Summary: You and Clark have great chemistry on screen of course... but you two surprisingly have good chemistry off screen?
Actor!Clark Kent x reader
A/N: idk where this came from but it's here... also WE'RE GETTING A SEQUEL BABYYY MAN OF TOMORROW OUT JULY 9TH, 2027!!!!!!!!!!!
Tags - @lush-escape Wanna join the taglist? Click here!
You pecked his lips again and again with a giggle as the director shouted "Cut!". Clark smiled softly at you. Something that camera actually caught this take.
"Your cheeks are pink again." You told him.
Clark hide his face in your neck. "Great, now everyone's knows."
The director made have told them to cut it but even he wanted to know where this was leading so he told the camera man to keep going.
"Good. It's adorable. Very adorable." You pecked his lips again.
"It's not adorable." He mumbled as he kissed your neck.
Your hand caresses the nape of his neck, making his breath hitch slightly as he peaked to look at you.
You kissed him again, Clark taking the lead this time as his tongue entered your mouth. He backed you up to the wall.
"How long should we keep them going for?" The camera man asked.
"A little bit longer," James(the director) told him. "I wanna see how they end it."
The two of you passionately made out, completely lost in the moment. You tugged off your jacket and moved your hands all over his upper body making him groan in response.
"You like it when I have my hands on you, big boy?" You teased.
Clark grinned against your lips. "You know I do."
This behind the scenes clip has gained more fame across the media, with fans often highlighting the chemistry the two of you have.
"You're telling me that clip didn't make it in the show?" Jimmy Fallon asked.
"I thought you watched the show, Jimmy. You said you did!" You laughed.
Clark smiled at the sound of your laughter. "Uh no, it didn't. James loved it, we loved it. But the studio thought it was... too steamy?"
"What he means is, we have a rating to maintain and it's not TV-MA unfortunately." You winked at Clark.
His cheeks flushed almost immediately at the wink as he adjusted your glasses.
"And finally after years, they finally released your audition tapes to me." Jimmy smiled.
"No way, you're kidding!" You exclaimed. "Olsen finally came them to you?"
Jimmy nodded. "From one Jimmy to another, he realized how important this was."
Clark scratched the back of his neck. "Hopefully it's not my self tape one. I um filmed that one with my parents."
"Wasn't your cousin there too?" You asked.
Clark nodded slowly. "Kept- kept uh laughing the whole time."
"Well you are just a farmboy from Kanas." You rolled your eyes.
Clark adjusted his glasses again, clearly getting flustered by your teasing. "Smallville, Kanas."
"Smallville, Kanas." You repeated with a sigh. "How are your parents doing by the way?"
"They're doing good- doing really good." Clark nodded and clears his throat. "Can we see the tape, Jimmy?"
Jimmy smiled. "Oh yes, we can. Don't worry not any audition tapes, it's your first chemistry read together."
The clip played on screen for the audience.
You and Clark came into view, holding scripts in your hands as you looked at the camera. The two of you introduced yourself before officially starting the audition.
"You telling me what to do, newbie?" You asked.
Clark scoffed. "Of course not, but clearly you don't know what you're doing."
"And you do? Last time I checked you've only been here for four months, I've been here two years." You shoved Clark's back and turned to walk away when he grabbed your wrist and pulled you back in.
"And yet, we still hooked up last night, is arguing always gonna be our foreplay?" Clark teased.
You looked up at him. "Maybe, if you keep being a jerk."
Clark looked you up and down. "You look nice today. Really nice."
"Keep trying to distract me and I'll be shoving you in the storage closet." You threatened.
Clark chuckled. "Didn't know you had a thing for being in tight spaces."
"Watch it, newbie." You scolded.
Clark nodded. "Oh, believe me... I'm watching."
You swatted his head. "Stop being a perv."
Clark shook his head. "Not being a perv, just being honest. I like looking at you." He shrugged.
Your breath hitched slightly as the two of you maintained eye contact.
"I like everything about you." Clark confesses.
"...I like everything about you too. Now get back to work stop slacking." You told him.
"Whatever you say, boss." Clark pecked your lips quickly before you could realize what he did and walked off screen.
The clip ended, the audience erupted in cheers.
"Wow, we looked so different then." You glanced at Clark. "Got new frames." Pointing to his glasses.
Clark nodded in agreement. "You're still shorter than me. That hasn't changed."
You rolled your eyes at his remark. "And you bulked up," You pats Clark's shoulder. "Like crazy."
"Has anyone ever tell you that you two have amazing chemistry off screen?" Jimmy asked. "You two seriously work so well together, I think everyone here can agree."
As if on cue, the audience began to applaud the two of you. You smiles proudly.
"Just part of the job." Clark nodded.
"Most of it anyway," You shrugged.
Clark glanced at you, his expression softening slightly before he chuckled at your words.
You looked back at him for a moment, somehow your smile widened even more at the sound of his laughter.
Damn, maybe the two of you do have good chemistry off screen...
Summary : When Jimmy ropes you into playing Clark Kent’s fake girlfriend at a wedding, you expect awkward small talk and forced smiles not slow dances, stolen kisses, and the kind of heat that changes friendships forever. One devastating kiss turns the act into something dangerously real, and by the end of the trip, Clark’s not pretending anymore.
Tags/warnings : Explicit sexual content (18+), fake dating, alcohol mention, lots of kissing, lap sitting, soft praise, mutual pining pay-off, Clark being so painfully good it hurts.
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“Tell me again why I’m doing this?” you ask, stuffing a garment bag into the backseat of Jimmy Olsen’s car.
He grins, before he starts to drive. “Because I’m your best friend, and you love me and Clark.”
“You manipulated me. You said I was going to a fun weekend wedding with you guys.”
“I lied. But in my defense, this is for Clark. He needs this.”
It turns out Clark needs a date for his college buddy’s wedding and not just any date. A serious, committed, Instagram-worthy girlfriend. Why? Because his ex is in the bridal party. The same ex who cheated on him and now insists on pretending they’re “great friends.”
“He said no at first,” Jimmy says. “But I told him you’d already agreed.”
“We will make it work.” You assure breathing through your nerves.
“I’d say it’s about time you two stopped being so modest with each other,” he teases. You look over at him faking a confused look and he rolls his eyes. “Oh come on months of longing looks and bringing coffee to each other, sneaking off for lunches. You guys needed a push. And nothing brings people together like me.” You can hear the smug smirk on his face without looking over at him. You hate that he’s right.
Clark is pacing in the hotel lobby when you arrive, looking equal parts nervous and handsome in a rolled-up dress shirt and suspenders (why does he own suspenders? Why do they work?).
He spots you and immediately walks over.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to rope you into this—”
You wave him off. “Relax, Kent. If we’re doing this, we’re doing this.”
His brows lift. “Doing what, exactly?”
You lean in, smoothing his collar. “Convincing every single person at this wedding that we are the most annoyingly in-love couple in the entire room.”
Clark’s lips twitch into a smile “Are you sure this is okay? Jimmy said you were ok with this, but Jimmy also lies a lot,” you smile at his nerves and adjust his curls.
“We got this Clark, just lean into it,”
“You’re scary good at this.”
You wink. “Fake it ‘til you make it.”
You look behind him in time to watch Jimmy fist-pumps in the background.
The hotel smells like gardenia and overpriced still water.
You and Clark go to check in, “Mr. and Mrs. Kent” the concierge coos, Clark blushes so hard you think he might combust. You don’t correct her. Neither does he.
As you head to the elevators, he glances at you sideways.
“So… do we have a plan?”
“For what?”
“For tonight. With everyone. For the act.” He whispers.
You toss your head back and laugh. “Oh, Clark. Sweet, innocent Clark. It’s going to be ok.” You walk to the room and watch him fumble the key card before he’s able to open the door.
You drop your bag in the corner and immediately open the garment bag Jimmy had given you. The room is beautiful. Floor-length mirror. Good lighting. One king bed. Two nerves.
Clark is standing awkwardly by the window, probably trying to decide whether he should sit, stand, or leap off the balcony.
You hold up a hanger. “Put this on.”
He squints at it. “That’s not mine.”
“No,” you say, tossing it onto the bed. “It’s better. Jimmy gave it to me.”
It’s a cream-colored shirt that’ll cling just right across his chest and a slim pair of dark slacks that have fake boyfriend written all over them.
Clark frowns. “You brought me a costume?”
“This isn’t a costume. It’s armor that Jimmy sends with his love. Now get dressed.”
He hesitates before unbuttoning his current shirt.
“What?” you ask.
“I just…” He rubs the back of his neck. “What if I’m bad at this? What if I screw it up and it looks worse than coming alone?”
You cross the room slowly and lift the shirt from the bed. “You won’t. I will be here every step of the way. You’re Clark. You’re honest and warm and impossible not to like. All you have to do tonight…” you help guide his arm through the sleeve “…is be in love.”
His breath catches.
“With you?”
You meet his eyes as you adjust the collar. “Well ideally yes, with me.”
You smooth your hands down his chest, helping with the buttons, brushing imaginary lint from his shoulders. When you look up, he’s still staring.
“Be in love with you,” he says softly. “I can do that.”
His blue eyes have a soft almost scared look and you have to remind yourself it’s just for tonight. Just pretend, you remind yourself. Just pretend.
You nod once. “Then let’s go.”
It’s golden hour on the rooftop when you arrive. You look like the after photo in a makeover montage: floor-length champagne satin, skin glowing, smile confident. Clark has one hand on your waist as he guides you through the crowd.
Every head turns. The sun hits his jaw just right. Your perfume hits just right. You look like a movie. And not a wedding party movie. A poster.
“Wow,” Jimmy mutters to himself across the rooftop, watching you descend on the party like a power couple made by God and Paramount. “I am so good at this.”
Clark is warm beside you, his arm slung loosely around your waist, his shoulder brushing yours like it’s second nature. You let yourself lean into it.
From across the patio, Jimmy clocks you both and throws you a double thumbs-up. You shake your head with a small laugh.
Clark is mid-sentence, something about the best man being shockingly into woodworking, when he goes still.
You follow his gaze. She’s twenty feet away and closing in. Your gut reacts before your brain does. That subtle flicker in Clark’s expression, recognition, discomfort, history.
You look up at him. His mouth is just slightly parted, brows tense, eyes holding that glassy sheen he gets when something punches through his calm.
You lift your hand and gently fix the corner of his glasses. Then you slide your fingers up around his shoulders and pull him towards you.
“What?” he starts, but your mouth is already on his.
And the world tilts. It’s supposed to be tactical, just enough to sell it. But your body forgets that part entirely.
Because the second your lips meet his, he melts. His hand finds the small of your back like he’s done it a thousand times, pulling your body close. His other hand drifts to your cheek, tender, reverent. He kisses you back like he means it. Like this is his story, not hers.
The rooftop fades. It’s just you. The scent of him. The taste of champagne on his lips. The way he exhales when your fingers brush his jaw.
You part slowly. Carefully. Like the world might break if you move too fast. He’s looking at you like you’re the only thing in the room.
“What was that?” he asks, voice low and wrecked.
You brush a speck of lint from his chest, casually.
“She was about to come over here and say your name like everything was ok,” you murmur. “I didn’t want her to think she had the right to.”
Clark exhales, somewhere between stunned and stunned stupid.
Behind him, you hear the sharp clack of heels stopping mid-step, then turning sharply on the deck. You don’t look. Jimmy’s distant cackle rings out like a victory bell.
He doesn’t say anything for a beat. But he squeezes your hand.
Clark looks at you, dazed and pink at the ears, lips still parted from the kiss. “That was…”
You smile up at him. “Effective?”
He huffs out a breathy laugh, still stunned. “Yeah. That.”
Before he can say more, a hand claps him on the shoulder.
“Clark freaking Kent!” a voice bellows.
You turn just in time to see a tall man in a slate blazer grin wide and pull Clark into a brief, back-slapping hug. Another guy follows behind him, holding hands with a glowing woman in an emerald silk jumpsuit.
“Been too long,” the man says.
“You still had a neck beard the last time I saw you,” Clark shoots, instantly lighter.
“Touché,” the man says, pointing. “Anyway, we’ve all been dying to meet the mystery girlfriend you RSVP’d with.” Oh, we’re doing this.
You step forward, extend your hand, and smile like you were born for this scene.
“Hi,” you say brightly. “That’ll be me.”
They laugh immediately, not at you, but because your energy is warm and easy and just the right amount of cheeky. The woman in green is already smiling.
“I’m Rina,” she says, shaking your hand. “And this is my husband, Jonah. We went to school with Clark.”
“You poor things,” you say with a wink. “He tells me nothing which I assume is for a reason.”
They laugh again. Instantly relaxed.
Clark watches you like he’s never seen you before.
You get swept into a conversation before he can even introduce you properly. Jonah talking about how Clark used to be obsessed with journalism before it was cool, Rina sharing how they got married in the same park where they had their first kiss, and you, you just fit.
You ask good questions. You listen when they talk. You don’t fake interest, you are interested. And your laugh? It bubbles up like champagne and Clark feels it in his ribs.
Then someone calls Rina’s name, and she lights up. “The bride’s here! Come on, we’ll introduce you.”
The bride is glowing. Classic and chic in a white satin cocktail dress, hair twisted up with tiny pearls threaded through.
When she sees Clark, she squeals. “Clark! You made it!”
He hugs her like a little brother. You swear he blushes. “Congrats, Brielle. You look amazing.”
“And this,” she says, turning to you, “must be the woman who finally made Clark RSVP with a plus-one.”
You smile and take her hand. “He tried to cancel at the last minute. I wouldn’t let him.”
She laughs. “You’re already my favorite.”
The groom is equally warm. “She’s a keeper, Kent. Lock it down.”
Clark goes pink again. “We’re, uh…”
You jump in smoothly, linking your arm through Clark’s. “Just taking it slow. But he’s been the best part of my year.”
And just like that, you’ve won the room.
The bride squeezes your hands and whispers, “We’re sitting you with us tomorrow. Hope that’s okay.”
Clark nods before you can answer. And then a toast is called.
The group breaks off for champagne. You and Clark are left alone again for a breath. You’re sitting with him now at a table near the bar, low light catching in the gold flecks of your dress. Just when you open your mouth to break the silence someone sits next to Clark, an old friend who wastes no time bringing up old college memories. You’re laughing, really laughing, at some story about Clark accidentally submitting an article to the school paper three days early with placeholder text still in it.
Clark’s face is red. “They printed the whole thing.”
“What was the title?”
“‘TKTK Headline for Faculty Strike Piece.’”
You burst out laughing just as Jimmy slides back into the conversation, placing a fresh drink in front of you and Clark like a bartender with a grudge.
“God, I love when he tells that one,” Jimmy says, flopping into the chair across from you.
The three of you settle into a rhythm. Jimmy is his usual mix of chaotic and charming, letting the conversation swing wide, then subtly steering it right back into you and Clark’s orbit.
When Clark excuses himself to use the restroom, Jimmy leans across the table, lowering his voice.
“So. How’s the act?”
You stir your drink. “You tell me. Crowd convinced?”
He shrugs. “I’d say the crowd is irrelevant. You two are the ones buying it.”
You meet his eyes, but he doesn’t flinch.
“Wasn’t expecting the kiss,” he adds. “Thought I’d get something cutesy. A forehead peck. Maybe a strategically placed hug. But that was… wow.”
You sip your drink. “It worked.”
“It worked,” he agrees, then leans closer. “But tell me this; did it need to be that good?”
You tilt your head. “What are you asking?”
“I’m asking,” he says, eyes narrowing with a little smile, “if you kissed him like that for the wedding guests… or for you.”
You don’t answer. Because honestly? You’re not sure anymore.
Clark returns, cheeks pink from the wind, curls a little out of place. He sits back beside you, instinctively resting his hand on your knee.
You let it stay.
Jimmy just smiles, silent. I can see the checkmate wanting to claw its way out of his throat.
The rooftop is quieter now.
Most of the wedding party has filtered back to their rooms or spilled into the hotel bar downstairs. A few couples linger near the heaters, low voices curling into the breeze.
You and Clark are still seated at the edge of the deck, your legs resting across his lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His hand hasn’t moved from your thigh since you took that seat an hour ago. Neither of you mentions it.
Jimmy left fifteen minutes ago with a wink and a “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t write about.”
Clark looked horrified. You just laughed.
Now, under the string lights, you’re sitting in the comfortable haze that only comes from too many spritzes, not enough food, and way too much chemistry.
“I think we did it,” you say softly, tipping your head against his shoulder.
“Did what?”
“Convinced them.”
Clark chuckles low in his throat. “You convinced me.”
You lift your head to look at him. His face is flushed, eyes warm, lips parted slightly like he’s still tasting the champagne.
“That kiss wasn’t in the script,” he adds.
“No,” you agree. “But it worked.”
He nods, then after a beat, “Would it… be weird if I said I didn’t want to stop pretending yet?”
Your heart kicks once.
But you just smile. “Then let’s not.” A few minutes later you’re on your way back into the shared room. The door clicks shut behind you both.
Clark sets his coat gently on the back of a chair, then freezes, eyes on the bed.
The one bed.
“Oh,” he says. “I’ll, umm, I’ll sleep on the floor.”
You kick off your heels and groan dramatically. “Clark. You are not sleeping on the floor.”
He rubs the back of his neck. “I just figured…”
“You’re a literal superhero built like a mattress. You’ll survive sharing one.”
He looks vaguely scandalized. You grab your makeup wipes and stumble toward the bathroom.
“Just get in before I take the whole blanket,” you call over your shoulder. You feel him tug the blanket gently and smile before drifting off to sleep.
You wake up slow.
Not the kind of wake-up that comes with a groggy alarm or a jolt of reality, no. This is soft. Warm. Still. The hotel curtains are cracked open just enough to let the golden light bleed in. You blink against it, pulse still heavy with sleep. Your head is on something solid.
Not a pillow. A chest. A breathing chest. You freeze. Clark’s breathing chest.
His arm is slung loosely around your waist. His breath is steady against your hair. One of your legs is hooked over his like you’d claimed him in your sleep. You don’t even remember turning over.
But the way your bodies are tangled now?
It doesn’t feel like an accident.
You shift slightly, trying to ease your leg back into a less compromising position, but the moment you do “Mmh…” Clark stirs. His arm tightens. “Don’t go,” he mumbles. Your heart stops.
You glance up. His eyes are still closed. Lips parted. He’s dreaming.
And then, softly, so softly, it comes out again. “Please don’t go.”
The air leaves your lungs. You stay frozen for a beat longer, listening to the silence that follows. Watching the muscles in his jaw twitch. You can feel the tension, even in sleep.
And when his eyes flutter open slow, hazy, beautiful, you’re still watching him.
He blinks at you.
And immediately goes stiff. His eyes dart down to where your legs are tangled, his arm across your waist.
“Oh, sor—sorry, I didn’t…” He starts to pull away.
You stop him with a hand on his chest.
“Clark,” you say, voice still husky with sleep. “You talk in your sleep.”
He freezes. “…What did I say?”
You smile, soft and a little shaky. “You asked me not to go.”
His eyes flicker. “Oh,” he says.
You both stare at each other. No one moves.
“I wasn’t going to,” you whisper and watch him swallow nervously.
You shift your weight slightly, just enough to be facing him more directly. Your fingers find the edge of his t-shirt. His hand hovers, like he wants to touch you again, but he doesn’t know the rules anymore.
“I was dreaming about last night,” he admits. “About you laughing. The way you kissed me.”
You suck in a breath.
“I didn’t want it to end,” he adds. You search his face, and all the pretending falls away. There’s no wedding. No audience. No Jimmy watching from the corner, smirking into his drink.
Just you and Clark, inches apart, hearts racing, morning light turning everything golden.
And your voice comes out quieter than you mean it to.
“Then kiss me again.” And he does. This time, it’s slower. Surer. No tactics. No plan. Just him and you, finally letting go of the space between what’s real and what was never supposed to be pretend.
You don’t know how long you stay like that.
Kissing Clark slowly, sleepily, like you’ve been doing it forever. You don’t rush. There’s no urgency. No fear of being caught or questioned.
Just Clark’s hand cradling your jaw, the warmth of his body, and the quiet realization that this is what it’s supposed to feel like.
Eventually, you pull back. Barely.
His forehead rests against yours, both of you catching your breath. You’re still under the covers, limbs wrapped up like the night never ended.
He opens his eyes first. His voice is a low rasp.
“So… just for the record,” he murmurs, “this part isn’t fake, right?”
You smile.
“Clark,” you whisper, brushing your thumb against his chin, “you kissed me like we were in a Nicholas Sparks movie. I think we passed fake about twelve hours ago.”
He laughs, that deep, genuine kind that rumbles in his chest. “I didn’t sleep much.”
“Because of the bed?”
He shakes his head, gentle. “Because of you.”
You blush suddenly feeling shy.
“You hog the blanket,” he adds, like it’s a secret he’s thrilled to know.
“You clung to me like a koala.” You say in your defense.
“You tucked your cold feet under my calves.”
“They were freezing, Clark.”
He leans in, playful. “I didn’t mind.”
You hum. “Good.” You kiss again, shorter, softer. But the kind that leaves both of you smiling into it.
BAM BAM BAM
You both jump.
“Room service,” Jimmy calls in a singsong tone that is absolutely not room service.
Clark groans. “Good gosh, he’s too early”
BAM BAM BAM
You throw the covers off and pad barefoot to the door, cracking it open with suspicion.
Jimmy stands there, fully dressed, sunglasses on, two coffees in a cardboard tray and a pastry bag dangling from his teeth.
He takes one look at you, hair a little messy, oversized tee, flushed face and smirks like the devil himself.
“Oh,” he says around the bag. “Oh.”
“Shut up,” you mutter.
He hands you the tray. “You’re glowing.”
You yank the bag out of his mouth and shove him back a step. “I will kill you.”
“Do I get to give a toast at the wedding now or…?”
You slam the door in his face.
When you turn around, Clark is sitting up in bed, blushing furiously.
You hand him his coffee. He takes it without meeting your eyes.
“Don’t let him get to you,” you say, flopping beside him again.
“He’s just—”
“A moron,” you finish. “But he’s not wrong.”
“No he’s not,” he smiles, bringing his coffee cup up clinking your cups together.
The coffee has gone cold by the time you’re finally moving.
The hotel room is filled with the quiet, rhythmic rustle of fabric, zippers, buttons, perfume lids clicking shut. The ceremony is in just under two hours, and you’re both pretending to get ready like it’s any other day.
But it’s not.
The morning kiss still hums in the air between you, like the echo of a song neither of you wants to turn off.
Clark stands near the closet mirror in a fresh white shirt, sleeves rolled up, tie hanging loose around his neck. He’s moving a little slower than usual like his mind is still in bed.
You’re finishing your makeup at the bathroom sink, but you catch glimpses of him in the mirror. Every now and then, his eyes drift to you and linger too long. You pretend not to notice, but of course you do.
When you step out in your dress, deep green satin, cinched at the waist, draped off the shoulder just enough, he freezes.
You smooth your hands down your sides and turn. “Is it too much?”
Clark’s mouth opens. Then shuts. Then finally, “It’s perfect.”
You smile. “You’re stalling.”
He blinks. “What?”
You step in front of him, fingers already reaching for his tie. “You keep staring at me and forgetting how to get dressed.”
Clark huffs a nervous laugh, cheeks tinged with pink. “Can you blame me?”
You raise a brow. “You’re acting like I haven’t seen you in boxers and a Led Zeppelin tee.”
“Yeah, but you didn’t kiss me then,” he murmurs.
Your hands still. But only for a beat. Then you finish knotting his tie with careful precision slowly, measured, each tug deliberate.
You smooth the collar flat, your fingers brushing his neck, and look up meeting his beautiful blue eyes
“I haven’t stopped thinking about your lips,” he says quietly.
“Me either,” you admit, voice low. You tug his tie bringing him in for another kiss. His hands wonder this time slow and sure. You feel them rest in the small of your back and he pulls you into him gently but intentional. Your hands rest on his chest as your mouths savor each other.
His phone going off breaks you from the haze. He reluctantly reaches for it and reads the text.
“Shuttle is here,” he mumbles as he types away. You grab his coat from the closet and hold it out. “Come on, Kent. We’ve got a wedding to go to.”
The shuttle was supposed to be a calm, polite ride to the ceremony.
It is… not that.
Clark boards behind you, hand gently on your lower back like it belongs there.
Someone, somehow, has produced a bottle of prosecco from a tote bag. Plastic cups appear out of nowhere. Champagne is passed around like communion.
You glance toward the back of the shuttle. She’s there. The ex. Blonde, glossy, seated stiffly by the emergency exit. Alone. Silent.
Her eyes flick up just as Clark leans toward you, hand resting casually on your thigh, brushing a nonexistent hair from your cheek.
You don’t kiss him. But you don’t have to.
The groomsmen are laughing again, one of them asking you how you two met. Clark fumbles for a second, you cut in with a too-smooth story about spilled coffee and shared notebooks. It’s not fully true. But it’s not fully fake either.
“Journalism power couple,” Jimmy announces. “Clark writes it. She edits it. I leak it.”
Clark throws a napkin at him.
You sip your drink and catch Clark’s eye. He’s smiling. Not the polite Clark smile, the real one. Dimples out, all teeth, that look he gets when he thinks no one’s watching and he actually lets himself feel good.
You bump his knee with yours. “You having fun?”
He nods, a little dazed. “Yeah. Just…”
He looks at you again, really looks. “I’m really glad you came.”
Your chest goes tight.
From the back, you hear his ex sigh loud enough to be heard. One of the groomsmen turns, gives her a raised brow, then shrugs and keeps laughing with the rest of you.
Clark doesn’t even glance her way. He’s still watching you. And the rest of the ride? Feels like flying.
The ceremony is beautiful.
Brief, heartfelt, lit in golden light. The bride cries. The groom fumbles his vows. There’s laughter, a gentle kiss, and applause that carries straight into their kiss.
But honestly? You barely remember it.
Because as Clark stood in the groomsmen line, tie perfect, lips pressed together in a soft, unreadable smile, during the vows, he looked at you.
Not at the bride. Not at the guests. You. And you knew, no matter what this was, or how it started, it was real.
The venue glows.
Candles everywhere. Long tables, velvet runners, champagne towers, and a DJ who’s already one mimosa deep into his playlist.
You don’t even make it through the salad course before Jimmy appears behind you and whispers, “I give it fifteen minutes before you and Clark sneak off behind the dessert table.”
You smack his arm with an eye roll, but honestly that all depends on how strong the drinks are.
He drops a shot glass in front of you.
“Fair warning,” he says. “You’re the only thing stopping me from hitting on the best looking groomsman.”
You raise your glass. “May God help him.” You say before taking the shot.
Three drinks later you’re on the dance floor.
Your dress is hitched up to your knees, and you’re dancing with a circle of bridesmaids you just met an hour ago like you’ve known them since freshman year.
A voice behind you startles you, “Do you dance like this in every social setting or ?”
You spin toward him, tipsy and glowing. “Only when the drinks are free and the man I like is watching.”
Clark’s mouth opens then closes like he’s choosing his words carefully, “Okay.”
You tug him into the circle.
He’s bad at it. Predictably. Adorably. Clark shuffles more than he moves, but he’s grinning like an idiot and you’re laughing so hard you nearly fall into him.
Jimmy passes by mid-spin, throwing his arms around both of you. “This is disgusting. I’m thrilled.”
“You’re drunk,” you say.
“I was actually right,” he corrects. “And if you don’t kiss him in the photo booth, I will.”
Clark, red-faced, says nothing.
You? You smile like someone with plans.
The dancing slows. The DJ plays something soft and stupid and romantic. You’re both off the floor now, leaning against the side of the bar, legs touching.
Clark looks at you over the rim of his glass. “Are we going to talk about what’s happening?”
You hum, head tilted. “We could.”
He nods. Then he’s smirking: “Or…”
You lean in, teasing. “Or?”
Clark sets his drink down. “Or we could go find that photo booth Jimmy mentioned.”
The photo booth is vintage. Red velvet curtain, brass trim, a tiny printed sign that reads “4 shots. 1 strip. Forever.”
You pull back the curtain and pause.
The bench inside? Tiny. Clark’s already halfway filling it, his broad shoulders and thick thighs pressed into the cushions like they’re losing a battle.
You look at him.
He looks at you.
There’s only one option.
You grin, lift your dress slightly, and sit on his lap with a confidence you definitely didn’t have two nights ago.
Clark tenses like he’s been hit with a defibrillator.
“I—uh—”
“There’s no room, Kent,” you say, smile wicked.
He exhales like he’s about to spontaneously combust.
You settle into him, hands on his thighs for balance, your thighs bracketing his, your dress pooling slightly around you both.
His hands hover like he doesn’t know where to put them.
“Here,” you say softly, taking them and placing them on your hips. “You’re allowed.”
He swallows hard.
4… 3…
“I’m gonna look ridiculous,” he mutters.
“Then I’ll distract you,” you whisper back.
2… 1…
FLASH.
The first picture is of you laughing, your hands on either side of his face holding him close, Clark looking like he doesn’t know how he got here but is so glad he did.
The countdown restarts. You’re both still grinning, but it fades. Quickly.
Because your eyes meet.
And neither of you looks away.
There’s no music in here. No crowd. Just your weight in his lap, his hands resting gently on you, and the unspoken ache humming between your bodies like a current.
3… 2…
You tilt your head. He licks his bottom lip.
1…
He kisses you. And this time? It’s nothing like the others. There’s no performance. No need to sell it, just like this morning. Just you on his lap, his mouth on yours, and his hands tightening at your hips like he finally gave himself permission to feel it.
FLASH.
You kiss him deeper, slow, with your fingers threaded into his hair, your dress wrinkling beneath his hands. He groans low in his throat when your hips shift instinctively, just enough to make you both forget where you are.
FLASH.
You break the kiss, breathless, and press your forehead to his.
His eyes are still closed.
Yours aren’t.
You’re watching him, flushed, wrecked, undone in the way only truth can do.
He opens his eyes slowly, like he’s afraid the moment will vanish if he moves too fast.
“I think I’m in trouble,” he whispers.
You smile, stroking your thumb against his cheek.
“I think you’ve been in trouble since I sat down.”
FLASH.
The last photo captures it: his hands on your waist, your smile soft and knowing, both of you looking like the fall has already happened and you’re finally ready to admit it.
You’re still straightening your dress and trying to catch your breath when the curtain whips open.
“HEY, LOVEBIR—” Jimmy freezes.
You and Clark both whip around, faces flushed, Clark’s hair clearly mussed, your lipstick slightly smudged.
You don’t even get a chance to speak before the photo strip ejects from the slot.
Jimmy grabs it midair like he’s catching a winning lottery ticket.
“Oh my god,” he whispers, scanning each frame. “This is better than I imagined.”
“Jimmy…”
He holds it up between two fingers, dancing backward, grinning like a man who’s seen things. “Do you guys even know how hot you look in these?”
“Give it back.”
“Absolutely not. This is going in the rehearsal dinner slideshow if you two ever get engaged.”
Clark covers his face with both hands. You just sigh and grab a glass of water from a passing tray.
Jimmy winks. “Need me to clear the hotel hallway or are you two already planning on christening the elevator?”
“Bye, Jimmy.”
“You’re welcome pal.”
The party winds down soon after and you’re back on the shuttle to the hotel.
The door clicks shut behind you.
The hallway noise fades instantly, leaving just the sound of your breathing and Clark’s footsteps behind you, slow, steady, heavy like he’s holding something in.
You walk ahead, unzipping your heels as you go, the silk of your dress shifting around your legs.
He watches every movement.
Your dress slips a little off your shoulder when you stop at the full-length mirror. You meet your own eyes first, then his, in the reflection behind you.
His tie is undone. His jacket is folded over one arm. But his eyes?
They’re fixed on you.
You turn around slowly. Your voice is quiet, low. “Can you help me?”
Clark blinks. “Of course, with what?”
You step toward him, stopping when your bodies are close enough that you could count his breaths if you wanted.
“Unzip me.”
He swallows.
You turn again, gathering your hair in one hand, baring your back to him.
There’s a beat. Then his hand touches your spine, gentle at first, reverent, like he’s afraid to rush it. The zipper drags down slowly, the sound cutting through the stillness like a secret.
You exhale. It’s not even halfway undone before you feel it, his breath, grazing the back of your neck.
You shiver. And then, your hand reaches back.
You find his hip, fingers brushing over the waistband of his dress pants, then slipping around to rest just above his thigh.
His inhale is sharp and you don’t stop.
You turn to face him, dress loosened around your chest but still clinging to your hips.
He doesn’t look away.
Neither do you.
Your hands move slowly, one tracing up his chest, to the exposed line of his collar, the other still on his waist, pulling him closer.
“Clark,” you murmur. His eyes flicker down to your lips.
But he still doesn’t touch you.
So you do. Your hand comes up unbuttoning his shirt before gently pushing it off one shoulder. Then the other.
You lean in. Not kissing. Not yet.
Your nose brushes his.
You whisper, “Say something.”
He barely manages it. “I… can’t think.”
“Good.”
You press your lips to his jaw, soft at first, just barely.
Your fingers move, down his chest, around his waist, dragging your knuckles against the fabric of his slacks like you want him to lose it.
Clark’s hand finally lands on your hip. Not tentative anymore. Firm. Anchoring.
You look up at him.
And whatever he sees in your eyes? Breaks the last thread holding him back. He kisses you like he’s starving, deep, slow, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your lips. Like he wants to unravel you and hold the threads in his hands.
He pulls you flush against him, and you melt without hesitation.
The silk of your dress slips further down your shoulders with every breath. His hands aren’t greedy, they're careful, even now. One rests on your hip, the other on your lower back, holding you steady like he thinks you might disappear if he lets go.
You pull back slightly, just enough to whisper “I want you.”
His eyes flicker.
“Are you sure?”
You smile, small, certain, unstoppable. “Yes.”
Clark exhales, like he’s never been seen before. And maybe he hasn’t.
“You’re unreal,” he says, kissing you like he needs to prove it.
Your hands glide up his torso, fingers dragging over hard lines and soft skin, lingering at the waistband of his pants.
“Take them off,” you murmur.
He hesitates only a second, just long enough for tension to coil tighter then he nods, lips parted, reaching for his belt.
You step back as he strips. Admiring.
When he’s finally bare before you, his voice comes again, low and reverent.
Clark moves before he thinks, hands cupping your waist, then your jaw, then your back like he can’t decide where he needs to touch you most. His mouth finds yours again, and this kiss is nothing like the one in the photo booth. This is deeper. Warmer. Needier.
You part your lips, and he groans softly into you, like kissing you feels like relief.
The loosened dress slides the rest of the way down your body on its own, pooling around your ankles in a soft sigh of silk. You step out of it without looking away from him, your chest rising and falling in rhythm with his.
You’re standing in nothing but lace and heat and the hush of something that finally makes sense.
Clark’s eyes trail over you like he’s afraid to blink.
“Golly,” he murmurs, low and breathless. “You’re—” you cut him off by guiding him backward, gently pushing him until the back of his knees hit the bed.
He sits. Looks up at you like he’s watching something sacred unfold.
You climb into his lap, straddling him, your knees bracketing his hips, your fingers threading into his hair as your mouth descends on his again. His hands grip your thighs.
“You feel so good,” he whispers into your skin. “I—I don’t want to mess this up.”
“You won’t,” you promise, tracing the shell of his ear with your lips. “Just keep touching me.”
He does.
One hand slides up your back, unclasping your bra slowly. The other palms your hip, guiding your movements, like he’s not just desperate to feel you, he’s trying to learn you. Commit you to memory.
He lays you back gently, settling between your thighs. His hands never leave your skin, his thumbs caressing your ribs, the curve of your waist, the inside of your thigh. He kisses lower, slower, worshipping every inch with his mouth and the reverence in his eyes.
When he finally presses into you, it's not a snap, it's a sigh. A full-body exhale. You arch into him, lips parting, and he moans softly, burying his face in your neck.
“You feel… you feel like home,” he says, voice thick with restraint.
You cradle his face and kiss him again, deeper this time, hands tangling in his hair. His movements are slow but powerful, every thrust deliberate, tuned to your breath, your reactions, your name whispered over and over like it’s sacred.
“Tell me how to make this better,” he murmurs, lips brushing your ear.
“You already are,” you breathe. “Don’t stop.”
“I won’t,” he promises, jaw tight, eyes bright. “I couldn’t if I tried.”
His hips roll deep, perfectly measured. His hand rests flat over your stomach like he’s trying to ground himself, like he needs to feel where he is inside you to believe this is real.
“Clark,” you whisper, nails grazing the curve of his bicep. “You can go faster.”
He groans into your shoulder, still rocking into you.
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
You laugh, breathless, flushed, wicked. “You won’t. But if you keep holding back, I might start begging.”
His hips falter, just slightly.
“You want me to lose control,” he says, more statement than question.
You cup the back of his neck and pull him in until your lips are brushing his. “I want to feel what happens when you stop pretending I’m made of glass.”
He exhales like he’s letting go of restraint itself. The next thrust is harder, deeper and you gasp his name like it’s a curse and a blessing all at once.
“Oh—yes. That’s it.”
Clark buries his face in your neck, his rhythm picking up, every movement hitting deeper, hotter, like he’s finally giving you what you’ve been asking for since you kissed him in front of everyone.
You arch into him, body trembling, lips brushing his ear.
“You’ve been so good all night,” you whisper. “Being careful. Being patient. But I know you’ve been thinking about this just as much as I have.”
He nods, voice wrecked. “I have.”
“Then take it.” And he does.
He drives into you again and again, no longer slow, no longer shy, but so present.
His hand slips beneath your thighs, spreading you wider, pressing you deeper into the mattress. You cry out, fingers clutching his back.
“That’s it, baby,” you whisper. “Just like that.”
He chokes on a moan. “You keep saying things like that and I—”
“What?” you pant, smirking against his throat. “Gonna lose it?”
He lifts his head and kisses you hard. It’s messy now, mouths open, breathing into each other, chasing every inch of friction and heat.
He breaks the kiss just long enough to breathe out “You feel so good. You're—you're everything.”
You cup his jaw, thumb stroking the corner of his mouth. “You’re making me feel so fucking good.”
That sends him over the edge. He takes one of your legs and brings it up high, hitting just the spot you needed. “You’re so deep,” you moan arching your back. His eyes roam your body as every part of your is trembling from his touch. His hand comes down to where you’re connected and he rubs tight circles. Your legs instinctively want to close but his hips stop you.
“Let go,” he coos as he adds the perfect amount of pressure to his hand. Your legs tremble and you feel his own release hot and sticky inside you. His curls are messy against his slick forehead glasses long forgotten, his cheeks are flushed and he looks absolutely perfect. Lips slightly open as he breathes. You bring him down against your chest. Clark shudders your name into your skin like it’s the only thing tethering him to earth.
His hips stutter as he presses deep again, holding you close through it, his face buried in your shoulder, your hands stroking his hair, grounding him now.
When he finally stills, he stays inside you, doesn’t move, doesn’t pull away. Just lays there, heart pounding beneath your palm.
And when you tilt his chin up to look at you?
His eyes are glassy, lips pink and parted, like he’s still trying to catch up to what just happened.
You smile. Soft. Spent. Satisfied.
“I told you,” you whisper. “You don’t have to be careful.”
His reply is quiet, reverent.
“I never want to stop touching you.” And god you don’t want that either.
Summary : After volunteering you guys to watch the farm for Ma and Pa Kent Clark takes full advantage of having you home and parades you around the farmers market. Beaming with pride and joy while introducing you to every one he knows.
Tags/warnings : implied smut, flirting, fluff, golden retriever boyfriend Clark.
=========================
I barely got the door unlocked before Clark was on me, grinning, warm, and already pulling me into his arms like we hadn’t seen each other in weeks instead of hours.
“Hi,” he murmured against my cheek, kissing the corner of my mouth like he just couldn’t help it. “You look cozy.”
I looked down at my oversized sweatshirt and socks. “ I was going for cozy. What’s with the face?”
Clark tilted his head, that dimple threatening. “What face?”
“The please say yes even though I haven’t asked you anything yet face.”
He laughed, sheepish but charming as hell. “Okay, yeah. I might be leading with the smile.”
I crossed my arms. “How bad is it?”
“Not bad,” he said quickly. “Very wholesome. Very us. Sooooo my Ma and Pa need someone to watch the farm this weekend. They’re going to Wichita for my Aunt Ruth’s anniversary party, and I told them we’d stay at the house.”
“We?” I raised an eyebrow.
He stepped closer, hands settling lightly at my hips. “Yeah. Us. Just a weekend. We’ll feed the animals, water the garden, sit on the porch swing like a Hallmark movie couple, and eat peaches so good you’ll cry.”
“You think I’ll cry over peaches?”
“I cried over peaches last summer,” he said seriously, then smiled, boyish and bright. “Plus, I want to show you Smallville. The real Smallville. Not just the cornfields we fly over.”
He leaned in, nuzzling just under my ear, and suddenly the air felt very warm. “C’mon,” he whispered. “Let me take you to the farmers market. I’ll carry your flowers, feed you pie, buy you honey. Say yes.”
“You’re being manipulative,” I muttered, already melting.
Clark kissed the side of my neck, grinning against my skin. “I’m being in love with you.”
Yeah. I didn’t stand a chance.
—
Clark’s hand hasn’t left mine since we left the house. The old truck rumbles under us as the morning breeze pours through the open windows, carrying the smell of grass and warm earth. He keeps sneaking glances at me, eyes too bright for this early.
“Peaches go fast,” he warns solemnly, as if discussing a world-ending event. “I’m not losing to the Henderson twins again.”
I laugh, giving his fingers a squeeze. “The way you say that, it sounds like the apocalypse has a fruit sponsor.”
He grins, boyish and a little smug. “If the apocalypse had peaches like Mrs. Alvarez’s, we’d all be fine.”
“You’re vibrating.”
“I am not—” He catches himself, shoulders hunching. “Okay, maybe a little. I’ve wanted to bring you here for months. Just… feels different now.”
My heart softens. “You mean now that your girlfriend is here?”
The tips of his ears go pink. “Don’t say it like that.”
“Like what?” I tease, leaning closer.
“You know it makes me want to kiss you every single time.”
By the time he pulls into the gravel lot, his dorky nerves are spilling out of him. He jumps out, circles the truck, and opens my door with exaggerated courtesy.
“You know I can get out on my own, right?”
“I know.” He offers his hand anyway, eyes soft. “Let me have this.”
I take it, because how could I not?
The market is alive with music and the scent of kettle corn, kids darting between stalls while vendors call out their specials. Clark immediately switches into full tour-guide mode.
“Okay, strategy,” he says seriously. “Peaches first, then honey, then pie. Flowers whenever you so much as look at a flower.”
“You’re still vibrating,” I murmur.
“I’m calm,” he insists, but the sparkle in his eyes betrays him.
We don’t make it ten feet before someone spots him. “Clark Kent!” an older man calls from behind a stall of tomatoes. “Well, I’ll be. Haven’t seen you since Metropolis stole you away!”
Clark’s smile is polite, shy, but when the man’s eyes shift to me, his whole posture changes. His arm slips firmly around my waist. “This is my girlfriend.” The word rolls off his tongue with so much pride it makes my chest ache.
Every time he introduces me that way, his hand lingers, his voice warms. It’s like he’s branding the word into the air just so the whole town knows.
At the peach stand, Mrs. Alvarez greets him with a delighted gasp. “Clark! Taller than a cornstalk and twice as handsome. And who’s this beautiful girl?”
“This is my girlfriend,” Clark says again, glowing as he squeezes my side.
I shake her hand, grinning. “I’ve heard legends about your peaches.”
“Did he tell you how he used to sneak them?” she asks.
Clark groans. “I paid for those eventually.”
“With those big sorry eyes,” she teases, handing me one. “Go on, sweetheart. Taste.”
I bite, juice dripping down my wrist. Clark catches it instantly with his thumb, and before I can even react, he lifts it to his mouth, tongue flicking over the sticky sweetness. His eyes lock on mine as he does it, and the entire market dissolves into background noise.
“Good?” he murmurs.
I swallow hard. “That’s… really good.”
His smile turns lazy, wicked, like he knows exactly what he’s doing.
At the honey booth, he feeds me a sample straight from the spoon, his thumb brushing the corner of my lips a second too long. “Sweet,” he says quietly, and I can’t tell if he means the honey or me.
At the pie table, he brags, “She’s never had blackberry pie like yours.” When I hum in delight after the first bite, he leans down to whisper, “Knew you’d love it.” His lips brush my ear; goosebumps chase down my arms.
By now, it’s less of a farmers market and more of a slow seduction disguised as produce shopping.
When we finally haul our bags back to his truck, arms full of peaches, honey, and a bouquet he refused to let me pay for, I can’t help laughing. “You realize you’ve hand-fed me through this entire market, right? I feel like some kind of experiment.”
“Maybe,” he says, voice dipping low, “I just like watching you taste things.”
Heat blooms across my cheeks. “Clark.”
“What?” His grin is infuriating, his eyes molten. “You think I don’t notice the way you look at me when you like something?”
My retort dies on my tongue when he tugs me between his knees on the tailgate, tilting my chin up for a kiss. The kettle corn bag tips over beside us, sugar spilling onto the gravel, but neither of us cares.
His mouth is warm and sweet, the taste of peaches still lingering, and when he pulls back, his forehead rests against mine.
“You know what makes me happiest?” he whispers.
“What?”
“That you’re here. That you see this place the way I do.” His lips ghost mine again, voice rough. “That you see me. And that you’re mine.”
The world fades, leaving only Clark, sunshine, and the dizzy sweetness of loving him.
We didn’t go straight home after the market.
Instead, Clark pulled into a gravel lot off Main, next to a little brick shack with a faded sign that read “Benny’s Smoke Pit”. I barely had time to read it before the scent hit me: charcoal, brown sugar, hickory smoke.
“You’re not ready for this,” he said, grinning as he jumped out of the truck. “Brisket here changed my life at fifteen.”
He came back ten minutes later with a brown paper bag so heavy it looked like it had mass. The smell was so rich I moaned, and he just looked so pleased with himself.
“Say it,” he prompted.
“You win,” I muttered, dragging the bag onto my lap. “You win everything.”
Clark leaned over, kissed my cheek, then whispered, “I’ll cash that in later.”
Back at the farm, the house smelled like lemon cleaner and old books. The screen door creaked just the right amount when he opened it, and the floorboards still groaned in that warm, familiar way that said someone’s home.
Clark kicked his boots off by the door, carrying the food into the kitchen like a man on a mission. I trailed behind, watching his broad back stretch under his shirt as he moved with that easy, grounded confidence that made me want to curl up inside it.
He turned to me once the bag hit the counter. “Go shower, change into something comfortable. You’ve been out in the sun all day relax a little bit. I’ll set everything up.”
I raised a brow. “Bossy.”
His eyes sparkled. “Not bossy. Loving. Go unwind. Let me take care of dinner.”
And the way he said it… like the idea of me relaxing was his love language? Yeah. I didn’t argue.
The water hit my skin and it was perfect. I closed my eyes, letting the steam curl around me, the day soaking off with every drop. I was still smiling, cheeks warm from market sunlight and Clark’s hands and that ridiculous tailgate kiss.
I didn’t even hear the door creak.
A familiar hand sliding the curtain aside. And then Clark stepped into the tub. Fully, completely, unbotheredly naked.
I blinked, water cascading between us, and his expression was far too smug for someone invading my sacred hot shower time.
“Clark—”
“Hi,” he said sweetly, eyes slow-lidded as he slid in behind me, water hitting his shoulders with a hiss. His arms wrapped around my waist like it was the most natural thing in the world. “I missed you.”
“We’ve been together all day,” I whispered, even as I leaned back into his chest.
“And I still missed you,” he murmured, lips brushing my shoulder. “Couldn’t stop thinking about you in here. Naked. Warm. Wet. Without me.”
My heart slammed against my ribs.
“That’s not a healthy level of codependency,” I muttered, barely able to focus with his mouth ghosting along the side of my throat.
“Maybe,” he said against my skin. “But it’s ours.”
And just like that, he pulled me back under the spray with him, hands gentle, touch reverent, like all he wanted to do was hold me under hot water and kiss every inch the sun had touched.
Water streams down his chest, soaking us both as I lean back against him, steam curling around our bodies like we’ve stepped into our own little universe.
Clark presses a kiss to my shoulder, slow and careful, his lips lingering like a thank-you. Like worship.
“I don’t know how I got this lucky,” he whispers, voice hoarse from heat and heartache. “You, in my arms, in my hometown, letting me show you everything I love.”
I close my eyes. “You didn’t get lucky. You just showed up every day with that big heart of yours and waited until I fell into it.”
His laugh is quiet. Breathless.
“I’ll never get tired of hearing your voice when you say things like that,” he murmurs. “Say it again.”
He turns me gently in the water, both hands sliding down to my waist as if he’s memorizing the feel of me all over again. I can’t stop looking at him, his lashes wet, mouth soft, droplets clinging to the curve of his jaw. My palms rest on his chest, feeling the solid weight of him beneath them. Not Superman. Not invincible. Just Clark. Mine.
“I love you,” I say, and he closes his eyes like the words physically hit him. “I love the way you always make me feel safe. I love how you talk about peaches like they’re sacred. I love that you carry everything in one trip even though I told you not to.”
He smiles, hands traveling slowly up my back. “I love you.”
“You’re so cute.”
“You’re beautiful.”
And then he kisses me.
Not greedy. Not rushed. Just… full. Full of everything he’s been holding all day, full of longing and gratitude and quiet awe. His hands stay planted on my lower back, anchoring us together. The spray pounds against his shoulders while his mouth maps mine, again and again, like he’s making up for lost time.
Every brush of skin is a love letter. Every sigh, a sentence.
“Let me take care of you,” he breathes. “Just let me… show you.”
I nod, and he starts slow. Washing my hair with the gentlest fingers. Soaping my shoulders like I’m made of glass. Kneeling slightly to kiss along my ribs as water trickles down the curves of my body.
He isn’t trying to start something more. He’s savoring what’s already here. Love. Comfort. Intimacy without agenda. When he stands again, I wrap my arms around his neck, heart drumming against his chest. “You said you’d cash in your win later.”
Clark grins, pressing his forehead to mine. “I did. This is it.”
We stay under the water until we’re flushed and dizzy, and even then, he won’t let go.
Wrapped in towels, hair dripping, Clark carries me down the hall despite my very vocal protests. He ignores every one, kissing my wet hair and muttering, “Just let me. I like being useful.”
Dinner is already set out in the kitchen, lit by soft amber light filtering through the window. Clark pours sweet tea into mismatched glasses and nudges a plate toward me, loaded with brisket, mac and cheese, baked beans and cornbread.
“You’re not real,” I whisper, staring at the table he clearly set while I was showering. “You’re a fever dream in flannel.”
He taps my knee under the table. “Then don’t wake up.”
We eat barefoot, wrapped in towels, knees bumping under the table. Clark steals bites from my plate and kisses my cheek with barbecue sauce still on his lips. It’s messy. Warm. Familiar. It’s ours.
And later, when we curl up on the couch bellies full, hair damp, my head resting against his chest while he rubs soft circles on my back. Clark sighs like he’s never been more at peace.
“This,” he whispers. “This is all I ever wanted.”
I press a kiss to his chest, right over his heart.
“Then let’s keep it.”
“You smell like my shampoo,” he murmurs, his breath warm against the curve of my neck. “And barbecue.”
“Sexy combo,” I whisper, but I’m already tipping my head to give him access.
He hums low in his throat, lips skimming over damp skin. “Everything about you is.”
The walk to the bedroom is a blur of kisses and tangled hands. My towel is somewhere on the hallway floor. Clark disappears the second we reach the edge of the bed.
He lays me down like I’m sacred. Like I’m something he’s prayed for.
Every part of him is warm and heavy against me strong arms bracketing my body, lips exploring every inch with purpose.
“Tell me what you want,” he whispers, voice rough as gravel. “Anything. Everything. I’ll give it all to you.”
I arch into him, wrapping my legs around his waist. “You.”
His mouth crashes into mine, not desperate, just deep. Like he’s trying to memorize the inside of my soul.
He doesn’t rush. He takes his time. Mouth on my collarbone, down my chest. One hand laced through mine, the other mapping every curve, every shiver. When he moves inside me, it’s not with urgency it’s with a kind of awe that makes me ache.
“Look at me,” he says softly. “I want to see you when I make you fall apart.”
I do. And when I whisper his name, his real one, the one that feels like home and he breaks too.
Not with noise. Not with force. With softness. With stillness. With his forehead against mine, whispering, “I love you, I love you, I love you,” like a mantra carved into his lungs.
We don’t move for a long time. Just breathing. Tangled. Skin against skin, heart against heart.
Clark brushes damp hair from my forehead and kisses the bridge of my nose. “Next time I say I’m taking you to the farmers market,” he murmurs, “just know I mean all of this too.”
I smile against his chest. “Then I’m never saying no.”
Summary : after five days of silence post kiss and confession you find yourself surrounded by colleagues and Clark at a bar. After a few drinks all truths come to light.
Tags/warnings : Professor!Clark Kent x Grad Student!Reader, Explicit smut, fingering, handjob, making out, alcohol, jealous!Clark, vape mentioned (be better than me don’t vape)
=================================
It’s been five days since the kiss on the cheek.
I still feel it sometimes. Not in a romantic, butterflies-and-balloons way. Not anymore. Now it just… haunts. Lingers like a song stuck in my head that I can’t decide if I love or hate.
He smiled at me when it happened. Soft, warm. His eyes crinkled in that way that made me think, God, maybe I didn’t imagine it all. And then…silence. Nothing.
No texts. No follow-up. Just Clark Kent, vanishing like I never pressed my lips against his skin.
At first, I told myself he was just busy. Professors are always buried in research, department meetings. Especially ones like him, ones who take on too much and still act like they’re not doing enough. But the thing is… Clark always makes time. For his students. For me.
He’s never gone this quiet before. Not even when things were just polite.
I’m not going to text or email first. I won’t be the one who has to ask if it meant something.
It’s Thursday and I have a Voices of Journalism panel. It is one of those events that looks better on paper than it feels in person. A roundtable of graduate students and young lecturers with free cookies, lukewarm coffee, and too many opinions.
I don’t dress for the panel. Not really. I dress for me.
The dress is an olive green wrap with a tie at the waist and a low V-neck that’s just barely academic-code appropriate. I’ve worn it twice before, but never with this much intention. Never with this much need to feel good. It flatters my body in a way that makes me forget the ache in my chest for five seconds at a time.
I do my hair, swipe on some lipstick that makes my mouth feel braver than my thoughts, and I leave before I can overthink it. The weather is warm, the sun is out, and maybe, just maybe, I can be someone else today. Or at least a version of myself that isn’t stuck wondering what Clark is thinking.
The room is already buzzing when I get there. People shuffle around, stacking notes and sipping coffee, adjusting their name placards. My name’s printed on a little tent card, first name only. Someone must’ve assumed we wanted to keep it casual. I don’t mind.
“Hey,” one of the panelists says, nodding toward the empty seat beside him. “Was hoping someone interesting would take that one.”
He’s tall. Glasses, but the trendy kind. Probably a fellow grad student or an early-year lecturer. His eyes flicker downward for a second, just a second, and I know he’s clocking the dress.
I sit down.
Another guy across from me, slightly older, maybe faculty, smirks. “Didn’t get the memo that this was supposed to be boring attire only?”
“Guess I missed the email,” I say with a half-smile. The panel hasn’t even started and I already feel more seen than I have all week.
They keep talking, casual stuff, who read what, how tedious the required texts were, mutual complaints about outdated curriculum. And every now and then, one of them leans in just a little. Not aggressively. Just… interested.
I should feel flattered and I am flattered, sort of. But in the back of my mind, I keep expecting to hear his voice. Low. Smooth. Full of that warm, curious pull he always speaks with, even when he’s just saying “good morning.” But he’s not here. He wouldn’t show up for this.
I’m mid-laugh when I hear a familiar voice.
Not in my head. Not in a memory. Now.
The sound cuts through the room like it was meant to find me. Smooth. Confident. Familiar in a way that makes my spine straighten and my stomach drop.
“…And we’re lucky to have a guest speaker who doesn’t need much of an introduction,” says the moderator. “Most of you have probably taken at least one of his classes, but please welcome Professor Clark Kent.”
What the hell.
I blink, fully expecting to be hallucinating from academic fatigue and free coffee. But no. There he is.
Clark. In the doorway.
Dark slacks, his signature white shirt, sleeves rolled up, glasses perched on his nose like he hasn’t ghosted the hell out of me for five days straight. He looks around the room with practiced ease, smiling at the crowd.
Until his eyes land on me. He falters. Just slightly, just enough to make it obvious that he wasn’t expecting to see me here.
There’s a twitch in his jaw. A blink too long. Like he’s processing. Like he’s trying not to react.
I should’ve worn something less… distracting. Or honestly maybe more.
“Hey,” says the guy next to me, Liam, I think he said earlier. “There’s a group of us getting drinks after this. You should come.”
“Oh,” I say, blinking back to the conversation. “That sounds fun.”
“Just off campus. Nothing crazy. Mostly grad students from the department.”
He’s leaning a little closer now. His arm brushes mine when he gestures toward the event flyer on the table. I look down. Nod. Smile politely. My heart’s not really in it because my brain is currently glitching through a thousand thoughts, all orbiting around Clark.
He steps up to the mic.
“Thank you,” he starts, voice steady, hands folded in front of him. “I appreciate the chance to speak today. Panels like these are always a good reminder of why we do what we do… even when the grading piles up and your department forgets you exist.”
Laughter. Scattered. Light. Except I don’t laugh because he’s not looking at the room. He’s looking at me.
“And sometimes, you come across a student who challenges you in the best possible ways. Who reminds you why words matter. Why attention to detail matters. Why… showing up matters.”
My stomach knots. My breath catches so quick and shallow it feels like drowning in plain air.
He’s not smiling now. His expression is almost unreadable, almost. But I know that look. I’ve seen it. It’s the same one he had in the library. The same one he wore when I kissed his cheek and stayed just long enough to burn into my thoughts.
Liam is saying something again about the bar they’re going to and how I’ll “fit in better than half of them anyway” but I’m only half-listening.
And so is Clark.
His voice doesn’t waver, but there’s tension under it now, like a taut string pulled too tight. Like something is about to snap.
“And I think it’s easy,” he says, “to forget how valuable presence is. Especially when we think silence means disinterest. When we assume too much. Or not enough.”
That lands like a punch to the chest.
My gaze flicks up to meet his and the moment our eyes lock, the rest of the room fades to nothing. His mouth quirks, just slightly. Not a smile. Not a smirk. Something more dangerous. Something more aware.
He knows I haven’t been paying attention.
He knows exactly who I’ve been paying attention to instead.
I shift in my seat. My pulse thunders. My jaw tenses as I give Liam a smile I don’t mean and excuse myself with a quick “I’m gonna grab some water.”
I don’t look back at Clark.
But I feel him watching me the whole way out of the room. When I come back I'm avidly trying to avoid his glances. How dare he stand up there and say those things? As if I was the one who had to reach out to follow up.
The panel ends with polite applause and a rush of bodies headed for the refreshment table. I grab a bottle of water, unsure if I want to stay or bolt. Liam sticks close, still charming in that non-threatening, overly confident grad student way.
“Come on,” he says, nudging my arm. “You’re coming, right?”
“Where?”
“The bar,” he grins. “I meant what I said. You’ll like this group. It’s mostly people who’ve figured out how to game the system. And the drinks are cheap.”
I hesitate, glancing toward the exit.
Clark is nowhere in sight.
Typical.
Liam leans in a little closer. “Unless you’ve got a better offer?”
I open my mouth to answer and that’s when I feel it. That shift in the air. The subtle hush behind me. A warm, all-too-familiar presence that drags goosebumps across my skin before I even hear his voice.
“She doesn’t.”
I turn. Clark. Of course.
Close now. Too close. Still in his sleeves-rolled-up shirt and slacks, but his tie’s been loosened slightly and the top button’s undone like he’s trying to look relaxed but his eyes are saying try me.
Liam straightens, polite but a little puffed-up. “Professor Kent. Didn’t know you were sticking around.”
Clark gives a tight smile. “Wasn’t planning on it.”
Then he looks at me.
“I heard there were drinks?”
My lips part. “Yeah—uh, just off-campus. A student hangout. Kind of casual. Students.” I reiterate so he knows.
“Mmh.” He nods, then slides his hands into his pockets. “Sounds fun. I’ll come too.”
Liam blinks. “Oh, well, I mean, sure. It’s not exactly faculty-approved, no one’s checking IDs.”
“I won’t tell if you don’t,” Clark says smoothly.
I can feel Liam trying to figure out what’s happening, trying to do the mental math of why my professor is suddenly looking at me like I just became his new thesis. But I already know.
Clark is staking his claim. And he’s doing it the way only he can, professionally. Calmly. Smiling, even. But there’s something sharp under it all. Something territorial.
He falls into step beside me as we leave. Doesn’t touch me. Doesn’t even look at me again. Just walks with his hands still in his pockets, jaw clenched, as if he hasn’t been dodging me for five damn days.
And now?
Now he wants to tag along like this has all been fine?
I don’t say anything. I don’t have to.
But he knows.
I can tell by the way his eyes flick sideways, catching mine for half a second before darting away like he’s afraid of what I’ll see.
The bar is dim and loud in a cozy way. Conversations blur together. Someone near the end of the table is dissecting a failed peer review, and the girl next to Liam is already half a cocktail deep into her “my advisor sucks” rant.
Clark sits next to me. Of course he does.
He smells like cedar and a little bit of laundry detergent, and it’s messing with my head more than I want to admit. His thigh brushes mine every time he shifts, but he never apologizes for it. Which almost makes it worse.
I sip my drink. It’s strong. My third. Or maybe fourth. I lost count when the whole jealous ex energy disguised as academic discourse started happening.
Clark’s been cool. Polite. Disarmingly relaxed in that way that makes me want to lean into him just to see if he’d catch me. We’ve joked about faculty emails and academic jargon. He made some sarcastic comment about a mutual professor’s obsession with footnotes, and I nearly laughed hard enough to forget what we’re not saying.
But I’m feeling it now. The heat. The buzz. The words pressing behind my teeth that I really shouldn’t say.
He turns to me, resting an arm along the back of my chair. “I was thinking about your last paper,” he says, voice smooth, low. “It’s been stuck in my head for a few days. The way you tied in that Derrida quote with the myth of Sisyphus? That was… unexpected.”
My stomach tightens. I down the rest of my drink before I speak.
“Really? You’ve been thinking about my paper?”
“Of course.”
I nod, setting the empty glass aside. “That’s funny. I figured you’d forgotten about me.”
His brows lift slightly. “I could say the same to you.”
And just like that, the air between us feels heavy.
I don’t answer him. Not right away.
Instead, I stand. “Be right back,” I murmur, grabbing my bag and making a quick escape through the side door.
The air hits cooler than expected. I lean against the brick wall just past the alley, pull my vape from my purse, and take a long drag. The tension stays knotted between my shoulders, but at least out here I can breathe. I feel the instant head rush I love and finally relax.
“You know those are nasty things to put in your mouth.”
I exhale slow and turn my head, he’s standing a few feet away, arms crossed, eyes dark under the streetlamp.
“Everyone’s got a vice,” I say, dry. “Some people disappear for five days. Some people vape mango ice. Neither of them are good for you.”
He laughs softly, almost grudgingly. “Touché.”
I take another drag, let the silence hang.
He steps closer.
“It wasn’t just me,” he says. “You didn’t reach out either.”
“Right,” I scoff. “Because I kissed you, I put myself out there and then got hit with radio silence. That makes a girl feel really special.”
He narrows his eyes, stepping in again. “You kissed me, and then walked away like it was no big deal.”
“I walked away because you looked like I’d just handed you a live grenade. I didn’t want to force anything.”
“You didn’t force anything.”
“You sure? Because you sure as hell didn’t follow up.”
“You think I didn’t want to?”
“I don’t know what to think, Clark!” It slips out louder than I meant it to. I rub my temple. “You could’ve said something. Anything. Instead, I’ve spent five days trying to figure out if I imagined the whole damn thing.”
He’s right in front of me now.
We’re toe to toe. Eye to eye, well if he was shorter or I was taller we would’ve been. The kind of close that makes the rest of the world vanish, the kind that makes my pulse pound in my throat.
“You didn’t imagine it.”
I don’t back down. Not even when his gaze drops to my mouth. Not even when his voice dips into something I’ve never heard from him before.
“Then say something now,” I whisper. “Say anything that makes this make sense.”
“I haven’t stopped thinking about you.”
It’s barely a breath. His hand twitches like he wants to touch me and doesn’t trust himself to stop if he does.
“You kissed me,” he says, almost reverently, like he’s still replaying it. “And it felt like everything shifted.”
I lick my lips. His eyes follow the motion like it physically hurts him.
“You waited too long,” I murmur, but there’s no bite to it. My voice is soft now. Sad.
“I know,” he says, and then quieter, “I know.”
We’re so close I can feel the heat of him, taste the tension on my tongue. His head dips, just slightly, and mine tilts in response, like gravity itself is pulling us toward something we might not survive.
Lip to lip. Breath to breath. But neither of us moves first.
He’s close enough now that I can count the flecks of the freckles on his face. His breath fans across my cheek, steady and warm, and I hate how badly I want to lean into it. Into him.
My body is already doing it without my permission, hips shifting forward ever so slightly, hands twitching at my sides like they need something to hold onto. My mouth parts just enough to draw in his scent, warm, clean, something uniquely him that I haven’t been able to stop thinking about since the library.
But I don’t move.
I won’t.
Because this, whatever this is, he has to be the one to do it. Not because I kissed him first. Not because I’m stubborn. But because I need to know he wants this as badly as I do. So I just breathe him in. Steady. Waiting. Silent.
The corner of his mouth twitches. He knows. Of course he knows.
“So this is what you do?” he murmurs, voice low and rough. “Lure professors out back with nicotine and unresolved tension?”
I raise an eyebrow. “the emotionally unavailable ones exclusively.”
His eyes narrow, and I swear I see the exact moment something inside him snaps. His jaw clenches, his gaze dips to my mouth again, and when he speaks next, it’s barely a growl.
“You drive me insane.”
“Then do something about it.”
A beat of silence lingers before he surges forward.
His mouth crashes into mine, no hesitation, no teasing, just heat and want and teeth and tongue. My back hits the brick wall behind me as his hands find my hips, dragging me forward so suddenly I gasp against his lips.
And he doesn’t stop.
He kisses me like he’s been starving for it. Like he’s mad at himself for waiting. Like he needs to feel everything at once and can’t afford to be careful.
I let him.
Because the second his tongue tangles with mine, something inside me folds, buckles under the weight of him. My hands fist into his shirt, dragging him even closer, and when his fingers grip my hips hard enough to bruise, I moan softly into his mouth.
I try to push back, match him, meet his intensity, but it’s not a fight I can win. Not like this. Not when he’s groaning into the kiss like it’s hurting him to hold back. Not when his hands are everywhere at once, anchoring, claiming.
So I give in. Willingly.I melt against him, breathless and trembling, and let him take what he wants.
His mouth slows for a moment, like he wants to savor the feeling of me giving up control. Of me finally, finally letting him in.
When he pulls back, barely an inch, I chase his lips without thinking.
He laughs against my mouth, breath warm and wrecked. “Told you those vapes were nasty.”
“You’re one to talk,” I whisper, brushing my nose against his. “You taste like whiskey and arrogance.”
“I should’ve kissed you five days ago.”
I bite my bottom lip, still breathless, still swimming in the weight of it all. “You think?”
He leans in, presses a softer kiss to the corner of my mouth, then my jaw. My throat. My collarbone. A slow trail of possession that leaves me trembling.
“Take me home.” I breathe out.
The cab ride is quiet.
Not because there’s nothing to say—but because we both know talking would be dangerous. One word and this fragile tension will snap into something we can’t slow down.
Clark sits beside me, one hand resting on his thigh, the other braced along the seat behind my shoulders. We don’t touch, technically. Not fully. But every bump in the road jostles us just enough to brush skin. My knee grazes his. His fingers twitch near my shoulder.
I swear I feel his breath hitch when I shift a little closer. I do it on purpose. Neither of us looks directly at the other.
But his hand eventually drifts down from the back of the seat and lands lightly, intentionally, on my bare knee.
It’s just a touch. But it feels like gasoline. I glance at him. He’s already watching me. His eyes are darker now, pupils wide, jaw tight like he’s trying to rein himself in and losing. My breath catches, chest rising just a little faster than it should.
He leans in slowly, lips ghosting against the shell of my ear. “We’re in for some fun.” he whispers and my body is on fire.
The cab pulls up to his building.
The air inside the car is stifling by the time we climb out.
His apartment is quiet, dimly lit, minimalist in a way that surprises me. Not sterile, just calm. Clean lines. Neatly stacked books. A record player in the corner. A single floor lamp casting soft golden light over dark hardwood.
And yet none of it feels calm right now.
Because the moment he closes the door behind us and I turn. He’s right there, looking at me like I’m the center of gravity and he’s done pretending to orbit.
I’m still buzzing from the alcohol, but it’s more than that. It’s him. It’s how he’s looking at me. Like I already belong in his hands. Like he’s been holding back for weeks and can’t anymore. I step forward first. He closes the space.
Our mouths meet together again, all heat and desperation. This time there’s no pretense. No teasing.
His hands find my hips, fingers sliding under the hem of my dress to squeeze hard, pulling me flush against him. I can feel him now, hard, insistent, pressing into my stomach as he lifts me slightly, walking me backward with unshakable intent.
My back hits the wall.
He kisses me like I’m air. Like he needs me more than the next breath. Like he’s trying to memorize me by mouth alone.
I moan into it, drunk on him now on the taste of whiskey and want, on the rough scrape of his five o’clock shadow, on the way his hands explore like they’ve been aching to.
“I’ve thought about this,” he murmurs against my lips. “So many times.”
“Me too.”
He grins against my mouth, cocky and breathless. “Yeah?”
“I used to picture you like this,” I whisper, fingers sliding into his hair. “All unraveled.”
He groans. Actually groans. And then he lifts me.
Hands beneath my thighs, lips crashing into mine as I wrap around him. He carries me like I weigh nothing like he’s been dreaming of doing this and finally has permission.
When he sets me down on his couch, he doesn’t pull away. He just hovers, forehead against mine, both of us panting, trembling.
“I can’t think straight when I’m near you,” he admits, voice low and rough.
“Then don’t think,” I breathe. “Just touch me.”
He kisses me again, messy, consuming, claiming. Every part of him pressed against every part of me, and still, it’s not close enough.
And God help me, I don’t want to stop him. He kisses like a man who waited too long to have me. Like he blames himself for every second of restraint and plans to make up for it all at once. There’s nothing shy left in him. No hesitation.
His tongue sweeps against mine, deep and purposeful. His hands are on my waist, my thighs, up my sides like he’s trying to memorize the shape of me by feel alone.
When he finally pulls away, just enough to speak, his voice is wrecked.
“Touch me,” I practically beg. That earns me a low sound from his chest, something between a groan and a laugh, like I’ve just let him off a leash.
I reach for his shirt, fumbling a little half-drunk, fully desperate and he catches my wrists gently.
“Let me,” he says, voice like velvet over gravel.
I let him. He pulls his shirt off in one fluid motion, muscles flexing with the movement, and for a moment I just… look.
I’ve imagined this. I wondered what he looked like under all that buttoned-up professionalism.
I wasn’t even close.
His chest is broad, toned, sculpted to perfection. He’s strong in the way that says he doesn’t think about it, he just is. His skin is warm, freckled in places, and I want to trace every inch of it with my mouth.
“You’re staring,” he murmurs.
“You’re ruining every academic fantasy I’ve ever had.”
He smirks, then lowers himself over me again, slower this time. Deliberate. His hips press between mine and my back arches on instinct.
His lips find my neck. My breath stutters.
He kisses his way down, under my jaw, along my throat, to the hollow at the base of my neck. Each kiss is open-mouthed and lingering, like he’s tasting every inch of me.
My hands slide up his back, nails grazing just enough to make him shudder.
“Do you know what it did to me?” he breathes against my skin. “That kiss? I couldn’t sleep after. Couldn’t stop thinking about the way you looked at me… like you already knew.”
“Knew what?”
He lifts his head, eyes dark. “That I’d fall for you if you gave me the chance.”
My heart skips. But before I can reply, his hands are sliding beneath my dress. And then I forget how to speak.
His fingers explore like he’s charting territory, slow at first, teasing, skimming up the inside of my thigh until my breath stutters. My legs part for him like second nature, and he groans when he realizes how wet I am.
“For me?” he whispers, cocky and reverent all at once.
“Keep touching me and you’ll find out.” And he does. His mouth returns to mine just as his fingers find exactly where I need him. I feel his finger hook the cloth that’s in his way and he holds it to the side. His bare skin against mine is breathtaking. His middle finger explores me making me shudder under his touch. He slips it inside me and my hips still at the fullness of just his finger.
“You’re gonna feel so good,” he whispers against my lips. It’s not gentle. It’s not soft. It’s right like he knows exactly where I need him. He pumps it in and out at the right pace. My hips buck into him, seeking friction, grounding. His body over mine holds me in place as he works me with firm, confident strokes, like he already knows what I like, like he’s been imagining it in secret for weeks.
I moan into his mouth, and he swallows the sound greedily. The pleasure builds fast, coiled tight and hot in my gut, pulsing with every stroke of his fingers, every kiss, every grind of his hips against mine. My hands fly to his shoulders, holding on like I might fall apart otherwise.
And then I do. With a cry muffled against his lips, I shatter beneath him, hips trembling, breath gone, heart pounding in my throat. He doesn’t stop kissing me. He doesn’t let me go. He just smiles against my lips like he’s finally claimed what’s his. And he has.
My thighs tremble where they’re hooked around his waist, his fingers finally stilled, his mouth hovering over mine like he’s deciding whether to kiss me again or say something dangerous.
He looks down at me, eyes soft and burning all at once. His hand brushes a strand of hair off my cheek, tucking it gently behind my ear like we haven’t just been tangled in each other on his couch.
I drag him closer, hands curling into his hair, and kiss him again slow, desperate.
“I want you,” I whisper against his mouth. “I want all of you.”
His whole body shudders. Just once. Then his forehead drops to mine.
“I know,” he murmurs. “God, I know.”
I can feel him, hard, aching against my hip, every part of him straining not to give in. I push my hips up against him, just a little, just to see what he’ll do.
He groans. A sound so deep and guttural it makes me clench around nothing.
“Please,” I whisper.
He kisses me hard. Like punishment. Like he hates himself for what he’s about to say. Then he pulls back. Not far. Just enough.
His hands slide to my waist, grounding me. His voice is raw.
“We’re not doing this tonight.”
I blink, stunned. “What?”
“Not like this,” he says, pressing his forehead to mine again. “You’ve been drinking. You’re still buzzed. And I don’t want the first time I have you to be blurred by anything but you.”
My throat tightens.
“Clark…”
“You deserve to remember it,” he says, eyes locked on mine. “Every second. Every sound. Every breath.”
I go quiet. Because he’s right. And because somehow, that hurts more than if he’d said no out of fear or doubt.
“You’re really not going to fuck me tonight,” I say flatly, trying to tease, trying to mask how much that sweetness is undoing me.
His smile is small. Sad. But certain. “No. I’m really not.”
“But you want to.”
“I’ve never wanted anything more.”
He leans down and kisses me again, this time soft. Like he’s sealing a promise instead of making a move. His lips linger. Linger until my whole body aches again. And then he eases me up, guides me into his arms like I’m something breakable.
And he carries me. Not to the bed to take me. To the bed to hold me. He lays me down gently, slips under the covers, and wraps himself around me like I’m a truth he finally gets to keep.
“You’re killing me,” I mumble into his chest.
“Good,” he murmurs against my hair. “Then we’re even.”
“I want you,” I whisper. “I want all of you.”
He groans again, ragged and wrecked, his hips twitching against mine like his body is seconds from betraying him.
“I know,” he says, breath fanning across my cheek. “God, I know.”
His restraint is a living thing, pressing between us, trembling in the lines of his body. He kisses me like he’s saying goodbye to the last of his sanity, and then he starts to pull back. But I’m not done. My hand slides between us.
He stills.
“You don’t have to—” he rasps, already half-strained.
“I know I don’t have to,” I murmur, fingers slipping under his waistband, teasing the edge. “I want to.”
His breath stutters.
“You’re hard,” I whisper, nipping at his jaw. “You’ve been hard for me all night.”
His whole body tenses as my hand curls around him. Jesus. He’s rock hard and I feel the wetness from his tip.
The way he groans, low, broken, guttural, like he’s been trying not to even think about this and now he’s drowning in it.
“That feels amazing,” he breathes. “That’s not fair.”
“I thought you liked when I challenged you.”
“You really don’t have to,” he says, but his hips are already moving, slow and helpless against my hand. “This is…”
“Clark,” I whisper, pumping him slowly. “I’m not trying to seduce you into sleeping with me. I just don’t want you to suffer. I got to blow some steam, you should too.”
“Very polite of you,” he mutters, voice strangled.
“I’m nothing if not polite, Mr. Kent,” I tease.
His eyes flutter shut when my thumb swipes over the head spreading his wetness around, his hips stutter, jaw clenched so tight it might crack. He drops his forehead to my shoulder, biting down a moan as I stroke him, slow and deliberate, feeling him throb against my palm, hot and heavy and so fucking responsive.
“I’ve thought about you wrapped around me in so many ways,” he whispers against my skin.
“Good.” I say with a smirk, but my smirk is short lived when I feel his hand up my dress again. He skips the teasing and I feel two fingers slip inside me. My hips buck up meeting his fingers greedily. “Fuck your fingers are so thick,” I grunt as he curls them. I don’t let up stroking him like my life depended on it.
“You’re so tight,” he says against my neck.
“I want to feel your cock inside of me so bad,” I moan as his fingers graze my favorite spot inside me. “You don’t wanna feel me baby?” I ask as my mouth hangs open and my eyes screw shut.
“So bad,” he says “I wanna feel you all over me,” he says his face coming up to meet my eyes for a second before he leans in to kiss me again. His hand speeds up and I match him. We both come undone in each other's hands, His groans muffled against my lips, his whole body tensing and shuddering through it. I hold him through it, stroking him gently until he gasps and twitches and finally sags against me, ruined.
We lie there after, tangled in the sheets and each other. His hand lazily draws circles over my hip, mine resting where it ended its mission.
He kisses my temple. “Still not doing you tonight.”
I smile against his chest. “Didn’t think you would.”
“But I am absolutely going to own you in the morning.”
“Can’t wait.” I sleepily reply before drifting off to sleep.
Summary : You walk into Clark in a Superman costume and decide it’s time for some role playing.
Tags/warnings : Explicit sexual content (18+) Oral sex (male receiving) Penetrative sex, Praise kink, Power play / light dominance, roleplay (Superman fantasy), Strength kink / manhandling, Dirty talk, thigh riding.
A/N : I saw the thighs and my mind went somewhere.
==================================
I wasn’t expecting to see him tonight.
Our thing, whatever you’d call it, was never planned. A knock on my door when he got back late from work, a text from me that was just suggestive enough… that’s how it usually happened.
But his apartment light was on, and I was already halfway up the stairs in my heels before I could talk myself out of it.
The door wasn’t locked. It never was.
“Clark?” I called softly as I pushed it open.
He was standing in the middle of the living room, shirt halfway over his head, like I’d walked in on the middle of a wardrobe change. But what stopped me wasn’t the shirt, it was what was under it.
Blue. Bright, skin-tight blue. A bold red S stretched across his chest like something out of a comic book.
I blinked, then let out a slow grin.
“Oh… my God.”
He froze, pulling the shirt the rest of the way off like maybe if he moved slow enough, I wouldn’t notice. “It’s not—”
“Oh, it’s exactly what it looks like,” I cut in, stepping farther inside. “Clark Kent, mild-mannered neighbor, spends his Thursday nights… what? Cosplaying as Superman?”
His mouth opened, closed. “It’s… not exactly—”
“Don’t even try to explain,” I teased, circling him like I was inspecting the details. “This is amazing. Like, movie-quality amazing. And here I thought you were just hiding a soft spot for flannel.”
His ears were turning pink. “It’s not for—”
I tapped the couch. “Sit.”
He hesitated, then sat like maybe he was humoring me, which only made me grin wider. I stepped between his knees, fingers brushing over the red emblem.
“Do you wear this for all your guests, or am I just special?”
“I don’t—”
“Because,” I went on, leaning in so close I could feel the heat coming off him, “I gotta admit, Clark, this is doing things for me.”
That threw him. “It… is?”
“Mmhmm.” I slid onto his lap without asking, and his hands immediately twitched against my hips like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch me. “I mean, the suit thing was very sexy journalist. But this?” I smoothed my palms over his chest, feeling the way his breath hitched. “This is downright sexy.”
He swallowed hard. “You think so?”
“Oh, I know so.”
And before he could get another word in, I kissed him, slow at first, just to feel the way he froze for a heartbeat before melting into it, big hands finally settling at my waist. The suit was warm under my palms, the ridiculousness of it only making the whole thing hotter.
When I pulled back, I smiled against his lips. “I think I just found my new favorite version of you.”
I’m still smiling against his mouth when my fingers hook lightly in the collar of his suit.
“You know…” I murmur, dragging my nails down his chest, “we could make this more interesting.”
His brows pull together. “More interesting?”
I pull back just enough to give him a look. “Roleplay, Kent. You in the suit, me…” I trail a finger under his jaw. “In need of… saving.”
For a second, he just stares at me like he’s not sure if I’m serious.
Then something changes.
It’s subtle at first, his eyes darkening, his mouth losing that shy curve. His hands tighten at my hips, pulling me flush against him in one smooth, unhesitating move.
“You want to play damsel in distress?” he asks, voice lower now, edged with something that sends a shiver straight down my spine.
I blink. “I—”
“Because,” he goes on, leaning in until his mouth is at my ear, “if we’re doing this, sweetheart, I’m not holding back.”
Oh.
The shift is dizzying, one second, I’m teasing him about wearing spandex. The next, it’s like the air in the room has thickened. His posture is different. He’s different.
“Still want to play?” he asks, but it’s not really a question. His thumb is stroking slow, deliberate circles into my hipbone, his gaze locked on mine like he’s already decided for me.
My voice comes out softer than I expect. “Yes.”
he stands, towering over me with that look. The one that says the shy neighbor I know is long gone.
“Stay there,” he says, and I do, because the tone leaves no room for argument.
He starts pacing slowly in front of me, like a predator deciding how to play with its prey. “You know, sweetheart,” his voice drops lower, heavier, “you’ve been making a lot of trouble in my city.”
I smirk, leaning back into the couch cushions. “Maybe I like trouble.”
“Mm.” He steps closer, bracing one hand on the back of the couch beside my head. “Maybe you like getting caught.”
My breath catches, and he notices, of course he notices. His mouth tilts in a slow, knowing smile.
“Usually,” he murmurs. “You cry for help… I show up. But this time?” He leans in until his lips brush my ear. “You’re not getting rescued for free.”
I laugh under my breath, trying to keep it light. “And what’s the price, Superman?”
He pulls back just enough for me to see the shift in his eyes, darker, hungrier. “I think you already know.”
When I don’t answer right away, he hooks his hands under my thighs and pulls me into his lap like I weigh nothing. The suit is warm under my palms, the hard lines of muscle beneath even warmer.
“You’re going to thank me properly,” he says, his voice a low growl now, “for saving you.”
“And if I don’t?” I challenge.
His hands tighten at my hips, holding me in place against the firm press of his thigh. “I’m pretty sure you want to.”
“How ever will I thank you,” I reply, playing the part.
“Stand up,” he says. Not a request.
I blink at him, testing. “Bossy.”
“Up,” he repeats, and the firmness in his voice sends a pulse low in my stomach.
I rise slowly, heels clicking against the hardwood.
“Take your clothes off,” he says looking up at me. I let out a soft laugh before I begin shedding layers off. I bend down to take my heels off and his hand catches my wrist. “Leave those on.” He insists.
“Ok, Superman, what now?” I tease.
“Sit on my lap,” he ordered. I straddled his left thigh carefully. He pulls me in until there’s no space left between us, one big hand gripping the back of my neck, the other pressing firmly at my lower back.
The first kiss is hard enough to steal my breath. The second has me fisting the front of his suit. My fingers tighten in his hair as he kisses me deeper, like he’s been waiting for this exact moment.
His mouth makes its way to my throat when his hands settle at my hips, holding me steady against the firm line of his thigh.
“Move your hips,” he murmurs, voice low enough to make my stomach tighten. “Let me feel you.”
I bite my lip, shifting against him, but his grip tightens. “No, not like that.” One broad hand slides lower, adjusting the angle of my hips. “Here… just like this.”
The first roll of my body over him pulls a sound from his chest that I feel all the way through me.
“That’s it,” he breathes, eyes flicking up to meet mine. “Just like that.”
I try to speed up, chasing that spark, but he’s already shaking his head. “Don’t rush it. You move when I tell you.”
“Yes sir,” I whisper.
His mouth curves in something between a smirk and a warning. “You wanted to play, sweetheart, now you’re going to finish what you started.”
My pulse stutters when he leans back, forcing me to sit up straighter on him. “Hands here.” He guides my palms to his shoulders, his voice a low rumble. “Hold on.”
I rock against him again, slower this time, feeling the strength of his thigh under me, the heat radiating through the suit. His eyes don’t leave mine.
“Look at me while you do it,” he says, and the command alone has my breath catching. “Good… you’re doing so good for me.”
His hands slide up my back, firm and certain, pulling me into another kiss, hungry, unrestrained. I’m gone, lost in the press of him, in the way he moves me like he already knows where this is headed.
Just when I’ve found a rhythm, so close I can taste it, his grip tightens at my hips. He stops me mid-roll. The sudden stillness has my breath hitching.
My palm drifts down to the hard length beneath his trunks, earning a deep, guttural groan that vibrates through my chest.
“That’s all for you,” he says, letting me keep touching him, watching my reaction like it’s his favorite show.
I reach for the waistband, but his hand catches mine.
“Not yet.” The words are velvet over steel. His gaze holds mine for a heartbeat, memorizing, weighing, before he leans in. His mouth brushes mine without kissing. “Now,” he murmurs, and claims my mouth in a kiss that feels like surrender, “show me how much you want it.”
“I need it,” I breathe against him. “I wanna make you feel good.” The words break into a whimper as I try again for his waistband. This time, he lets me.
I kneel in front of him, drinking in the sight.
“Go on,” he says, voice low, leaning back into the couch. “Show me.”
I wrap my hand around him and bring him to my mouth, savoring the shudder that runs through his thighs. When I swirl my tongue the way I know he loves, his head tips back with a quiet curse. I use my hands on what my mouth can’t take, and it’s hot, messy, more than I usually give Clark, but this is for Superman.
His hands slide into my hair, pulling it back before guiding me down again, deeper. His hips lift, pushing further into my mouth, and I gag softly against him. He pulls me up, kissing me like he’s still tasting himself there, raw and open, a battle for control I let him win.
“You drive me crazy,” I gasp when his hand finds its way between my thighs, right where I’m aching for him.
He inhales sharply at the heat of me. “Enjoying saying thank you?” His fingers tease me with slow, deliberate strokes that make my legs tremble.
“Yes,” I pant. “I like it, Superman.”
His gaze roams over me, molten and reverent. “You’re a goddess,” he says, sliding a finger into me.
I moan, clinging to him. “Well, makes sense since you’re a god,” I murmur against his lips. His breath stutters, the sound delicious.
“Oh, you like that?” I tease, lips curving. “Huh, Kal-El?”
His answer is a wicked grin. He pulls his hand away, drawing a needy whine from me and stands, lifting me with effortless strength.
The world blurs until we’re in his bedroom, my back against the mattress. He stands at the foot of the bed, stripping with unhurried confidence, eyes locked on mine.
When he rests his hands on my knees and pushes them apart, I feel heat flood my face.
“Maybe you should let me save you more often,” he says, voice low and dangerous, “if this is the thanks I get.”
His smirk is pure sin as he climbs onto the bed, looming over me like he owns the air I’m breathing. “You ready to make good on that promise?”
Before I can reply, he’s on me, lips crushing mine, hands cupping my face with a gentleness that contradicts the raw power in the way he pins me beneath him. The bed dips hard under his weight, and then he’s sliding into me in one slow, unending thrust that steals the air from my lungs.
“Clark—”
“Not tonight,” he growls, voice pitched lower, richer. “Say it.”
“Kal-El.” The word leaves me on a gasp, and his answering grin is pure male satisfaction.
He moves like no one I’ve ever been with, relentless, precise, every thrust hitting deep enough to make my toes curl. I cling to his shoulders, nails digging into muscle that doesn’t so much as flinch under my grip. His pace picks up without faltering, like he has no concept of tiring out.
I try to breathe, but he’s everywhere, lips at my jaw, teeth scraping my throat, the faintest rumble of a growl in his chest that I can feel against mine. “Faster?” he asks, like he already knows the answer.
“Yes,” I gasp, and he gives it to me, hips snapping forward with a speed that makes me cry out, the rhythm almost too perfect. His strength cages me in, thigh pressing mine higher until he’s impossibly deep.
“God, you’re strong,” I pant, dazed with pleasure.
His mouth curves against my neck. “Kryptonian,” he whispers like it’s just part of the game, and I laugh breathlessly until his hand slides under me, lifting me with an ease that feels unreal.
He’s everywhere at once, holding me aloft, moving me against him as though I weigh nothing. My head falls back, and his mouth finds the exposed line of my throat, kissing, tasting, marking.
When I shatter around him, it’s with a choked cry, clinging to him like I might fly away if he lets go. He follows with a low, guttural sound, hips slowing but never losing that bone-deep control.
He stays inside me, chest heaving, before leaning down to kiss me slowly, like he’s sealing something unspoken between us. “Still think you can handle Superman?” he murmurs.
I laugh against his lips, spent. “After that? I’m lucky I’m still conscious.”
We stay tangled for a long moment, catching our breath. His heartbeat is steady against my cheek, not a hint of strain in it, like that whole earth-shattering performance didn’t even dent him.
Eventually, he rolls us to the side, arm still tight around me. “So…” I murmur, my lips brushing his chest. “How does it feel to be Superman for a night?”
His grin is boyish, but there’s a glint in his eyes I can’t quite place. “Pretty great,” he says casually, like he’s talking about winning a beer pong game instead of making me see stars. “You think I played the part well?”
I laugh, a little breathless still. “Clark, you didn’t just play it. You lived it. It was almost scary how good you were.”
He chuckles, the sound deep and warm, and then rolls out of bed to grab his glasses off the nightstand. He slips them on just as he reaches for the light switch.
The room brightens, and I blink at him. He’s back to looking like Clark; hair slightly mussed, eyes wide and soft behind those frames. Somehow, the shift makes me laugh even harder.
“What?” he asks with an innocent tilt of his head.
“Nothing,” I say, grinning as I pull the sheet tighter around me. “It’s just… it’s like you turned ‘Superman’ off with the lights.”
His smile curves in that way that feels both shy and secretly smug. “Maybe I did.”
I toss a pillow at him, still laughing, but he catches it easily, too easily, and sets it back down without breaking eye contact.
“You’re ridiculous,” I tell him.
“And you,” he says, leaning down to press a kiss to my forehead, “are worth every rescue.”
Summary : A cozy movie night with Clark turns into a kiss that burns hotter than either expected
Tags/warnings : lots of making out, nerdy!Clark
A/N : happy to be posting again!! I’m working on the requests I’ve gotten and some will be posted tomorrow! Thank you to everyone for all the kind words💙
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Work is… fine. Technically.
I answer emails, review reports, nod at coworkers like I’m listening. But my brain is somewhere else entirely. Somewhere with a soft-spoken man in glasses who kissed me goodnight and made my heart feel like it was trying to claw its way out of my chest.
I haven’t heard from him yet, and honestly with all the excitement and nerves nobody thought coherently to exchange phone numbers. But that didn’t stop me from checking my phone obsessively.
At 11:47 AM, my phone buzzes.
UNKNOWN NUMBER: Hi. This is Clark Kent. I got your number from Jimmy, I hope that’s okay.
I stare at it for a second too long.
Me: Definitely okay. I was starting to wonder if I’d imagined you.
Three dots appear. Then disappear. Then come back.
CLARK: Nope. Still real. Still tall. Still nice. What are you doing tonight?
My pulse jumps.
Me: Hopefully eating dinner with someone who knows how to cook. And watching the “first” Star Wars, but not the actual first? Still confused.
CLARK: Episode IV. A New Hope. It’s the only correct place to start. I’ll explain everything over pasta.
Me: You’re feeding me and giving me a crash course in nerddom?
CLARK: Tall, nice and very very useful.
I grin at my screen like a dork.
Me: I’ll bring snacks. 7 ok?
CLARK: I’ll be at the door like a golden retriever.
By the time I get home from work, there’s exactly one hour and twenty-three minutes until I’m supposed to be at Clark’s door.
I’m calm for maybe five of them. Then the chaos begins. I try on a black top, cute, fitted, a little shoulder action and stare at myself in the mirror. Too much? Not enough? Is this a “watching Star Wars with a sweet guy who makes pasta” top or a “meet my mother” top?
Off it goes.
Next is a vintage tee with faded lettering. I bought it at a thrift store years ago and it says something cryptic like “Waffles: A Breakfast Journey.” It’s kind of cute. Kind of dumb. I like it. But what if Clark doesn’t get it? Toss.
I tried on a skirt. Change into jeans. Swap my jeans for comfier jeans. Switch from boots to sneakers. Debate slippers. Consider faking food poisoning.
By the time I’m ten minutes out from needing to leave, my room looks like a tornado hit a department store.
Sweaters hang off my dresser like they’re clinging for dear life. My bed is a mountain range of rejected fits. I’ve somehow managed to lose one sock and my self-esteem.
“This is ridiculous,” I mutter, pulling on a simple black tee, my comfiest jeans, and the jacket Clark lent me last night.
I stare at myself. Okay. This feels… right.
Soft. Not trying too hard. Still wearing something of his. Which should be embarrassing, except it makes my stomach flip in a good way.
I glance at my phone. 6:58 PM.
I grab the root beer, take a deep breath, and whisper to myself “Don’t be weird. Don’t be weird. Don’t be…”
I grab my keys. Time to go see if Episode IV lives up to the hype.
I knock once, barely, and the door swings open like he’d been standing on the other side waiting for it.
Clark’s hair is just slightly rumpled. His apron is already on, and there’s a faint smudge of flour on his forearm. The smell hits me first: something tomato-based, something buttery, something warm.
And then he hits me, visually, emotionally, Clark, with that wide-eyed, kind smile and a blink of pure surprise.
His eyes drop to what I’m wearing. Specifically, his jacket.
“Oh,” he says softly, voice catching somewhere between his throat and chest. “You’re wearing…”
“I figured I should return it,” I say quickly, hugging it a little tighter around myself, trying to play it cool. “Didn’t want you filing a missing jacket report.”
He stares for half a second too long, lips twitching like he’s trying to hold in a smile and failing miserably. “Right. Good. Because I was about to issue a city-wide alert.”
I smile. “Emergency bulletin: ‘Fluffy, good-smelling jacket stolen by girl with excellent taste in books.’”
Clark steps aside, rubbing the back of his neck. “Guilty.”
I step in. It’s warm inside. Cozy. Like him.
His place is clean but not perfect, one of the kitchen drawers is sticking out just a little, and there’s a dishtowel slung over the back of the couch. A saucepan is simmering gently on the stove.
He closes the door behind me and hovers for a second, like he’s not sure if he should offer a hug or just combust where he stands.
“I—uh—made garlic bread,” he says.
My stomach growls in response. Loudly.
“Okay,” I laugh, “either I’m really hungry, or that bread has some kind of psychic pull.”
“It might,” he says, heading toward the kitchen. “It’s sourdough. My mom sent it.”
“I’m already in love with her,” I call after him.
He pauses and peeks around the corner with a soft, pleased grin. “She’d love you back. She has great taste.”
I freeze. So does he.
“…in bread,” he adds awkwardly. “I meant in bread. And aprons. She bought me this one. Not that I usually wear it. I mean—I do. But not, like, for company. I’m just going to check on the pasta now.” He disappears.
I hide my laugh behind my hand and look around, smiling to myself.
I follow the sound of clinking pans into the kitchen, where Clark is doing his best impression of a very tall, very flustered chef.
He’s stirring a pot of red sauce with one hand and using the other to swipe his glasses up his nose, leaving a streak of tomato across the bridge. He hasn’t noticed.
“Need help?” I ask, leaning against the doorway.
He glances over like I just offered him CPR mid-panic. “You cook?”
“Ehhh, I burn things with confidence.”
He grins. “That makes two of us.”
I move toward the stove anyway. “Okay, Chef Kent. What can I do?”
He gestures with the wooden spoon. “Garlic bread needs to come out in… two minutes? Maybe three? I think? And then I was gonna do the salad, but I lost the motivation somewhere around the croutons.”
“I can handle salad. I’ve seen lettuce before.”
I wash my hands and join him at the counter, grabbing a bowl and pretending not to be hyper-aware of the fact that he’s standing next to me. Very close. Smelling like herbs and laundry and nervous energy.
I chop, he stirs. At some point, my hands brush while reaching for the same spoon, and he freezes like someone hit pause.
“Sorry,” we both mutter at the same time. Then we both laugh.
I peek at him out of the corner of my eye. His cheeks are tinted pink, glasses a little foggy again.
“You’ve got…” I gesture vaguely to my own face. “Sauce. Across the nose bridge.”
“Oh—no.” He reaches up and just… smears it more.
I burst out laughing and grab a towel. “You’re gonna need adult supervision.” He lets me gently wipe the smudge away, standing perfectly still as my fingers brush his skin.
When I finish, he exhales like he’d been holding his breath the whole time.
“Thanks,” he says, voice a little quieter.
I just smile. “Anytime.”
Garlic bread is out. Salad is tossed. Pasta is ready. And the two of us are loading up plates like we didn’t just flirt through half of a domestic fantasy montage.
“I feel like we just unlocked a new level of intimacy,” I say as I carry my plate to the living room.
Clark follows, grabbing drinks. “What, because you touched my sauce face?”
“Exactly. I know your kitchen weaknesses now.”
He chuckles, setting down the root beer bottles. “That’s dangerous information.”
I settle on the couch beside him, legs tucked under me as he hands me my plate. His knee brushes mine and he doesn’t move it. He moves a blanket that laid on the back of the couch between the two of us.
“Ready for A New Hope?” he asks, reaching for the remote.
I gave him a look. “Only if you promise not to quote every line.”
“I unfortunately can’t make those kind of promises.”
The lights dim, the screen glows, and Clark hits play. The opening crawl rolls across the screen. Clark is already on the edge of his seat. Not literally, but emotionally? That man is dialed in. His hands rest on his knees. His plate is on the coffee table, untouched now. I sneak a glance at him, eyes wide behind his glasses, lips parted slightly as the music swells like he’s five years old again and this is a candy store.
I decide right then I’m going to mess with him. In the gentlest, most loving way.
“So…” I murmur, mid-crawl. “Is this the one where Voldemort kills Jon Snow?”
Clark slowly turns to look at me.
“…What?”
I bite your lip, fighting a grin.
He blinks. “I—I think you crossed about five universes.”
“Oh,” I say innocently. “So this isn’t the one with the wardrobe and the little British kids?”
His jaw actually drops. I lose it, snorting into my drink, nearly spilling it down my shirt.
Realization dawns. “Oooh you’re kidding.”
“Obviously.”
He groans and hides his face in his hands. “You can’t do that. My heart can’t take it.”
“You looked like you were about to write me off entirely.”
“I was actually planning an educational PowerPoint.”
I grin. “Was there going to be a quiz?”
“There still might be.”
“You know,” I murmur around a bite of garlic bread, “Leia’s energy is very ‘I’ve had three coffees and will ruin your life before breakfast.’”
Clark hums in agreement. “She’s my favorite character.”
I glance at him. “Is it the buns?”
He blushes. “No…I mean—kind of. But mostly her leadership qualities.”
“Of course.” He shifts like he’s trying not to touch me too obviously, but his knee presses into mine again, just lightly.
“And Luke?” I ask. “Sweet guy. Bit of a golden retriever. Might cry if you raise your voice.”
Clark chuckles. “He’s just… earnest. I like that about him.”
I nod thoughtfully. “And Obi-Wan?”
Clark sits up straighter. “A tragic legend. Wise. Noble. Underappreciated.”
I smirk. “So Clark Kent coded.”
He looks startled. “What?”
“I said what I said.”
He starts to respond, then closes his mouth again. His ears are red.
“You’re… not wrong,” he says eventually.
I lean my head against the back of the couch, full from dinner, warm from the blanket, and so aware of how close he is. I glance over and catch him watching me instead of the screen.
“What?” I ask.
His voice is soft. “You’re actually watching.”
I smile. “What, did you think I’d fake it just to get to dessert?”
“I don’t know,” he murmurs. “Most people zone out or make fun of it.”
I shrug. “I make fun of it because I like it. I like you liking it.”
He doesn’t say anything at first. Just watches me with that stunned, vulnerable look like I cracked open some part of him without trying.
Then quietly “That means a lot.”
I nudge his knee. “Relax. I’m just trying to pass the quiz.”
His smile curves slowly, eyes bright. We both go quiet again as the X-wings zoom across the screen. Clark’s hand rests on the couch cushion beside mine, fingers inching closer every time I shift.
By the time Luke says “I’ve got him in my sights,” my pinky is grazing his and he doesn’t move it.
The music swells one last time, then fades into silence as the credits scroll up the screen.
Clark sits back, remote resting lightly in his hand. He doesn’t turn to me right away. I can feel him hesitate. Like he’s working up the nerve to hear me say it wasn’t your thing. That I were bored. That it didn’t live up to the hype.
But I just say, “Okay… so when Leia says ‘you came in that thing?’ to Han, I felt that.”
Clark blinks. Slowly turns toward me.
I sit up straighter, animated now. “Like—Leia’s just been tortured, nearly executed, and the first thing out of her mouth is ‘that’s your ride?’ That is high-level sass. That’s character.”
He opens his mouth. Closes it.
I continue. “And Han? Peak overcompensating man-child energy. The boots? The vest? The ‘I’m a loner’ talk? He’s absolutely the kind of guy who would pretend he doesn’t believe in feelings and then cry during Titanic.”
Clark makes a noise that might be a laugh or a gasp. He’s stunned.
“I mean,” I go on, “Luke is sweet, don’t get me wrong. But Leia and Han carry the tension. You can tell they’re going to either fall in love or kill each other within three movies.”
Clark’s just staring at me now. Like I’ve performed a miracle.
“…You actually watched it,” he says, voice soft.
“Clark,” I deadpan, “I could write a dissertation.”
“Can you?” he whispers. “Can you write a dissertation? I’d read it and give you notes.”
I laugh. “I will mail it to you.”
There’s a long beat of silence. And then he does it, he beams. Full, dimpled, stupid-happy grin. Like he’s just found someone who speaks his language.
“I was seriously expecting you to hate it,” he says.
“Why?”
“I don’t know,” he says quickly, then sheepishly, “ You were so quiet during the last part, I thought you fell asleep.”
“I was absorbing, Clark, my brain needs time to process.”
He shifts toward me more, eyes bright behind his glasses. “Okay. So then, real question. Who shot first?”
I don’t even hesitate. “Leia.” Clark blinks. Then laughs, loud and helpless.
“I’m in so much trouble,” he mutters.
I smile and lean back into the couch, both of us still facing each other, legs tangled up in the blanket.
“I liked it,” I say softly, more serious now. “I liked spending time with you.”
He sobers a little. His fingers twitch where they rest near mine.
“I liked this too,” he says. “A lot.”
There’s a stretch of silence, not awkward, just heavy with something new and warm settling between us.
His eyes flick down to my lips, then back up again. His voice is barely above a whisper when he asks, “Is it too soon to ask for a third date?”
I smile. “Only if you make me watch the Christmas special.”
Clark groans. “I wouldn’t do that to you, no one deserves that.”
I’m already leaning in. So is he. But even though it’s only inches, maybe less, we both pause. Hovering. Sharing the same breath. His eyes flick between mine and my mouth like he’s waiting for a green light I haven’t realized I was already giving.
“Is… is this okay?” he asks, voice barely audible.
I nod slowly. “Yeah. Is it okay with you?”
He blinks, surprised. Then softens. “Definitely.”
I smile, suddenly shy again. My pulse is thudding. His hand, hesitant, warm, rises slowly to my cheek, brushing the hair away.
“I’ve never…” he starts, then shakes his head. “I mean, I have, I just—”
I cut in, equally flustered. “Me too. Like… not like this.”
“Yeah,” he murmurs, smiling faintly. “Not like this.”
And then, finally, his lips meet mine.
It’s gentle. Too careful at first. Like both of us are trying to figure out where to put our hands, our mouths, our hearts. His glasses bump my face a little and we both laugh, nervous and breathless, foreheads tipping together for a second.
“Sorry,” he mumbles. “Do you want me to—?”
“No,” I whisper. “I like you like this.”
His hand slides to the side of my neck. Mine find his chest, broad and solid and rising just a little too fast beneath my palm. We kiss again, longer this time. Still shy, still nervous, but braver now his thumb is tracing small, absent circles behind my ear. We’re both smiling. Glowing. Dizzy.
“Still okay?” he asks again, like he can’t stop himself.
“Still yes,” I say. And I kiss him again. This time, we both stop checking, because we already know. I feel brave and gently tug his bottom lip with my teeth.
My fingers curl into the soft fabric of his shirt, the steady thump of his heart under my palm anchoring me even as my own pulse runs wild.
Clark makes a quiet sound, half-surprised, half-delighted, when my teeth graze his bottom lip again. His breath hitches, but he doesn’t pull away. Instead, his hand on my neck slides just a little lower, warm and steady at the curve of my shoulder, his thumb stroking slow, almost absent patterns like he’s trying to memorize the shape of me.
I tilt your head, deepening the kiss, and that’s when he finally leans into me, not just meeting me, but answering. The shy hesitance gives way to something warmer, more certain, the gentle press of his lips turning into a slow, molten pull that leaves me breathless.
His glasses slip slightly down the bridge of his nose, bumping against my cheek again, and I feel the smallest huff of laughter from him against my mouth. He doesn’t break away, though, just nudges closer until the frame is no longer between us, the faint scent of flour and soap clinging to him.
I part for a moment, barely, just enough to feel the whisper of his breath against my lips. His voice is rougher now, low and uncertain in the most endearing way.
“Still okay?”
I nod, a little too quickly, and my fingers tighten at his chest. “Better than okay.”
That seems to be all the encouragement he needs. His other hand finds my waist, the heat of his palm seeping through the denim as he draws me in until our knees brush, the blanket slipping further around us both. His kiss turns more insistent, not rushed, but lingering in a way that feels like he’s trying to pour everything he’s been holding back into the space between our mouths.
I sigh against him, my hand drifting upward to the back of his neck, feeling the soft hair there as his lips move with a shy kind of hunger, like he’s still afraid to push too far but can’t quite bring himself to stop. When I shift closer, his breath catches again, and for a split second I think he might actually pull away.
He doesn’t.
Instead, he kisses me again, slower, deeper like he’s savoring every second before we have to let go.
My hand stays at the back of his neck, thumb brushing against the warm skin there, and I feel the slightest tremor in him, like he’s fighting between pulling me closer and keeping himself in check.
I tilt into him again, my lips coaxing rather than demanding, and that’s when something shifts. It’s subtle, but I feel it, the way his hand at my waist tightens, the way his other hand drifts from my shoulder to your jaw, angling my face just so as his mouth claims mine with a little more certainty.
Clark kisses like he’s learning the map of me, but now there’s heat under it, slow, curling warmth that winds low in my stomach. His thumb traces my cheekbone as if he can’t help touching me everywhere he can reach, the pads of his fingers gentle but lingering.
I part for a breath, our foreheads resting together, and I catch the flicker of his eyes down to my mouth again before he swallows hard.
“You make it really hard to be careful,” he murmurs.
My pulse kicks. “Who says I want you to be careful?”
That pulls a quiet, almost disbelieving laugh from him. His gaze softens even as his lips press together like he’s trying to contain something bigger. Then, slowly, deliberately, he leans back in.
The kiss this time is fuller, hungrier, though still wrapped in that Clark Kent sweetness. His fingers slip into my hair, and the moment my lips part for him, his breath hitches like the permission startled him. He follows through anyway, deepening the kiss until my head tips back just slightly, and I feel the world outside his arms blur.
His chest is rising faster now, and when I press just a little closer, his arm around my waist draws me in until I’m practically in his lap.
My knee brushes his thigh. He exhales sharply. And then, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, I swing one leg over and settle astride him.
The look in his eyes changes. Still Clark, still gentle, still that same shy awe, but threaded with something older, deeper, more primal. His hands span my hips like he’s afraid to grip too hard, but the heat in his gaze tells me he wants to.
The next kiss isn’t careful. It’s hungry. His mouth moves against mine with a need that pulls a small, involuntary sound from my throat, and when it does, his hands flex at my waist, drawing me closer until our chests meet, until there’s no space for air or second-guessing.
My fingers find the back of his neck, threading through his hair, pulling him closer still. His breath hitches when I shift on his lap, the friction drawing a low, muffled groan from deep in his chest.
It’s unsteady, almost messy, our mouths finding each other again and again, tongues grazing, lips parting, his glasses sliding crooked on his face. His hands roam in hesitant, reverent sweeps from my hips to my ribs, up my back, down again, as though he’s mapping every inch of me through my clothes.
When I roll your hips, slow and deliberate, he breaks the kiss with a sharp inhale, resting his forehead against mine, his eyes squeezed shut like he’s fighting for control.
“You’re,” he breathes, voice low and strained, “you’re… making it really hard to think.”
I press my lips to his jaw, then his neck, feeling the shiver ripple through him. “Don’t think.”
His laugh is low and shaky, his hands tightening just a little on my hips. The tension between us feels like it could tip over into something else any second, hot, urgent, unstoppable.
And that’s exactly why, after one last slow, lingering kiss, he rests his forehead on mine again and just breathes me in.
The want is still there, raw, impossible to ignore but so is the thought that we should wait. I don’t want to rush him and it sounds like he’s trying to think. The last thing I want to do is make him think I’m a crazy sex obsessed freak who used Star Wars to get in his pants.
Our breaths are tangled, both of us flushed and unsteady, still sitting there with my legs around him and his hands warm against my hips like they’re meant to be there.
Clark’s gaze flickers over my face, my kiss-swollen lips, my flushed cheeks, the way I’m still holding on to him like I’ll drown if I let go. I can see the battle in his eyes: the pure, aching want for me and the stubborn gentleness that won’t let him take more than I’m ready to give.
He kisses me again, slower this time, lingering like he’s memorizing the taste of me and when he finally pulls back, it’s only far enough to rest his forehead against mine again.
His voice is quiet, but there’s something fierce beneath it.
“I want you so much,” he says, almost like it’s a confession he’s been holding back. “But I want all of you. Not just right now… not just because we can’t stop kissing.”
My chest tightens, and for a second I forget how to breathe. His hands slide up my sides, gentle and steady, stopping at my ribcage like he’s holding the frame of something sacred. “If we keep going,” he murmurs, “I won’t want to stop. And you… you deserve better than just now. You deserve the moment we both know we’re ready. The one that wrecks us, in the best way.”
I swallow hard, my heart beating so loud I’m sure he can feel it.
“I can wait,” I whisper.
His lips curve into the faintest, almost shy smile, the kind that still manages to undo me completely. “Then I will too. For as long as it takes.”
He tucks me into his chest, my knees still beside his hips, his arms around me like he’s never letting go. There’s still heat under my skin, still the electric hum of what almost happened, but now it’s wrapped in something deeper, something warm and steady and heartbreakingly sure.
We stay like that for a long time, neither moving, neither speaking, both knowing without saying it that when we do cross that line, it will be because we chose it together.
And as the steady rhythm of his heartbeat filled my ears, I realized that waiting with him might be the most romantic thing we’d ever do.
Summary : After a painful argument leaves your relationship uncertain, Clark disappears for days, until a brutal fight leaves him bruised, broken, and lost. When he tells Krypto to take him home, he brings him to you.
Tags/warnings : fluff, soft!Clark, established couple, emotional intimacy
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It had been three days since the argument. Long enough for the adrenaline to wear off, short enough that the words still echoed when the house got too quiet. You hadn’t talked since, not because you didn’t want to. But because you didn’t know if he wanted to.
And you weren’t going to beg someone to stay, even if that someone had kissed you like he meant forever.
You were curled up on the couch, blanket around your shoulders, a half-finished mug of tea gone cold on the coffee table. Lana’s text was still open on your phone. “He’s just stubborn. Give him time.” You weren’t sure if that was comfort or condemnation.
Then came the thump on the porch. Heavy. Solid. Followed by a whine, high-pitched and soft.
You stood too fast.
The door was already open by the time Krypto barked once, then stepped aside. He was panting, tail low and slow, eyes flicking toward the bundled figure behind him like he’d just delivered the most fragile thing in the universe.
Clark laid there, covered in ash, cuts, dried blood. His suit torn across the shoulder and smeared with grime. His eyes didn’t meet yours at first. He stood swaying slightly, arms limp at his sides, breathing just a little too shallow. Like he’d held everything together through the firestorm and finally cracked now that he’d made it to the finish line.
“Clark,” you breathed.
“I didn’t mean—” His voice broke. “I didn’t mean any of it.”
You stepped forward instinctively. “Come inside.”
He didn’t argue. Just let you guide him through the doorway, hand at his back, Krypto trailing behind like a silent witness. He collapsed onto the couch without grace. The same couch you’d sat on three nights ago, trying not to cry while he stared at the wall and said maybe you both needed space.
“I told Krypto to take me home,” he said quietly, fingers twitching against the frayed fabric of his suit. “I meant the the fortress. I don’t know why he thought to come here.”
You knelt in front of him, gently loosening his collar. “Maybe you didn’t.”
He blinked down at you, slow and tired. “You were right. About everything.”
“You don’t have to say that just because you got hurt.”
“I’m not saying it because I got hurt,” he murmured, “I’m saying it because being out there, doing what I do… it never feels as heavy as when you’re not here at the end of it.”
Your throat tightened. You reached for his suit top, and he let you pull it down. The bruise on his ribs looked like it was already healing, but it was dark, angry, and raw. You touched it carefully with the tips of your fingers.
“I thought you might not come back,” you said, barely a whisper.
“I didn’t think I should. After the things I said…”
“Clark,” you said, voice firm this time. “You’re allowed to be overwhelmed. You’re allowed to say things you don’t mean. I just want you to talk to me when you’re scared. Not shut me out and leave.”
He reached for your hand. His was scraped and bruised, knuckles cracked. “I was scared. And I hurt you anyway.”
“You’re here now.”
He let out a slow, trembling breath, like the last piece of armor he’d been holding onto finally gave way. “I don’t want space from you,” he said. “I want a life with you. And if I messed that up, then—”
“You didn’t.” You pressed your forehead to his. “You’re tired. You’re hurting. Just let me take care of you tonight, okay?”
His lips brushed yours, soft, reverent, like an apology and a thank-you all at once. Then he leaned into you, folding like a paper crane, head resting on your shoulder, arms wrapped around your waist like he was afraid you’d disappear if he didn’t hold on tight enough.
And when Krypto curled up on the rug beside the couch, letting out a deep sigh, it was like the whole house exhaled with him.
Whatever had happened before didn’t matter right now.
His breathing had evened out, but you could feel the tension still coiled in his muscles. Even curled into you, even with his arms around your waist like a lifeline, his body didn’t truly relax. He was still carrying it, the weight of the fight, the fallout of your argument, the exhaustion etched into every line of his face.
You ran your hand through his hair. Dirt flaked off. Ash stuck under your nails.
“Come on,” you whispered. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
He didn’t respond at first. Just let out a breath that sounded dangerously close to a whimper. Not from pain. From relief. Like part of him had been waiting for you to say it.
You led him upstairs slowly, step by step, his hand in yours like a child who’d wandered too far from home. Krypto stayed behind, curled up in the warmth of the living room. For once, the dog seemed to understand that this moment wasn’t for him.
In the bathroom, you reached for the hem of his pants, glancing up for permission. He gave a faint nod and helped you peel away the last of the ruined suit. The fabric clung stubbornly to dried blood and soot.
There was nothing sexual about it. Just reverent silence.
He stepped into the shower like he was walking into a confessional. The water hit his skin and turned brown almost instantly, swirling down the drain like a war story.
You didn’t ask to join. You just did fully clothed in an old tee and shorts, arms reaching around him as he stood under the stream, hands braced on the tile like it was the only thing holding him up.
You grabbed the soap and started at his back, slow and gentle. Over every bruise, every scrape, every bloodstained crease. His shoulders were tight as wire.
“You can let go,” you said softly.
He didn’t speak, but his exhale said everything. You felt it. How the tension bled out of him under your hands, how his posture shifted from rigid to raw. He leaned his forehead against the wall, eyes closed.
Your fingers found his scalp next. You poured shampoo into your palm and worked it in, nails lightly scraping as you massaged away the grit. Foam gathered and rinsed down, pink where it passed a healing cut above his temple.
“This okay?” you asked.
His answer came in the form of a small sound, barely audible, like a choked hum. He nodded once. That was enough.
When you reached his chest, you paused. Your hands hovered over the place just above his heart. The bruise there looked fresh. Like someone had tried to crush the breath out of him. He opened his eyes then, meeting your gaze for the first time since stepping in.
“I didn’t know if I’d make it,” he said.
“You did.”
“And Krypto, he just… he brought me here. Straight to you.”
You nodded, tears pricking. “Because even he knows where you belong.”
The silence between you wasn’t heavy anymore. It was safe. Sacred. You washed the rest of him in quiet reverence. Wiped away the remains of the battle, the blood of strangers, the fury of gods. When you were done, you reached for a towel and wrapped it around his shoulders like a blanket.
He held it closed with one hand. The other reached for you.
“I don’t deserve you,” he whispered.
You stepped close, pressing your lips to his chest, right over the bruise. “Maybe not. But you have me.”
you dressed him in one of the old white t-shirt he kept in your drawer, soft from too many washes. He didn’t speak as you slipped it on for him. Just stood there, damp curls falling over his forehead, watching you like you were something holy.
You guided him to the bed with the same quiet authority you’d used during the shower. Clark followed willingly, his movements loose now, pliable, like he’d been unwound. He sat down on the edge, eyes flicking to you when you turned toward the kitchen.
“I’ll be right back,” you murmured. “Don’t go anywhere.” You joke and hear him laugh a little.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he said, voice barely above a rasp.
The cocoa was muscle memory milk, a splash of vanilla, two scoops of the powdered mix he pretended wasn’t his favorite but always finished to the last drop. You whisked it gently, careful not to let it boil. Marshmallows optional, but tonight, you added three. Because you loved him. And because maybe he needed a little softness.
When you returned to the bedroom, he was already lying down, facing your side of the bed, one hand reaching across the sheets as if to check you hadn’t disappeared.
“I brought you something,” you said softly, climbing in beside him and handing him the mug.
He blinked at it, surprised. “You remembered.”
You gave him a look. “Of course I did.”
He took a careful sip, letting the warmth settle in his chest. You watched him, and for the first time that night, something behind his eyes cracked open. A trace of color returned to his cheeks. His shoulders dropped.
“You didn’t have to do all this,” he said.
“I know.”
“You could’ve been angry. Still.”
You reached out and brushed your fingers through his damp hair. “I was. Then I saw your face.”
His throat worked around the lump he didn’t try to hide. “I love you.”
“I know,” you said again. “Finish your cocoa.”
He obeyed. When he was done, you set the mug on the nightstand, then crawled closer and pulled him into your arms. He settled into your chest without hesitation, his head tucked under your chin, arms circling your waist like nothing else mattered.
You didn’t say anything else.
You just held him. Ran your fingers down his spine. Rubbed slow, comforting circles into the small of his back. Kissed the crown of his head.
The kind of love that didn’t ask for anything. That didn’t need fixing. Just being.
Eventually, his breathing deepened. His body went heavy against yours. Sleep took him, soft and dreamless.
And still, you didn’t move. Because even gods need to be cradled sometimes. And tonight, he came home to you.
