh, baby," his voice shakes as it fans across your cheek, humid against your shower-soaked face. "You're gonna make me cum."

"Please," you weep. "Clark, please, inside me, need t'feel it, please cum in me, baby."

And finally, the next full-body shudder that wrecks his body is pleasant instead of painful. He whimpers like it hurts, but it's the furthest thing from pain and the closest thing to heaven. He burrows his head into your neck, body slumping forwards as he pumps his hips into you, feeling his warmth seep deep inside your fluttering cunt. Your hands run down his back, up his sides, down his chest, up his arms. You pull his face out of hiding, ushering his mouth back to yours with languid movements of your lips on his.

"I love you," he says into the kiss, wet and messy, water and spit mixing in your mouths.

"Love you too," you shudder.

For reasons beyond his comprehension, Clark feels his eyes fill with tears. For a moment, he hopes the guise of the shower might keep you from noticing, but of course it doesn't.

"Hey." Your warm hands spread across his face, thumbs tracing his cheek bones. "What is it?"

His voice breaks. "I'm just…I'm sorry. Sometimes it feels like I don't deserve you."

"Clark." Your voice isn't pitiful. It isn't bothered. It's overflowing with tenderness, and the kind of understanding that only comes with knowing a person better than you know yourself. "I wish you could believe me when I tell you that you're one of the best people I know. But even if you can't, at least trust in how much I love you."

A tear falls, and it's is the one droplet of moisture among many that you choose to swipe away with your fingers.

"I love you, do you hear me?" you repeat. "I'll be here for you, always."

He nods, and there's a cracked feeling in his chest that he can't decide is good or bad. Maybe it's a mix of both—maybe it's the rawness of vulnerability, or the type of sensitivity that comes with being this known.

You hold him for several more moments, the rain-sound of the water hitting the tub lulling him into a state of tranquility.

"We should…probably actually bathe," you mumble eventually.

He gives you a loving smile, pecking each corner of your lips before kissing you fully, because he can. Because he wants to cherish it.

"Thank you," he says one final time. "For loving me. For giving me a chance."

You press a kiss onto his lips as you reach for the shampoo. "Always."

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