too fast
clark kent x reader
tags / tw - 18+, MDNI, pining, college fic, tutor!clark kent, fluff, protective clark kent, reader is a lil sensitive, clark is very reassuring, meet cute, slow burn (kind of), eventual smut, body worship, no piv (sorry), oral sex (f!receiving), car sex, plot w/porn,
brief mentions of misogyny and harassment
word count: 9.5k
Summary: In which you have a meltdown in the library, and mild-mannered Clark Kent notice and offers to give you an impromptu study session. Charmed, in a moment of bravery (or sleep deprivation), you ask him out. What starts as a lunch turns into a trip to the museum, and before either of you realize it, it’s a full-day affair. You get to know each other a little too fast, a little too well—and maybe that’s not such a bad thing.
notes - hii, in the honor of this incoming semester i been working on this college fic. i tried to proofread but i do apologize for any errors. also thank y’all for the love on my last post, like wow i wasn’t expecting that. hopefully ya’ll fw this one too, anyways enjoy <3
College made you realize what your strong points were. Writing a fifteen page essay with APA citation, easy. Conducting a presentation in front of a lecture hall, a piece of cake. Managing to not black out from several rounds of beer pong, daunting but doable.
However, the field of study that was calculus remained a fucking mystery to you.
You don't even know why the fuck you'd picked that class. Maybe because statistics, and algebra were already full and you were hellbent on completing your math requirement this semester. You took pre-calc in high school, so you thought the real thing couldn't be that bad.
Wrong.
You were now realizing that you would've been better off waiting until next enrollment period to meet that requirement, because calculus was giving you a run for your money.
Quite literally.
The score you earned on your recent calc exam had put fear in your heart. At the rate you were going, you’d inevitably have to kiss your full ride scholarship bye bye. That thought alone lit a fire in you, you weren't gonna allow that one course to tank your GPA, not without a fight at least.
You were determined to improve your grade. As a result, here you were in the library on a Friday evening with your head in a calculus book while everyone else on campus was out partying. Everyone else, beside you of course, and the one other dude in the library.
As you worked through the practice problems, your determination began to falter. You grew increasingly frustrated with each stroke of your mechanical pencil on the scratch sheet of paper. You got to the fourth equation before tears started to stream down your face. It had taken you nearly forty minutes and you weren’t even halfway through the practice quiz.
Utterly discouraged you held your head in your hands in attempt to stifle your sobs.
Things could be worse, at least the library was pretty much empty. At least no one is here to witness your meltdown, you thought to yourself.
Your thoughts were contradicted with reality seconds after they appeared.
"Hey uh, I don't mean to intrude or anything but… are you okay?” An seemingly well-intentioned deep voice called out to you in a hushed tone.
You brought your head out your hands and used your sleeves to wipe your face.
“I'm sorry, dude, I didn’t mean to interrupt your studying."
You were avoiding looking at the stranger wanting to shield yourself from any further embarrassment, " I was uh—getting ready to pack it up anyway.”
“Hey—I’m not really sure what’s got you so upset but if you need someone to talk to… or if it’s school related I can help or y’know at least try to. I'm a part-time tutor here on campus,” the stranger offered earnestly.
Your gaze lifted from your laptop to meet the stranger’s, and to your surprise you were met with kind eyes and an expression of genuine concern.
The stranger was tall, with black curls and a brawny stature. He’d wore a faded band tee, sweat pants, and a pair of black glasses, something about him disarmingly awkward.
He was cute, which kinda sucked even more in a moment like this.
You cleared your throat. “Are you familiar with calculus by any chance?” You inquired, defeated.
A smile graced his face, revealing his dimples.
“Yes, actually. I can help with calc, do you mind if I sit?” He inquired gesturing to the chair opposite of you.
“No. Please sit,” you urged.
"I’m Clark by the way," he introduced himself reaching out to shake your hand.
You met him half way taking his hand in yours, giving him a firm handshake, as you introduced yourself. You couldn't help but to make a mental note of the size difference.
For the next hour and thirty minutes, you and Clark got well acquainted as he gave you a much needed crash course in calculus. He walked you through the entirety of the practice quiz.
He didn't laugh at you when you got confused nor did he grow irritated, instead he was empathic and patient—enthusiastic even.
He was able to articulate the concepts in such a way that made it easy for you to grasp.
He was also firm, refusing to simply give you the answers but actually guiding your problem solving process. And thank god, he didn't because by the time the impromptu tutoring session came to an end you understood a hell of a lot more than before.
In your eyes the kid was a genius.
“You are a godsend,” you praised. Clark's face turned a light shade of pink.
“I wouldn’t go that far. You knew a good amount of the material already… you just needed a little extra clarification that’s all,” he asserted, giving you a small smile.
'A little clarification'— it was damn near two hours worth.
“That’s such a nice way of putting it,” you scoffed.
He rested his head on his hand, observing you. "You gotta give yourself more credit, you’re putting in the effort to improve. That’s half the battle,” he assured you.
That was nice of him to say.
“I really appreciate you, Clark. Thank you for taking time out of your day to help me. You really didn’t have to but… I'm glad you did,” you admitted.
“It’s not a problem, really," Clark spoke.
He bid you a farewell before getting out of his seat, "It was nice meeting you, good luck with your studies.”
As he began to walk away it dawned on you that you might never see him again—after all it was a huge campus.
Regret began to build as you watched him.
You were charmed, which was rare because a majority of the men on campus repulsed you.
But Clark was different— no ulterior motives, no suggestive comments—he spent nearly two hours of his time helping you out just because he wanted to.
He was pleasant to be around— easygoing and clever. Someone you could picture yourself hanging out with just because.
It would be a waste to just let him walk away.
So you called out to him, voice a little more urgent than intended, “Clark.”
He turned around mid-stride to face you.
Curiosity painted his handsome face. "Hey—everything okay?"
“Yeah," you quickly replied. You exhaled to calm your nerves. "I just… was wondering if you were free tomorrow?”
A smile tugged at his lips, “Another study session?”
You shifted your weight from one foot to the other, hands brushing at your sides. “No, I think I got it for the most part, at least for now. I just um…" You hesitated, suddenly growing coy.
"I was going to ask if you wanted to hangout with me?” You asked, fighting against your nerves.
Clark blinked, surprised. "Hang out?"
“I mean—maybe I could treat you to some lunch… as a thank you,” you continued sweetening your offer.
Clark laughed softly, almost sheepish. "You're not obligated to repay me. Honestly, I was happy to help."
“I know," you said voice quieter.
"But I was offering not because I felt obligated but because I want to. You seem cool like… you'd be good company." You paused. "But if your busy or don't wan—"
"I'm not," Clark interrupted abruptly. He rubbed at the nape of his neck, which made his bicep flex. "I mean I want to. I have nothing else to do tomorrow. A lunch date with you… would be nice. You seem nice."
The knot in your chest loosened, and was replaced with a warm feeling.
You smiled at Clark. Then you pulled out your phone, unlocked it, and held it out, “Type in your number."
His eyes darted to the screen and then back at you. A dimple broke through as he took your phone, typing in his number. "Bossy," he smirked, playfully.
"Only when it counts," you refuted, feeling the tension between you two melting into something lighter.
The following day, Clark agreed to meet up with you at a quaint student-ran sandwich shop on campus.
You arrived in a flowy blouse, a midi skirt with a slit, and hair out, soft coils framing your face.
You wanted to make a good impression or at least a better one than yesterday.
A tinge of excitement fluttered in your chest, you wanted to see him again.
Luckily you didn’t have to wait long, because once you opened up the door to the café you spotted Clark seated in a booth by a window. His gaze met yours not even a millisecond later.
There he was sunlight pouring over him, as if nature had just decided to give him his own spotlight.
Golden rays caught the edges of his curls, his skin glistened, almost like he was beaming. He was just as handsome as you remembered— maybe even more.
You slide into the seat across from him. As his cerulean eyes scanned over you, you felt your nerves simmering to the surface. You smiled brightly, suppressing them.
“Hey, I'm glad you made it. I hope you haven’t been waiting too long.”
Clark glanced at the menu then back at you. His lips lifted into that familiar easy-going smile. “Your on time I'm just annoyingly early,” he stated.
His eyes flickering over to you for a long second, “You look nice by the way, I like your outfit—and your hair.”
Heat rushed to your cheeks, making the corner of your lips tug into a smile.
“Your too sweet, this is how I usually look when I'm not fighting for my life in the library,” you joked.
He scoffed, amused. “You say that like you looked bad last night”.
“‘Bad’ might be a stretch," you laughed, "but that definitely wasn’t one of my finest moments.”
Clark leaned back in the booth, eyes on you. “I’m glad you let me help you. You picked up pretty quick, honestly. But if you ever need a review— or just somebody to chat with— you got my number now."
His tone was casual, but something in his expression lingered—like was offering something more than study sessions.
“I will keep that in mind,” you smiled.
Clark hesitated for a moment, you could see the clogs turning in his brain before he decided to speak. “Can I ask you something?”
“Of course,” you nodded.
He took a beat before speaking. “When I approached you last night, I assumed that you were crying because of academic stuff. Not that it’s not a valid reason to be frustrated … but was that really it? Or was it something else?"
Your smile faltered upon hearing the question. A tinge of embarrassment coursed through you when recalling what had brought you to tears.
"You can tell me if I'm prying— we can talk about something else," Clark backtracked sensing your change in mood.
"It's alright Clark," you flashed him a brief smile.
Here goes nothing.
"I'm the first in my family to ever set foot on a university campus, the only reason why I can even attend here in the first place is because I got a full ride,” you began quietly.
You massaged your temples, soothing the slight ache there.
“But yesterday, I found out I totally bombed my calculus test which completely tanked my grade in the class putting my scholarship at risk. I went to the library to study and… well— I guess I just got overwhelmed, ” you paused.
You glanced up at Clark who had an unreadable expression on his face. You laughed nervously, “I'm dramatic, I know."
He leaned forward, with his hands clasped on the table. “I don't think your dramatic, not in the slightest. In fact, I think that's as of a good reason as any—besides it's not a crime to cry or be overwhelmed," Clark comforted.
A grin began to form on your face, "You're not just saying that?"
Clark didn't back down, his expression more serious this time. "I know it's much easier said than done, but try not to be so hard on yourself," he advised voice softening at the edges.
"You are more than capable of achieving whatever it is you're aiming for. I mean, you did make it this far, right? I'm sure you'll manage to keep your scholarship.” He said, offering a gentle smile.
Suddenly you didn’t feel so embarrassed anymore.
His words didn’t magically fix anything but they did make you feel better. You nodded slowly, eyes flickering to the table for a moment before meeting his again.
Clark made you feel better— that was a pattern you were starting to notice.
“Thanks. I needed to hear that,” you smiled softly.
“Your more than welcome,” he replied.
You silently stared at each other, both taking in the conversation you both just had.
You broke eye contact, deciding to look over the menu, “I think I know what I want. Are you ready to order yet?”
“Sure,” he said stepping out of the booth, walking over to you. He grabbed your hand assisting you with getting out the booth. You definitely didn't need any assistance but Clark helped anyway. That small gesture made you swoon a little.
The café had a relaxed buzz to it— students chatting, espresso machines humming, and music softly playing from the speakers.
You stepped up to the screen to order, scanning the menu on the display one last time before settling on your usual—a chai latte and a club sandwich. Clark glanced over the options, then just decided on getting your same exact order.
"Copy cat," you teased.
Clark laughed off your comment. "I never really eat—when I come here, so I don't really know what to get… but I trust your judgment," Clark spoke, correcting himself.
"In that case, I hope my order doesn't disappoint," you chimed, reaching into your purse.
You fished out your phone, just barely making it to your wallet app to pay before you heard the soft beep of the reader. You looked up to see Clark already withdrawing his hand, his card tucked away in his wallet like it had never even happened.
You gasped, eyes wide.
He looked at you, entirely unfazed, a faint smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “What?”
“You were suppose to let me pay as a thank you,” you whined.
Clark wasn't moved in the slightest. “I told you last night I didn’t want you to repay me,” he shrugged casually.
What he did was such a small gesture, yet it carried a kind of quiet strength—effortless, precise, and just a little too fast to feel normal. You opened your mouth to protest again but stopped short.
Clark continued. “Besides I thought you wanted to get lunch solely because you enjoyed my company? What happened to that, huh?” he teased.
You hated not being right.
You sighed in defeat, with a pout on your face.
Nothing else to do but just meet his gaze. The way he looked at you was kind and steady, with something unspoken behind his eyes. It made it hard to argue.
He leaned in a little closer. “Your cute—even when annoyed,” he admitted.
You shook your head, biting back a smile, “You’re unbelievable”.
“Order for Clark,” one of the workers shouted placing the trays on the pickup counter.
He picked up the tray of food while you grabbed napkins. You walked back to the booth and immediately got to work on the food you ordered.
You and Clark had spent some of duration of lunch chatting about your upbringings, Bonding over your homesickness, exchanging details about the people, places and things you both missed from your hometowns.
You learned that he grew up on a farm in Kansas, and that he yearned to be back. Mainly because he missed his parents, which he referred to as 'ma' and 'pa.'
You found the way he talked about his parents incredibly endearing, most dudes you met thought they were just too cool to be vulnerable about stuff like that—not Clark, though. You could tell by the stories he shared that he held a lot of love and respect for his family.
The conversation took a natural shift from the past to the present and future. You'd discussed how college had been treating the both of you so far, how you both been adjusting to living in the dorms, and life in Metropolis in general.
You learned that he was a journalism major, which surprised the hell out of you.
You narrowed your eyes at him. "For a journalism major, you sure know a lot about calculus?"
"Back in high school, I took advance calculus," he explained, nonchalantly sipping on his latte.
You let out a sound of disbelief. "Oh yeah, no big deal. Just a math whiz at the tender age of eighteen. Just, y'know, light work," you mocked lightheartedly, taking a sip of your latte.
He laughed, "Gosh, I hope I don't come off that arrogant," pushing his glasses up his nose bridge.
"Not at all. I'm just giving you a hard time, Clark," you chuckled giving his hand that rested on the table a squeeze.
It was a casual gesture you didn't even contemplate touching him, it just happened. But for some reason as soon as your hand touched his, it felt like more than a casual gesture. That little bit of contact, sent a spark through you.
Clark's eyes leered to where your hands touched, which made you snatch your hand away.
Nice, really smooth, you internally face palmed.
"Sorry," you blurted out.
Clark smoothly reached for your hand, the one you pulled away, and interlocked it in his.
"For what?" He asked, looking at you with a mischievous glint in his eyes pretending like nothing ever happened.
Like holding each other's hand was the most normal thing in the world— like you both did it before hundreds of times.
You looked at your hand in his, and smiled. Then you looked back to him, at a loss for words.
Sensing you were speechless he changed the topic of discussion. "You seemed a little surprised when I mentioned I wanted to be a journalist."
“I am, actually,” you admitted, a little amused.
“Initially, I just didn't have pegged you as a journalist. You seem more like a um…. computer scientist.”
Clark scoffed, “Computer science, really?”
You nodded, “Absolutely, you give quiet genius vibe. I assumed you were in the library working on a app or something, before I disrupted you,” you deadpan jokingly.
He let out a warm chuckle.
You tilted your head thoughtfully, eyeing him like you were trying to piece something together.
“But by knowing you a little better, I actually think journalism suits you,” you asserted, your tone softening.
Clark raised a brow, “How so?”
You carefully gathered your words before saying them out loud.
“I mean the point of journalism is to be a watchdog, right? To question those in power, shed light on the truth, and amplify the voices of those who get overlooked …”
Clark nodded in agreement hanging on to every word.
“From what I gathered from knowing you in this very short amount of time is that you're selfless. You help people just for the hell of it, without expecting anything in return."
"You're also observant and a good listener. I would think those would be good traits for a journalist to have," you continued.
“I could be totally off base,” you added quickly, trying not to overstep. You shrug, “but that’s the impression I get.”
Clark’s smile was softer now, less amused and more sincere.
He leaned back a little, “You’re not off base,” he said after a beat. “Not at all," he spoke softly caressing his thumb over the back of your hand.
The hum of the café filling the brief silence between you. You knew that this lunch date was coming to a natural conclusion, both of you had finished your sandwiches and lattes—but you weren’t ready to part with him yet.
“I have a proposition for you,” you spoke breaking the silence.
“I'm listening.”
You leaned forward, delicately removing your hand from Clark's so that you could clasp your hands together on the table, showing you meant business.
Tone measured but casual you continued, “You are completely free to decline this offer, no pressure, seriously, but like hear me out.”
Clark nodded clearly amused.
You glanced out the window toward the sidewalk, sunlight filtering through the trees outside. “So, we’re currently within walking distance of the bus stop, like, five minutes tops. I know for a fact that route 45 comes pretty regularly, every five minutes or so. It heads straight to the museum district.”
Clark tilted his head, intrigued now.
“There’s an exhibit I’ve been meaning to check out,” you continued, “and today’s the last day it’s going to be there. It’s free before five, and it’s already”—you checked your phone—“almost three. So if we leave soon, we’ll catch it.”
You paused briefly, watching his expression. “I'm gonna go either way. But… if you’re not busy, and you want to go… I'd really like the company.”
You kept your tone light, almost playful not wanting to scare him off. You weren’t quite ready to say goodbye to him yet and you’d hope he feel the same.
His lips tugged into a thoughtful smile while pretending to think on it . “A free art exhibit with a beautiful tour guide and efficient public transportation. I don’t think I'd forgive myself if I said no,” he answered.
He could see you light up with excitement the moment he accepted your request. His heart fluttered knowing that he brought you some sort of joy.
It was in that moment he realized he’d do anything to keep you happy.
“Alright, let’s go see some art then,” you beamed.
The warmth of the afternoon sun greeted you both.
You were both hand in hand, but you led the way. You walked a little bit in front of him, which he didn't mind it at all.
He was just happy to be there— taking in the view of your silhouette from behind. You strutting around, your hair soaking up the sunlight, the effortless sway of your hips in that midi-skirt, he had no complaints.
The walk to the bus stop was brief, the two of you talked in quiet spurts, the kind of conversation that didn’t need to fill every silence.
By the time the bus arrived, the air had grown crisper, thick with the lazy hum of a autumn afternoon. You both boarded, sat near the back, and shared the row. You pointed out things you saw out the window— graffiti and murals that caught your eye, a bookstore you’d meant to check out, and a bakery you wanted to try.
Clark listened with interest, occasionally asking questions or making dry, clever remarks to make you laugh. The ride to the museum district was short: it lasted maybe ten, fifteen minutes.
When you arrived, the district was alive with the chaotic energy of a weekend crowd.
Couples strolled hand-in-hand, much like what you and Clark were doing now. Families clustered anywhere with shade. Somewhere nearby, someone strummed an acoustic played beneath a bus stop awning.
The museum itself stood tall, its white columns gleaming in the afternoon sun.
When you stepped inside you were met with the glorious feeling of AC. The exhibit was tucked on the second floor. The both of you received free entry and stepped through the threshold into a dimmer space.
It was almost silent, except for the occasional creak of shoes on the polished floor and the low murmur of other guests.
It was a mixed-media exhibit that utilized a variety of mediums— paintings, short film reels, suspended installations, etc. Each piece seemed to demand attention and required reflection.
You noticed that Clark took his precious time looking at each piece of art, he never skipped a plaque wanting to absorb everything that it had to offer. You were the same way.
It was sort of healing going to a place like this with someone who had no intention of rushing you out, but instead is just as enthusiastic.
At some points you’d caught him admiring you from afar as if you were a part of the exhibit and vice versa.
You both had a habit of drifting apart within the exhibit to do some solo exploration but without fail, you’d find your way back to one another—standing side by side, quietly asking, “what did you think of this one?”
Sometimes you’d agree, sometimes not, but the rhythm of separating and reuniting became its own quiet ritual.
It wasn’t long before you two had viewed and commented on every piece within the exhibit.
The rest of the spectators had thinned out, you guys being two of the only people left.
You both lingered for a moment on a bench, shoulder and thighs touching, a charged silence between you two.
“Thank you… for inviting me,” Clark said turning towards you his voice soft and certain.
You gave him a small smile. "I'm glad I did. I wasn’t sure you’d say yes.”
“I don’t think I could say no to you,” he admitted, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Your heart skipped a beat and your face started to warm up.
Your eyes and hands honed in on the fabric of your skirt.
“I really like you, Clark,” you murmured, barely above a whisper, unsure if you could face him just yet.
Clark on the other hand couldn’t keep his eyes off you.
“You can't just say things like that and not look at me,” he said quietly leaning in.
“How else am I supposed to know you mean it?”
You briefly glance up at him hoping to see a teasing grin on his face but instead, his expression was vulnerable and wanting.
You could feel desire forming in the pit of your stomach.
Then, moving at a speed slower than molasses he reached out and tilted your chin up with two fingers so that your gaze was directed on him. The soft pressure of his touch made your breath hitch.
“Could you say it again?” He pleaded softly, voice low and raspy.
You swallowed, you were full of nerves.
“I really like you, Clark,” you said again, this time, clearer, steadier, locking eyes with him as the words left your lips.
His whole face softened, like he’d been holding his breath and finally let it go.
“I really like you too,” he said, smiling reverently.
A quiet beat passed. His fingers remained gently curled beneath your chin, and his eyes hadn’t moved from yours.
In that moment, with the late afternoon light spilling through the tall windows and the murmurs of the gallery fading around you, you were sure he’d lean in.
But he didn’t.
He just held you there in his gaze, like the moment itself was enough—for now. He removed his fingers from your chin and you both broke eye-contact.
You were all for a slow-burn and tension, but you so badly want him to just leaned in and kiss you.
Then you recall all of the whirlwind romances you've been in, the ones that moved too fast and ended too quickly.
You could be patient if it meant forging something long lasting, at least that’s what you told yourself to make you feel better.
“You ready to head out,” Clark inquired.
You nodded. “I think so,” you said still in a daze.
He stood up first, offering you his hand to help you get up. You two walked side by side through the corridors, passing the final stretch of exhibits with slower steps, like neither of you were quite ready to leave this bubble and return to the outside world.
As you stepped outside, the city buzzed around you—cars humming by, the faint sound of laughter down the street, and the sound of the acoustic guitar near the corner of the steps.
You two made it to the bus stop and stood there waiting for the next bus.
A breeze tugged at the hem of your skirt, and slightly moved your coils out of place.
Clark took the initiative to gently move a strand that was sticking up back to its original spot.
You mouthed a quiet “thank you,” before you heard buzzing in your purse.
You fished out your phone to see a call from your big sister back home.
“Gimme one sec, my sister's calling,” you said. You watched him nod before walking a few feet away and turning your back for some privacy.
You answered the phone a little panicked, “Hey is everything okay.”
“Yeah girl, everything is fine. I'm just bored to pieces right now,” she groaned.
This could've been a text.
“Okay well I'm busy,” you rolled your eyes.
You could hear her scoff, “You better be in them books or on a hot date blowing me off like this.”
You glanced back at Clark from where you were at, exchanging smiles, before turning back around.
“It’s kinda of the second option,” you admitted.
“Ugh you bitch, call me back when your done and share your location with me, encase he’s an axe-murderer or something.” she yapped.
You sighed.
“Okay whatever I'll do it, I gotta go bye,” you said quickly hanging up.
Not even a second after hanging up the phone you heard an unfamiliar voice called out, sharp and crude: “Damn, you look good as fuck.”
You barely reacted, no way that was directed at you. You focused on your phone continuing to share your location with your sister. There was no way in hell someone could be speaking to you like that—right?
Unfortunately, they were.
“I know you hear me talking to you, you don’t have to be a bitch and ignore me.”
Your head snapped up.
Standing a few feet in front of you was the saddest excuse of a man you ever laid eyes on. His leering grin twisted into a sneer when you didn’t respond.
Before you could so much as move your feet to walk away or form any type of response you felt Clark’s presence behind you.
He stepped in front of you and approached the man, calm but cold. You couldn’t even see his face but his body language was unmistakable.
He stood up straight, stiff as a board with his hands folded together in front of him trying his hardest to compose himself.
“Clark,” you said gently, brushing your hand against his back in an attempt to ground him.
“It’s okay, babe, let’s just go.” Your attempt was null and void he didn’t budge or even acknowledge you.
“Watch your fucking mouth,” Clark snapped, the fury in his tone was palpable. “She’s not interested”.
You were gagged— to say the least, having never seen this side of Clark before.
Granted it's hasn’t been long since you guys met, still though, you never even heard him swear, let alone seen him angry.
Everyone nearby seemed to freeze. People paused mid-step, glancing over to see what was happening. some kept walking uninterested, while others slowed, curious or concerned.
Though a small, shameful part of you found this version of Clark—protective, assertive to be wildly attractive, all you really wanted was for it to be over.
You heard the rumble of the bus engine was growing louder in the background.
The man sucked his teeth and scoffed as he backed off.
“You lucky I'm not in the mood today,” he muttered barely loud enough to catch. Then, more to himself, “the broad isn't even all that.”
The man turned to walk away, but Clark didn’t. If anything, he leaned forward slightly, like a dog straining against a leash, ready to beat that man to a pulp.
You saw his jaw tense and just knew he was about to follow.
“No,” you said quickly, reaching up to grab his shoulder. “He’s not worth it, Clark. please. Let’s just go, we’re gonna miss the bus.”
Clark hesitated, shoulders still tight, breathing heavy through his nose. then, finally, he turned to face you. his anger was still visible, simmering just beneath the surface, but he nodded once.
Without saying a word, he reached for your hand and interlaced your fingers with his. together, you walked to the approaching bus.
The bus doors hissed open, and Clark stepped on first, guiding you ahead of him with a gentle tug of your joined hands. He scanned the seats and ushered you toward the back.
You slid into the window seat while he took one beside you. His knee bounced restlessly, jaw clenched as he stared straight ahead. You both left the confrontation behind but not its weight.
You glanced at him, his profile sharp in the fading daylight. “Hey,” you said softly looking at him.
No answer.
“Clark,” you tried once again placing you hand on his knee to still it.
He didn’t even look at you.
Your heart sank. “So your ignoring me now, cool,” you said turning your head to the window and removing your hand from his.
Not even five seconds later he folded.
He swallowed harshly, before turning to you, calling out your namey.
“I’m sorry. I didn't mean to ignore you… I was frustrated and I just didn’t want to say the wrong thing,” he explained.
You still wouldn’t meet his gaze but he was determined.
You shared such a great day with each other before this. He couldn't—wouldn't let this day end like this.
"It wasn't right for me to ignore you back at the station either. You're not the source of my anger. Please, forgive me if I made it seem that way.” he brought your hand up to his lips, planting a kiss on your knuckle.
You wanted to stay mad but listening to him you knew he was genuine.
You turned to him, and were met with pleading eyes.
His eyes shift from you then off into space, ruminating on the whole ordeal.
He muttered, “I wish you’d let me handle him, though,” he quipped saying his thoughts out loud.
You rolled your eyes upon hearing that.
And to think he was doing so well before he said that, too.
“Thank you for 'defending my honor' or whatever," you said, using air quotes, half-sarcastic.
"But you should've just left with me when I asked you the first time. You can’t go around fighting every guy who says something dumb to me,” you snapped.
His brows furrowed, his expression torn between frustration and something softer. “Why can’t I though?"
His jaw started to tense again. "That guy was a tool. The way he spoke to you? It was disgusting. I can't just stand by and watch someone disrespect you like that… or anybody for that matter."
You crossed your arms together.
"I agree, Clark. That dude was fucking creep, but that whole confrontation gave me the worst anxiety. You had me so worried that you were going to do something reckless. " You expressed.
You pinched the bridge of your nose, “You're too smart to not consider the possibility he might've had a weapon. A gun? A knife? Then what, Clark?”
He leaned back in his seat, posture too relaxed for your liking. It was as if the danger wasn't registering in his head.
Your head tilted, eyes narrowing as you looked up at him incredulously. “Okay so you think you're invincible and nothing bad can happen to you.”
Clark let out a dry laugh, “I didn’t say that.”
You didn't back down. “Okay, let’s choose another scenario, I let you beat him to a pulp, he presses charges, you get a record and maybe even expelled. And for what? Me— a girl you just met less than a day ago?"
You shook your head slightly, "It's not worth it."
His eyes didn't waver from yours. "You're worth it," he asserted—voice low and sure.
Your heart skipped a beat, a charged silence emerged.
You turned to face the window with a scoff, in an attempt to shake off the rising heat in your chest.
"I can't with you—you're ridiculous," you muttered, shaking your head.
Clark's tone had softened. “You're right… I just hate that this even happened,” he continued.
“Me too,” you murmured.
He rubbed a hand over his face. "And now I feel like a total jerk—here I am sitting here sulking when you're the one who got disrespected."
You felt the tension melt a little bit as he reached over, resting a gentle hand on your knee. His voice was quieter more tentative, "How are you feeling about all this?”
“I’m okay,” you shrugged.
Clark was attentive. Watching your body language, he could tell you were holding back.
“You can be honest.”
You exhaled. "I am okay... I mean it doesn't feel good being ogled at or talked down to. Things like this happen way too often."
You glanced down at your skirt, "It’s not a problem that’s unique to me, it unfortunately comes with the territory of just existing as a woman in society. I'm just sort of numb to it now."
Clark looked at you with a pained expression, lips pressed into a hard line and eyes gloomy.
You reached up and idly toyed with a loose curl near his forehead, your touch anchoring him.
"I am glad you were there, though."
You rested your head on his shoulder before finishing your thought.
“This kind of thing usually occurs when I'm by myself, which is always terrifying. But today, I didn't feel scared — not with you there. I mean you had me nervous you were going to do something rash but for the most part I felt… protected. "
You could feel the tension in his shoulders melt away. "I'm glad you felt safe with me," he murmured.
"I'll take on that role anytime—protector, defender, whatever it is you need. And I will do a better job at listening to you."
You hummed contently.
A comfortable silence fell between the two of you.
Rain began to fall— soft at first. The delicate pattering of the rain blended in with the hushed conversations taking place on the bus.
You closed your eyes, taking in the white noise. The sounds lulled you to sleep, exhaustion taking over.
Clark noticed the slow movement of your chest rising and falling, how your body relaxed as sleep took over. He didn't say a word—just watched over you as the scenery passed by through the windows.
He avoided waking you up until the last possible moment, by then the rain had began pouring more urgently. Neither of you were dressed for the rain.
With a quiet sigh, he shrugged off his button-up, left in his white undershirt. He folded it carefully, with the intention of giving it to you.
Gently he prodded at your shoulder, “Wake up sleepy girl, this is our stop."
You stirred, eyes fluttering open in confusion for a beat—until your surroundings came back into focus.
The rain. The bus. Clark.
He was standing now, shirt in one hand, the other extended toward you. You blinked at him, then at the shirt, puzzled.
Wordlessly, you took his hand and let him guide you down the aisle.
You both thanked the driver and stepped off the bus, huddling under the narrow awning at the stop across from the café—the very place where the day had started.
The rain poured steadily now, soaking the pavement. You wrapped your arms around yourself instinctively.
Clark held out the shirt. “It’s for you—to shield yourself from the rain. It’s not much, but... better than nothing.”
“That’s sweet of you,” you said, hesitating. “But are you sure? I don’t want you to get sick.”
He shook his head, brushing off your concern. “I’ll be fine.”
His eyes flicked downward, noting your sandals—cute, but not ideal for weather like this. His brows pinched.
“You can’t walk in those,” he said flatly. “Your feet are gonna get soaked—probably end up covered in mud.”
You looked down. He was right.
“I’ll carry you,” he added, already stepping closer.
“What?”
He didn’t repeat himself—just slipped one arm beneath your knees and the other around your back. Before you could protest, you were lifted effortlessly off the ground.
You let out a breath of disbelief, clutching his broad shoulder for balance.
He draped his shirt over your head, shielding you from the rain, the fabric still warm from his body.
“Where did you park?” he asked, starting toward the lot.
You sighed, regretful. “I walked here, actually.”
He glanced down at you with a lopsided smile. “Guess I’m driving you to your dorm, then.”
You nodded, tucking your face closer to his chest, the rain thudding softly against his shirt as he carried you across the lot.
You heard the soft jingle of metal—Clark was fumbling in his pocket. A second later, the quiet chirp of an unlocking vehicle broke the silence, followed by the muted creak of a car door being opened.
Clark gently helped you into the passenger seat, cradling you as though you were something fragile.
You tugged his shirt off your head, the fabric soaked from the rain. As your vision cleared, you glanced around, taking in your surroundings. A pickup truck—of course. Sturdy, reliable, and unpretentious. Very Clark.
The interior was surprisingly spotless. No fast food wrappers crumpled in the on the floor, no empty coffee cups rolling under the seats. Not even a stray crumb on the dashboard. The faint scent of cedar and laundry detergent lingered in the air.
Only thing you spotted were a neat stack of textbooks and some worn paper-backs.
You couldn’t help but be impressed.
"It's tidy in here," you noted, your voice still a little groggy.
Clark chuckled softly as he closed your door with a quiet thunk and walked around to the driver’s side. As he slid into the seat beside you, you noticed the wet curls that stuck to his forehead, and his undershirt that was soaked—basically transparent.
Rainwater clung to his skin, but he seemed unfazed, showing no signs of discomfort.
"I try," he said, a shy smile playing on his lips. He brought the edge of his shirt to his glasses, wiping away some droplets from his frames, unintentionally revealing his chiseled stomach in the process.
You stared at him, just for a second too long. His shirt stuck to his chest, his muscles shifting slightly as he adjusted in his seat. He looked like a dream.
You had to force yourself to look somewhere else—anywhere else. So you choose the window, watching as the rain falls relentlessly.
"Geez, it's pouring out there," you muttered more to yourself than to him.
"Tell me about it," he mused, pushing a damp curl out of his face.
A shiver ran down your spine. You weren’t as drenched as Clark, but the chill still got to you. Your clothes were damp, your skin cool, your hands tucked under your arms.
“I have a blanket,” he offered, reaching into the back without hesitation.
He pulled forward a thick flannel throw. You accepted it with a quiet thanks, wrapping it around your shoulders. It smelled like him—woodsy and clean.
You looked over at him again. He was staring out the windshield, watching the rain slide down the glass. The only sound was the soft drumming of water on the roof, which acted as a backdrop to the growing tension in the car.
Then his eyes flicked to yours.
“What?” he asked, voice quiet but curious.
You shrugged, but your lips quirked. “You’re soaked.”
Clark raised a brow. “I’ve had worse.”
You laughed under your breath, pulling the blanket tighter. “I guess nothing gets to Clark Kent," you joked.
Clark’s smile faded—not in a bad way, he wore the same expression that he had earlier on that museum bench. Intense and wanting.
“Except you,” he said. “You get to me.”
The words hit you like a rush of warmth, melting through the chill. Your breath caught in your throat, in that moment, you couldn’t do anything but stare at him.
“Clark…”
He reached across the console, fingertips grazing your cheek, brushing a damp coil behind your ear. His touch lingered.
“I mean it,” he said, lower now. “You… undo me.”
His eyes dropped to your lips and then—back up to you. He leaned in and you followed suit, connecting your lips to his.
The kiss was inevitable. You both had been building up to it all day— the hand holding, the coy smiles, the mini confessions. It was only a matter of time.
The warmth of his lips sent a current through your body. Initially, the kiss was gentle and patient, merely testing the waters.
Then it deepened, fast. His hand slid to the back of your neck, pulling you closer as your mouths moved together with increasing urgency. Making you squirm in your seat.
The blanket slipped from your shoulders.
The console between you was frustrating, intrusive. Clark pulled back for just a second, breath heavy.
“Back seat?” he asked, already pushing his seatbelt off.
You didn’t answer—you were already climbing over, navigating between the front seats with a mix of restlessness and excitement.
He followed, quick, and suddenly you were in the back, half-collapsed against a pile of books and that same flannel blanket.
He pulled you into him, lips crashing into yours again.
One hand was tangled in his damp hair, while the other was gripping the edge of his shirt, pulling it up—off. He let it go without hesitation, tossing it somewhere out of sight.
He brought you on his lap effortlessly, his hand stroking the curls at the nape of your neck.
Both of you kissed like you were starved and desperate. Bodies moved together with the kind of hunger that only comes after too much waiting.
Rain drummed against the truck roof like a heartbeat.
He moved his lips off of yours, peppering kisses down your neck, making you tremble. His hands slid underneath your blouse, gripping your waist.
He removed his lips off of your neck to peer up at you. He wore a fond expression on his face, as he stroked the sides of your waist.
You grew shy under his gaze.
"Why are you looking at me like that?" You inquired, running your hands over his biceps.
"Cause you're mesmerizing, and I enjoy looking at you," he confessed, a dopey grin spreading across his face.
He leaned in closer, lips slightly brushing against your ear. "Especially, when you're like this," he cooed softly. His voice sent a shiver down your spine, and caused an ache in between your thighs.
"And what's that supposed to mean?" You inquired, a mischievous glint in your eyes.
You knew damn well what he meant but you enjoyed the tension of it all.
Clark was a gentleman so he wouldn't out right say that he liked seeing you turned on.
He wouldn't taunt you with the details.
That he could see it in the way your nipples poked through your blouse. That he could feel your warmth pulsating against his thigh. Or that he could smell the arousal pooling from your core.
Instead he pulled you closer, so that you sat directly on his bulge. Big and firm underneath you. His hands caressing your thighs.
"What I mean is that you're worked up because of me. And I take great pride and pleasure in witnessing it," he husked. His tone was laced with smugness.
The cockiness of that statement simultaneously made you chuckle and turned you on even more, "I'm glad you cleared that up."
He chuckled slightly at your comment before his lips found their way to the other side of your neck, nibbling on the delicate flesh there.
The sensation made you writhe in his lap, grinding into him. Clark moaned, moving his hands to the swell of your butt, gently giving it a squeeze. Which in turn made you moan.
It wasn't long before Clark found himself rutting up into you, matching your rhythm, in a desperate attempt to try to create more friction.
As good as it felt you needed more. And Clark could sense it.
He ceased his movements, cupping your face with both hands, directing your gaze on him.
"I wanna taste you, angel. Will you let me?" Clark asked, making your breath hitch.
How the fuck could I say no to that?
Not when he asked you so nicely, looking up at you with those glistening blue eyes like you were the prettiest thing he ever laid eyes on.
Speechless, you nodded.
A wicked smile spread across his face as he kneaded the supple flesh of your thighs.
He leaned back in the seat, "I want you to say it, sweetheart."
"Yes, Clark," you huffed.
"Yes, what," he smirked cockily.
You playfully hit his chest, "Don't make me say it," you spoke sheepishly.
Clark laughed, adjusting his glasses.
"Why not, baby? It's just us here… if it makes you feel better, you can whisper it," he reasoned, saying the last part real low.
He was driving you crazy. You never thought you'd be into something like this— the subtle power dynamic of it all. Though your body was telling you otherwise.
You peered down at him and spoke—quiet but confident, "I want you to taste me, Clark."
He threw his head back in bliss, before shifting you off his lap. He swiftly, cleared off the seat, placing his stack of books on the floor to allow the both of you more space.
He covered the leather seats with the flannel blanket, before guiding you on your back.
He scanned over your body, making a mental note of it.
Clark thought you looked ethereal—soft coils splayed all over the blanket, the curves of your body, the longing in your gaze.
He reached down littering your clavicle with kisses. Traveling down to the swell of your breast. His hands traveled underneath your blouse, his big hands feeling you up. Fondling the soft tissue, running his fingers over your firm nipples, tracing circles.
Then his eyes flickered to your navel, specifically the shiny stud that sat on top of it.
Now how did I miss this? He thought to himself.
His digits slowly traced the skin around the jewelry, making you squirm.
He toyed with it slightly, making his cock twitch in his denim jeans.
Clark shook it off, trying his best to focus on the task at hand.
He trailed kisses, from your navel to where your skirt began. Then he stroked the exposed skin from the slit in your skirt, before pulling up your skirt, exposing your underwear.
He delved in-between your legs and pushed your panties to the side, marveling at your anatomy. Lips agonizingly close to your mound, he whispered, "Such a pretty pussy, you got.
You didn't even have time to react. By the time you could even register the vulgarity of his words, his tongue was inside of you.
Probing at your slit, lapping up your wetness. You were already reeling, panting as he undid you.
Your breaths only got more frantic as he started focusing on your clit. Using his wet muscle to draw circles and deliver sloppy licks to your nub.
You couldn't handle it, shock waves coursed through you.
Clark could sense your thighs getting ready to close. Being proactive he gripped your trembling limbs, keeping them apart, careful not to grip too tight.
He looked up at you, glasses foggy. "Not done yet, sweetheart. Tug on my hair if you have to," he spoke briefly before diving back in.
You whined at the low drawl of his voice. You took his advice and carded your fingers through his soft curls.
He kept repeating the same movements—consistent but with increased pressure, it made your toes curl. The sight and the sounds of him drinking from you is really what did it though.
His eyes leered towards you every so often, studying you. Half the time your eyes were closed shut reveling in the pleasure. The other half, your eyes met each other gaze, making him grin slightly.
He made the most lewd noises. Moaning into your cunt, the vibrations reverberating all through your body. Smacking— like he was eating his first meal in weeks.
"Clark, you feel so good… I'm gonna cum," you moaned.
That was music to his ears.
"Cum on my tongue, give it to me, baby," he coaxed.
He went right back to work.
He could feel you convulsing on his tongue. He didn't stop his movements nor did he switch them up. He continued what he was doing, repeating it until he was sure you were seeing stars.
Your eyes rolled back, hips bucked up, and your hands pushed Clark's head further into you, as you rode the final waves of your orgasm.
Clark gave you a few final licks to your swollen cunt, happily cleaning up the aftermath of your climax.
Carefully he pulled your panties back to their original spot, and readjusted your skirt and blouse.
The rain started to lighten up.
He licked his lips, still a bit drunk off you.
He helped you up, "How was it for you?"
You didn't answer, you just enveloped him in a hug, clutching on to him for dear life—like he'd evaporate if you didn't.
"I really enjoyed myself Clark," you spoke in the crook of his neck, voice cracking a little. Hot tears spilled down your face, before you could stop them. The weight of many emotions— some sweet, some sharp— sat heavy in your chest.
Clark drew back from the hug instinctively, sensing something was off. His heart clinched at the sight of you in tears.
"Hey—" his voice wavered, laced with panic. "Tell me what I did wrong, please."
You shook your head quickly, wiping your tears away. "No, no, it's not you, you were amazing, really. I couldn't have asked for a better experience today or a better person to do this with."
Relief flickered across his face, but worry was still etched in his brow. His hand settled on your knee grounding you.
"Then what's the matter?"
You let out a dry laugh, wiping your tears.
"You must think I'm such a crybaby. This is like the second time you had to console me in the last twenty-four hours… I'm sorry."
"You know I don't think that. Never apologize for your emotions, not to me, or to anybody." You nodded, letting his advice seep in.
"Talk to me," he pleaded, voice gentle.
You paused wanting to find the right words.
"I like you a lot, Clark."
His lips quipped into the faintest smile. "I do too—I mean I really like you too," he corrected himself, and you could practically feel the little internal cringe behind his eyes.
A laugh bubbled up in you despite the tension, but it quickly faded. “It’s just that… I’ve noticed this pattern in my dating life. Whenever I move too fast with someone, it usually falls apart."
"‘Too fast’ as in… intimacy?” he asked carefully, testing the word like it was fragile glass.
You nodded, your throat tightening.
“And I don’t want to jinx anything,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper.
“I just—this is the fastest I’ve ever moved. We only met yesterday, and already it feels like we’ve been swept into something bigger than me, bigger than us. I-I'm scared".
He looked at you, gaze heavy. "Do you regret it, what we did just now? Anything about our entire day together?"
"No, not at all."
His shoulders loosened at your response, the tension in him softening.
He enveloped you in a hug, his chin resting on your bed of curls as you curled into his chest.
"I understand, we don't have to force anything—today felt natural. And I— I want to continue that… I want to be with you in whatever way you allow me. Whatever pace you wanna go at, I'll gladly follow your lead."
Your heart swelled at his words. You undid yourself from his embrace to look up at him, eyes searching his face for any signs of insincerity— you couldn't find any.
Your lips parted, thinking of a response, but he wasn't finished
He leaned forward slightly with a steady gaze, his voice filled with a quiet conviction.
"I don't do flings and I don't know who you dealt with in the past, or how they treated you—but I need you to know I have every intention of building on this. With you. I wouldn't be here with you right now if I didn't."
The weight of his words lingered in the space between you, warm and heavy, like a promise.
That reassurance meant more to you than he'd ever know.
thank you sm for reading, as always i would love to hear your thoughts. have a fabulous day/night. xoxo