the lighting is quite shit so I decided to brighten it a bit... and....
OMG THAT'S STEVE. BRO. OH MY GOD, THAT'S STEVE. THAT'S SOME LONG FUCKING HAIR THAT STEVE HAS. OH MY GOD, THAT'S STEVE ROGERS. STANDING IN FRONT OF SAM AND BUCKY. AFTER HE LEFT THEM. AFTER HE LEFT BUCKY. OH MY GOD.
summary: what was supposed to be a gentle evening exposes Clark’s deepest fear: that someone else could give you the life he can’t
warnings: 18+ smut, graphic depictions of sex, f oral receiving, p in v, porn with plot, needy! clark, clark is sad and just wants to make you feel good :(, insecurities, anxiety?
It wasn’t often that Clark made it home before you.
Most nights, you beat him there by hours, the space already warm. Your shoes by the door, the soft light from the kitchen, the sound of you moving around in clothes far more comfortable than those you’d worn to work.
He knew the routine by heart. You’d change the second you got in, slipping out of your work things and into something soft—fluffy socks, an old robe if it was cold, or, his personal weakness, one of his shirts that you found in the back of your wardrobe.
If he was being honest with himself, he’d started leaving them behind on purpose, just for the chance of coming home and finding you wrapped up in something that still smelled faintly like him.
Worth it, he could always buy more shirts.
Worth it every single time.
It wasn’t that he didn’t want to get home sooner. God, he did. Most days he was already thinking about you before he’d even finished his first coffee at the Planet. Wondering if you were thinking the same thing. Wondering what you were doing, if you’d eaten, if you’d remembered to take your coat when it got cold.
But articles ran long, deadlines moved, and sometimes the sound of something breaking three streets away would reach him through the windows before he even realised he was listening for it.
He hated that the world always seemed to need him most when you were waiting so patiently for him. Hated it even more because you never made him feel bad about it.
But the moment he finally walked through the door always made it worth it.
The hum of your voice from the kitchen, something soft playing through your speakers.
You said you liked to cook for him.
He’d offered a hundred times to pick something up on the way, to make up for his punctuality. To make it easier, faster, less work after your own long day, but you always waved him off like the suggestion was ridiculous.
You said it relaxed you. Said you liked knowing he was eating something you made.
Said it like it was the most normal thing in the world to take care of him like that.
He never quite knew what to do with all your kindness. The small things still caught him off guard, made the warmth creep up the back of his neck before he could stop it.
He wasn’t sure he’d ever stop feeling that way.
He wasn’t sure he wanted to.
Tonight, though, the flat was quiet when he opened the door.
Clark let himself in with the spare key you’d pressed into his hand months ago. The lock clicked softly behind him, and he closed the door gently.
It felt strange, walking into the empty space first. Everything looked the same.
Your books stacked unevenly on the shelf, the plants you swore you remembered to water—even the ones he secretly helped along when you forgot. Your mug from that morning in the sink.
All the usual things. All the proof that this was your place.
And still, without you in it, the space felt incomplete.
If this was how it felt when he got home first, he suddenly wished he’d made it home sooner a lot more often.
He shrugged off his suit jacket and folded it neatly over the back of the chair. You’d texted him a few hours earlier, telling him you were running late, promising you’d make it up to him when you got home.
He’d smiled at the message when he read it. You really didn’t have to make anything up to him. You never did. Just coming home was enough.
If anything, this just meant he had time to do something for you for a change.
Clark made his way over to the fridge, pulling the door open and leaning down slightly as he looked through the shelves, taking stock the way he’d seen you do a hundred times before.
He was careful about it; he didn’t want to use the wrong thing, didn’t want to mess up whatever plan you might’ve had for the week.
He reached for the container of leftovers first, then paused, putting it back exactly where he found it.
Absolutely not.
You’d probably pack that for lunch tomorrow, and he liked the idea of you walking in to the smell of something cooking a lot more than the sound of a microwave.
He shifted things around instead, scanning the drawers until he spotted what he was looking for—a few stray cloves of garlic tucked down at the back of the vegetable drawer, half a bunch of basil wrapped in a paper towel, a lone chilli pepper rolling slightly when he moved the onions.
That would work. That would work just fine.
You always said the simple ones were your favourite anyway.
He straightened up, already thinking it through. There’d be tomatoes in the cupboard. Pasta too, somewhere on the second shelf, the one you kept meaning to organise but never quite got around to.
Perfect. Simple.
Something warm for you to come home to.
And he knew he could make a darn good pasta.
It was one of the first things his ma had ever taught him, standing beside her in the kitchen back home, listening to her explain that good food didn’t have to be complicated, just made with care. He could still hear her voice sometimes when he cooked, telling him to taste as he went, to trust himself, and to always make enough for everyone at the table.
He liked to think she’d smile if she could see him now, standing in a kitchen that wasn’t hers, cooking for someone who had somehow become just as much home. He was pretty sure she’d tell him he’d done well for himself. Say she was proud he had someone at his table worth making dinner for.
He liked to think she’d say he picked right.
That he’d found someone good.
Someone she’d love too.
He set the garlic down on the counter and reached for the chopping board, rolling his sleeves up to his elbows without thinking. His eyes flicked to the clock on the wall to his left.
Plenty of time.
He let himself smile a little, picking up the knife. Might as well give you something good to come home to.
You always did the same for him.
Clark was stirring the sauce when he heard the front door open. The tomatoes had burst and cooked down just right, the garlic mellow, the basil already starting to sweeten the air. Another five minutes, maybe less, and it would be perfect.
“Clark?” You call out, tired. Soft, but still tired. “You in here?”
Right on time.
“In the kitchen!” he called back, setting the spoon down and stepping away from the stove. He wiped his hands on the dish towel slung over his shoulder, already turning toward the doorway before you even appeared.
He could hear you coming closer, the shuffle of your steps, the soft thud of your bag hitting the chair in the other room.
Your head peeked around the doorframe, and the second he saw the look on your face—apologetic, tired, a little sheepish, a small smile you wore when you thought you’d disappointed him—his chest tightened.
“Sorry I’m late,” you said, stepping into the kitchen.
He shook his head immediately, already moving toward you without thinking about it; the distance between you needed fixing as fast as possible.
“Hey, no—don’t do that,” he said with a soft smile. One hand coming up automatically to rest on your arms when you got close enough.
You don’t have to apologise to him. Not for anything out of your control.
You gave him that look again, like you still weren’t convinced.
“I said I’d be back earlier,” you murmured.
He let out a breath through his nose, shaking his head as he looked down at you, his thumb brushing absent-mindedly against your sleeve.
“Hey,” he said again, waiting until you actually looked up at him. “It’s okay. Really. You’re here now. That’s all I wanted.”
You nodded, then glanced past him toward the stove, nose twitching slightly as the smell hit you, and your eyes widened just a little.
“…Did you cook?”
He felt the back of his neck warm instantly, that bashful heat creeping up before he could stop it. He rubbed the side of his jaw with his thumb.
“Well… yeah,” he admitted. “You said you were gonna be late. Figured I could manage dinner for once.”
It’s the least he could do.
You stepped past him toward the stove before he could say anything else, leaning over the pot with a small sigh, breathing in the scent like it was the best thing you’d smelled all day.
“That smells amazing,” you groaned, glancing back at him over your shoulder with a grin.
He huffed out a quiet laugh.
“It’s pasta,” he shrugged humbly. “Kinda hard to mess up.”
You turned, still smiling, and before he could stop himself, he was already moving closer, drawn in by your grateful expression. The domesticity of the moment.
He needed to cook more often.
He closed the distance in two easy steps, one hand finding your waist on instinct, the other brushing down your arm as he leaned in and pressed his lips to yours in a familiar kiss.
You let out a sigh against his mouth, warm and tired and relieved, and it went straight through him.
It was ridiculous, the way one small sound from you could undo him like that.
Gosh, he missed you today.
He smiled against your mouth, one arm tightening around your waist as he lifted you, setting you up on the counter beside the stove as he’d done it a hundred times before.
“Careful,” he murmured, still smiling against your lips, one hand lingering a bit longer than it needed to, just to make sure you were steady.
Not that you ever weren’t. He just liked the excuse.
You let out a small giggle, bumping your knee lightly against his side.
“You’re in a good mood.”
How couldn’t he be?
He shrugged, glancing back at the pot before turning the heat down another notch.
“Got home early,” he said with a shrug. “Felt like my turn to do something for you.”
You gazed at him, smiling at his words.
“So you made dinner for me?”
He rubbed the back of his neck, proud but slightly embarrassed at the acknowledgement of his hard work.
He’d had strangers thank him before, whole crowds even, but nothing ever made him feel this awkwardly pleased the way you did when you looked at him like that.
“Well… yeah. Didn’t seem fair you always do it.”
“You’re trying to spoil me.”
He snorted softly under his breath.
“Pretty sure that’s my job.”
His favourite job.
You laughed at that, and he ducked his head again, turning and stirring the sauce just to give himself something to focus on.
“So,” he added, “What about you, huh? What’d you get up to today?”
You swung your feet lightly against the cabinet, completely relaxed.
Good.
“Nothing exciting,” you said. “Work, mostly. Had lunch with one of the new guys though.”
Clark’s hand paused for just a second.
“Yeah?” he said, keeping his voice easy. “New guy?”
You nodded.
“Yeah, Daniel. He started a few weeks ago. We ended up grabbing lunch together after a meeting.”
Daniel.
The name settling somewhere in the back of his mind, whether he wanted it to or not.
“…Daniel?” he repeated, voice slightly higher. He glanced over his shoulder at you, trying very hard to sound like he was just making conversation.
You tilted your head, thinking.
“I think I mentioned him before? Maybe?”
Your brows pulled together as you tried to remember, then you shrugged.
“We’re the only ones around the same age in the department,” you said with a small chuckle. “Kind of felt natural we got paired up. We’ve been grabbing lunch together the last few days.”
The spoon dragged a little slower through the sauce.
Last few days.
Did you mention that before?
“Oh yeah?” he said, keeping his tone light.
“Yeah,” you went on, still talking easily. “You’d like him, actually. He’s kind of similar to you.”
He glanced back at you.
“…Similar how?”
You smiled, completely genuine.
“He’s just… nice. You know? Always the one who remembers people’s birthdays, makes sure everyone’s got what they need. Stayed late the other night to help one of the interns finish something.”
Clark looked back at the pot, the corner of his mouth twitching faintly, though it didn’t quite make it into a smile.
“Sounds like a real hero,” he said quietly.
You laughed, missing the way his shoulders had gone just a little stiff.
“No, he’s just… thoughtful,” you said. “He actually hung around after work the other night too, when you got held up. I didn’t even realise how late it was until we were the only ones left in the office.”
The other night.
The night he’d been halfway across the city instead of walking through the door with you.
He swallowed, eyes fixed on dinner, which now felt slightly inadequate as the guilt began to gnaw at him.
“…That so,” he said, voice steady, even if his chest felt a little tighter.
You nodded, still oblivious.
“Yeah, he was waiting on some notes from his boss, I was finishing up my draft, so we just… talked for a bit. He’s easy to talk to.”
Easy to talk to.
Clark let out a quiet hum, forcing himself to place the spoon down before he bent the handle clean in half.
Of course he was.
Normal hours. Normal life.
No disappearing mid-sentence because someone somewhere needed saving.
“Sounds like you two are getting along.”
“Yeah,” you said, smiling. “He’s been having a bit of a rough time, though.”
He glanced back at you again.
“What happened?”
You frowned slightly.
“His girlfriend broke up with him a couple weeks ago. Knocked his confidence a bit, I think.”
His expression softened automatically. He couldn’t help it.
“Poor guy,” he murmured.
“I know,” you agreed. “I don’t know all the details, but he seemed really upset about it. We ended up talking about it for ages the other day. He just needed someone to listen, I think.”
Clark nodded slowly. Of course you listened, and that was the thing.
You made people feel better just by being there.
Made him feel better just by being there.
He reached across to turn the stove on the lowest setting before facing you once more, slotting himself between your knees. His free hand reached out without him thinking, settling lightly against your thigh where you sat on the counter, thumb brushing once.
“That’s good, honey,” he smiles down at you. “I’m glad you’re not stuck over there on your own.”
Without him.
The words came out quieter than he meant. His tone was small and honest, slipping out before he could stop it.
You didn’t seem to notice anything in his voice, just shuffled a little.
“Yeah. He’s easy to be around,” you said. “And he’s opposite me, you know? Same mornings. We end up hanging out without really planning to.”
He nodded slowly.
Same routine. Same life.
Didn’t have to disappear halfway through dinner. Didn’t have to text apologies from five blocks away. Didn’t have to leave you sitting alone at a table because someone somewhere needed him.
You kept talking.
“He stayed late the other night too. When you got held up? We were the last ones in the office. He didn’t want me walking back to the station on my own.”
It shouldn’t have bothered him.
Honestly, he was glad someone stayed with you. It was a kind gesture by a coworker that stopped you from being alone that late.
He was grateful, but there was something else there too.
His mind immediately pictured you sitting in that office after hours, laughing at something some other guy said, walking out together side by side…
“Clark?” you said, tilting your head a little.
Your voice gently shook him back into the room, blue eyes catching yours as they focused. He didn’t answer right away. Just stood there for a moment, hands resting on your legs, like he was trying to settle his stomach that wouldn’t quite sit still.
He knew it was stupid.
You hadn’t done anything wrong. You were just talking about your day. But all he could think about was how easy it sounded. How much of your time happened in places he couldn’t always be.
He swallowed, glancing down at the counter while his mind kept circling the same thought.
He couldn’t always be there when you stayed late. Couldn’t always walk you home, couldn’t always make dinner, couldn’t always give you the kind of normal time other people seemed to have without even trying.
His thoughts drifted for a moment.
Dinner suddenly felt almost juvenile compared to what he really wanted to do for you. Sweet, sure—but not enough. Not when you looked this tired.
There had to be something more. Something only he could give you.
He ran through the list in his head without thinking; every little thing he knew made you smile, until one idea settled in and stayed.
Oh.
Oh.
Yeah. That.
That he knew how to do.
He knew how to make you come undone after a long day without you even realising that was what you needed.
Knew the exact places to touch that made the tension leave your shoulders, the way your breath caught when his hands moved across your bare skin, the way you melted into him like your body already trusted him to take care of the rest.
He knew the sounds you made when he took his time.
Knew how your fingers curled into the sheets when he got it right.
Knew how to make you forget about work, about long days, about anyone else who’d had your attention before you walked through the door.
It’s not much, but it would work for now.
“You know,” he said quietly, voice low, a little rougher than before,
“I figure I owe you a better evening than just pasta.”
You blinked at him, caught off guard by the look on his face more than the words. He could hear your pulse quicken at his insinuation.
“Clark, we don’t have to—”
He was already moving before you finished the sentence.
He reached past you without breaking eye contact, turning the stove fully off, the soft click of the burner cutting through the quiet kitchen. He stepped in close again, coming to stand between your knees where you sat on the counter, his hands settling lightly on either side of you, not touching yet.
His blue eyes lifted to yours, soft and searching, asking without saying a word.
You looked tired.
He could see it now that he was close enough. The faint tension in your brow, the way your shoulders hadn’t fully relaxed since you walked in.
That he could fix.
His hand came up slowly, giving you plenty of time to pull away if you wanted to, his fingers brushing along your cheek, thumb tracing just under your eye like he could smooth the tiredness away if he was careful enough.
You let out a breathy sound at the touch, the sound soft and surprised, and the corner of his mouth lifted, the tension in his chest loosening just from hearing it.
There you were.
He leaned in then, slow, giving you time to meet him halfway, his lips finding yours in a soft kiss.
You melted into him almost immediately, arms coming up around his shoulders, and that was all it took for his hand to slide to your waist, pulling you a little closer on the counter without thinking about it.
He deepened the kiss carefully, listening more than leading; he felt your breath change, your fingers tightening slightly at the back of his shirt. He let his mouth drift from your lips to your cheek, then lower, pressing slow kisses along the side of your jaw, down to your neck, unhurried, patient, like he had nowhere else to be for once.
Your breath hitched under his mouth, just barely.
Gotcha.
His eyes closed for a second, forehead brushing your temple as he let out a sigh, one hand sliding around your back, his thumb moving in slow circles like he was trying to work the tension out of you one touch at a time.
“C’mon, sweetheart…” he murmured softly against your skin, almost pleading. “Dinner’s done… missed you all day…”
His lips brushed your neck again, slower this time, listening for every little change in your breathing.
“Can’t I make you feel good for a while?”
Please.
He pulled back to look at you, hands still warm at your sides, waiting.
Your cheeks were flushed now, eyes a little softer at the edges, heartbeat spiking slightly.
He didn’t move. Didn’t touch you again. Just waited until you gave him the permission he was almost desperate for.
“Yes,” you sighed with a nod, arms sliding around his shoulders again as you leaned into him. “Please…” you murmured against his lips.
Finally.
His whole face softened and he let out a sigh that almost sounded like a laugh before his arms wrapped around you properly.
“Okay,” he whispered, more to himself than to you.
He lifted you easily from the counter, holding you close against his chest, arms under your legs, careful even now.
Strong arms stayed steady beneath your thighs as he carried you down the short hallway, your legs tightening around his waist as you went, drawing him closer.
The bedroom door was already half-open; he nudged it wider with his shoulder and didn’t bother with the light switch. The city glow filtering through the curtains was enough—soft gold and silver across your skin.
The way he liked you best.
He lay you down in the middle of the bed like you were something delicate, straightening just long enough to pull his own shirt over his head in one smooth motion.
The fabric hit the floor. His eyes never left yours. You looked up at him with soft, half-lidded gaze, and that was all it took to undo him.
Gosh, how did he get so lucky?
He crawled over you slowly, caging you in with his forearms. One large hand brushed your hair back from your forehead tenderly.
“You gonna let me take care of you?” he murmured, voice low. Asking once again for your consent.
You nodded eagerly, already pawing at his bare shoulders to have his lips meet your own again. He obliged immediately, kissing you slow and deep, revelling in the way you gave yourself to him without hesitation.
When he pulled back, his thumb traced along your bottom lip.
“So pretty,” he whispered, the words impossibly softer than the touch.
You huffed out, slightly flustered by the praise. Your fingers tightened against his wrist as you looked up at him, eyes heavy.
“Please.” You asked from under him, doe eyes almost pleading for him to touch you more.
Oh, sweetheart.
Who was he not oblige such a sweet request?
His fingers were careful as they moved to your shirt, unfastening each button one at a time, slow enough that you could feel the warmth of his hands long before the fabric gave way. Goosebumps followed every small movement, your skin reacting to the light brush of his knuckles as much as the cool air hit your exposed flesh.
You were always so receptive to him, always so open. Taking everything he offered you and more. It made his mind dizzy.
Not that he thought he deserved it.
He shoved the thought to the back of his mind as he continued undressing you, not allowing your pleasure to be sidetracked by his own insecurities.
Tonight, he wanted you to forget everything else.
He pushed the shirt from your shoulders with such softness. One hand slid behind your back, fingers finding your bra clasp without looking. His hands moved lower next, sliding the rest of your clothes away until nothing was left but warm skin under his palms.
He leaned in again, lips brushing over the newly bared areas, kissing along your collarbone, your shoulder, the centre of your chest, taking his time with each touch like he was memorising you all over again.
“Beautiful.” He breathed against your neck as your face heated.
It really was the only way to describe you—soft and pliant, bare and so needy for him already.
He was going to give you everything tonight. Take his time until the only thing left in that sweet head of yours was him.
It felt like he owed you more than that anyway.
His hands settled on your thighs, spreading them gently.
“Need to taste you first, honey,” though it sounds more like a plea. “Just lie back for me, can you do that?”
Let him make you feel good.
Let him make it up to you.
You nodded eagerly, cheeks already warm, no convincing needed.
He lowered himself between your legs, pressing a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the inside of your thigh.
“Missed taking care of you like this,” he said, mainly to himself, fingers already spreading you open before any words could escape you.
He dipped his head down, mouth closing over your clit, tongue lapping in the rhythm he knew drove you wild.
A small whine pulled from your chest and he hummed in approval, the sound vibrating against your skin. One broad hand stayed splayed across your lower stomach, holding you down so you couldn’t chase his mouth even if you tried.
He needed you just like this, exactly where he could take care of you properly.
As he kept going, a gentle cry burst out of your mouth, your hands coming down to tangle in his hair, pulling him without thinking. He could only groan as he felt you tug him closer.
“Easy, sweetheart,” he soothed, pressing his lips against your thigh. “I’m not going anywhere.”
He truly wasn’t.
He was in heaven between your thighs. Your warmth, the softness of your skin as he pulled more sounds from you. The way you tensed, squeezing his head as he sucked harder.
He was taking his time, savouring you, stroking his tongue across every fold, every nerve ending, until he was sure you’d be seeing stars.
He owed you that.
Your moans got longer, the feeling of your body unwinding around him, letting him know that he was still good at this. Letting him know that it was only him who would make you come undone like this.
He pressed two fingers inside of you, humming in appreciation as you cried out.
“Ah, Clark—“
He curled his fingers, feeling your walls begin to tighten, throbbing as your sounds grew more desperate, more beautiful.
He swore his name had never sounded so sweet.
“That’s it, angel, almost there.”
Your back arched; he pressed you back down with that hand on your stomach, keeping you right where he wanted you.
Let go for him.
When you came, it was with a sound that made his entire body tingle. He stayed between your legs the whole time, licking you through every aftershock until you were whimpering beneath him.
Always the prettiest sight he could ask for.
When your shaking subsided, he kissed his way back up your body, careful not to overwhelm you just yet. He pressed his forehead to yours while you caught your breath.
He saw the blissed-out look in your eyes, the hazy smile, the sheepish look as you giggled at him, like he had just given you the world, and he couldn’t help but smile too.
Your hands shifted to the top of his slacks, giving them a small playful tug as you met his blue eyes again.
“Not fair,” you pouted. “Wanna see you too.”
He let out a small chuckle, but he was elated that you wanted more. Wanted more of him.
Always so eager.
“Yeah?” He asks as his nose nudges against your cheek, lips brushing your flushed skin. He smiles when he sees you nod, your face almost desperate.
He leans back to unbuckle his belt, trousers following quickly after as he pulls them down his hips. He can feel your eyes on him as he undresses, his muscles twisting in the dim light under your gaze.
He watches the way your eyes glaze over, your breath getting stuck in the back of your throat, the way your thighs rub together at the sight of him bare before you.
“You’re so handsome, Clark.”
The words stop him in his tracks.
Spilling from your mouth without thought. Like it was the simplest truth. It stuttered his movements as he could feel the heat bloom across his face.
The fact that you still say these things after all this time never fails to make the world tilt ever so slightly. It nearly knocks him off balance.
Focus.
He needs to make you feel good tonight, needs to make you feel good every night.
If making you come over and over was what it took to keep that soft look in your eyes, to keep you reaching for him instead of anyone else, he’d do it as many times as it took.
Gladly.
Every single night.
“Baby…” he breathes, pushing his hair back off his forehead. “You keep talking like that, I’m not gonna last five seconds.”
You glance up at him, a teasing glint in your eye.
“Then I guess I’d better keep talking, huh?”
You’ll be the death of him.
“Sweetheart…” he groans softly. “I’m hanging on by a thread here.”
You take mercy on him and bite your lip as he drops the last of his clothes aside and begins to crawl back over you, allowing his warm, solid body to wrap around you once more.
He breathes in deeply against the side of your neck, his breath tickling as he leaves soft, open-mouth kisses against your jaw.
The way he is positioned over you, caging you in, not allowing friction in the one place where you really want him.
“Please—“ you wrap your legs around his hips, trying so hard to get him closer. “Clark—fuck—I need more.”
“Language, baby,” he coos, pressing his lips once again on your flushed skin. “I got you, alright? Need you to relax for me.”
You nod, giving him a gentle peck as your hands slide up his bare back. His muscles flex under your palms, shivering like it’s the first time.
He was already hard—aching, really—his cock heavy and flushed against your thigh. He’d barely been paying attention to himself tonight.
No—tonight was about you.
Reaching down between you, he guides himself to your entrance slowly, watching your reaction. The blunt head of him nudges against your slick folds.
So wet, so ready for him.
He pauses there, eyes locked on yours.
“Tell me if it’s too much,” he whispers against your lips. “I’ll stop, alright? just say the word.”
Just say, and he’ll stop.
“I need you, Clark,” you plead, “Please, I need you so bad.”
Every ounce of self-control he had went into holding himself together at the sound of your voice, his sweet girl begging him to make her feel good.
He feels you fluttering around his tip, walls trying to suck him in. His chest rumbles as he slowly pushes forward, rolling his hips gently so he fits with little resistance.
“God—“ you whine as your head hits the pillow behind you, nails digging into his shoulders.
“I know, baby—“ he soothes, almost fully inside you. “I know—”
He groans into your collarbone as he bottoms out, allowing himself to look between your bodies. Your arousal is coating the bottom of his shaft. It makes him nearly burst right then.
“So good for me, angel, so good—“
His praise has you clenching as he thrusts into you once more, mewling gently under him.
It begins lazily, savouring every twitch of your body. Long, deep strokes that drag against every sensitive spot inside you, his hips rolling again and again as his breaths get heavier.
Every breath that caught, every time your hands tightened around his shoulders, pulled his focus right back to you, even when his mind kept trying to wander somewhere it shouldn’t.
Gosh, he’d almost forgotten how you looked falling apart like this.
Soft under him, lips parted, trusting him completely.
How long had it been since he pleasured you like this? A week? Two?
Far too long.
His jaw tightened slightly as his hips faltered for half a second before he forced himself back.
“Feel good, honey?” he murmured against your temple, “Tell me I’m doing it right.”
He had to be.
He had to make this good for you.
He shifted his angle just slightly, the way he knew made your breath stutter, pressing his lips to your temple as he heard your sweet voice.
“So good—“ you breathe out. “Always feel so good.”
He really hopes so.
Superman could keep the whole city safe, sure. That was the easy part.
But this? This was the part that really mattered.
It was up to Clark to take care of you. Up to him to make sure you felt wanted, felt seen, felt good.
“Don’t get enough of you,” he admits, voice cracking slightly. “Not nearly enough—gosh—“
You moaned under him again, letting him know he was hitting your sweet spot when you arched up into him, chest brushing against his own.
Yes, just like that.
He needed to see this, to know that he could still do this for you.
“You’re mine, aren’t you?” he whimpers as he can feel you getting closer. “Say it—please angel—gotta hear you say it.”
Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, both of pleasure and pure determination. The kind that made his vision blur just enough that he had to blink them away to focus.
He couldn’t be done with you yet.
He kept moving, steady and deep, listening to every single sound you made. When your nails scraped lightly down his back, he slowed even more, letting you feel every thick inch.
It was then that you looked up at him, concerned eyes completely filled with love.
“Clark… I love you.” You say slowly as you cup his face. “You don’t even have to ask.”
He lets out a choked sound as his movements still, breath catching in his throat.
His forehead drops against yours, eyes squeezing shut. One of his hands comes up to cover yours where it rests on his cheek, pressing into your palm.
“Say it again,” he asks softly. Needing to hear it once more.
There is no hesitation in your reply.
“I love you, Clark,” you say as you squeeze his hand gently. “I’m always yours.”
A soft moan escapes his throat as your words wash over him, the sweetness of your tone spurring him on.
He pulls back ever so slightly, searching your face for any sign of dishonesty. He finds none.
“I love you too,” he says, though his voice sounds sadder than he means. “Just… don’t stop saying that, please?”
He doesn’t give you time to question his statement before his lips are back on yours, hips rolling once again in steady movements, reassured somewhat by your gentle words.
The sweetness starts to fray at the edges as the pleasure builds. His thrusts stay deep but grow a fraction harder, a little more urgent, like the need to prove himself is winding tighter in his chest.
His dark curls begin to drift onto his forehead. His kisses are messier now, almost desperate, tongue sliding against yours as his hips snap forward with a little more force.
He could feel you getting close again, the way you tightened around him, the way your thighs started to tremble. He didn’t speed up. He just kept that same devastating rhythm, grinding deep on every stroke, one hand sliding between your bodies to circle your clit with two fingers.
“Come on, baby,” he coaxed, voice soft and pleading. “Let go for me, I got you—please—.”
“Clark—” It came out broken, desperate, and he felt it like a punch to the chest.
He groaned, hips stuttering for the first time, but he caught himself immediately, forcing the pace back to that slow, worshipful roll.
“Again,” he begs through gritted teeth.
Say his name again.
Tell him it’s only him.
“Clark… oh god, Clark—”
Your orgasm hit you like a wave—long and rolling and endless. He felt every pulse, every flutter, and he kept moving through it, fucking you gently through every aftershock, drawing it out until you were gasping and shaking beneath him.
Only then did he let himself chase his own release, but even that was careful. He buried his face in your neck, lips pressed to your pulse point, and came with a quiet, shattered groan of your name, hips pressing deep and still as he filled you.
For a long moment, the only sound in the room was your shared breathing, slow and heavy. Clark stayed buried inside you, arms lifting slightly as he held himself up so he wouldn’t crush you.
His chest rose and fell against yours, warm skin caught the faint city light filtering through the curtains. Dark curls messy, and when he finally lifted his head, his blue eyes were soft and a little glassy, still hazy with pleasure and something deeper.
You looked completely spent beneath him, hair a mess against the pillow, lips still parted from catching your breath.
He gently eased out of you, mindful of how sensitive you were. Then he shifted his weight, rolling to the side and lifting himself off you completely so you could breathe easier.
Immediately, he leaned back in, peppering the softest kisses all over your face—your forehead, your closed eyelids, the tip of your nose, each cheek, and finally your lips.
“You okay?” he murmured, voice still rough. “Did I—” he hesitated. “Did I do alright?”
You let out a tired laugh, reaching up to push his hair back.
“Clark, you know you did.”
His smile didn’t quite settle.
“Yeah?” he asked quietly, like he needed to hear it again. “You sure?”
You nodded, thumb brushing along his cheek.
“I promise.”
He held your gaze for a second longer, searching your face, checking for any cracks. When he didn’t find any, he leaned down to kiss you once more, softer this time.
“I’m gonna grab a towel,” he murmured against your lips, already starting to shift off the bed.
You let him move for half a second before your hand caught his wrist. fingers wrapping around it gently but firmly.
“Hey,” you said softly.
He paused immediately, turning back to you.
His kind eyes wide and vulnerable as they met yours, his lips slightly swollen from kissing you, and there was a faint pink still high on his cheeks.
“Yes?” he asked, voice attentive. Always ready to give you whatever you needed.
You sat up a little, the sheet shifting, and reached for him again, fingers brushing along his jaw.
“Clark…” you say as you hold his gaze. “Something’s on your mind, isn’t it?”
Darn it. He should have hidden it better.
“Huh?” he says quickly, like he’s been caught off guard. “Nah—no, nothing’s wrong, baby. Honest.”
He tries to smile, tries to make it sound easy, but he can already see the way your brow pulls together, the way you tilt your head just slightly.
“You sure?” you press gently. “I mean… you seemed… I don’t know. Different?”
Different.
He lets out a small huff, rubbing the back of his neck as he looks away.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he mutters, voice a little strained despite himself. “Was it… was it not good for you?”
He couldn’t stop himself from asking.
He could go again, if you needed him to. Could try harder, slower, whatever you wanted.
Do it better this time.
If you asked him to stay between your legs all night, making you forget, he would. Gladly.
“It was,” you say softly, before glancing down. “I just… I don’t know.”
He swallows, jaw tightening for a second.
He didn’t want this to turn into that kind of night.
Didn’t want you worrying about him or feeling like you had to fix something. He just wanted to give you a good evening. He wanted tonight to be special.
Or at least… as special as he could manage on short notice.
“I just missed you,” he says finally, forcing a small smile as he leans in and presses a gentle kiss to your cheek.
He bends to grab his clothes from the floor, shaking them out before pulling his briefs back on, then his shirt, movements a little quicker than usual, keeping that little bit busy to ignore any further questions.
“Besides, it’s getting late,” he adds with a shrug, dragging the shirt over his head, voice casual. “Figured I should probably—”
“You’re leaving?”
Your voice is quiet.
Oh, sweetheart, no.
It makes him freeze instantly, one arm still half through the sleeve. He turns around so fast he nearly trips over his own foot.
“No—I—” he blurts, eyes wide. “I’m not. I’m not leaving.”
He wouldn’t do that to you immediately after something like this. He didn’t think he could bear it.
You give him a small smile, already reaching over to the bedside drawer, pulling out one of his oversized t-shirts and slipping it over your head.
“It’s okay if you are,” you say gently, like you don’t want him to feel bad about it. “If you heard something or…”
The only thing he can hear is the tone of your voice. That tiny bit of disappointment you’re trying to hide. It hits him right in the chest.
“No, hey—no,” he says quickly, stepping closer, hands half-raised, not knowing whether to touch you or not. “That’s not what I meant. I wasn’t saying I had to go. I just—”
He stops and exhales hard, running a hand through his hair, cursing the words that don’t come out right.
“I meant it’s late,” he says, softer now. “Like… I should probably serve dinner. Or something. I mean, we haven’t eaten yet, so…”
You blink at him.
“Oh.”
He gives a sheepish shrug, suddenly feeling very big and very unsure, standing there before he sits down on the bed.
“I mean, it’s the least I can do.”
As the words leave him, your expression softens, understanding gracing your features. Everything suddenly clicked into place, understanding before he even said anything.
You stay silent as you look at him, vulnerable atop the mattress. He knows what that silence means, that you want him to say more. That you’re waiting for him to find the right words and talk to you, rather than pushing his own feelings down when they’re inconvenient.
You always make him talk more than he planned to.
He looks down at the floor, then back at you, then away again.
“I just—” he starts, then stops, shaking his head.
“It’s alright, we can—”
“No, it’s just—,” he tries again, a little too quickly. “I just… I don’t know.”
You don’t say anything.
For someone who writes for a living, he sure does struggle with finding the right words when you’re around.
You sit there, watching him, patient as ever, hands folded in your lap, waiting for him to get the rest out.
He lets out a quiet breath through his nose.
There’s no getting out of this.
“…Feels like I haven’t been around much,” he admits finally.
Your face softens even more.
“Clark—”
“I know, I know,” he says, holding up a hand, already rambling. “I know you don’t mind. You always say you don’t mind. You always tell me it’s fine, and I believe you, I do, I just—”
He rubs the back of his neck again, sighing.
“I just keep thinking one day you’re gonna…” he breathes in, not wanting to say the next words. “Maybe you’re gonna get tired of that,” he mutters.
You blink.
“What?”
He stills, not meeting your eyes.
“Waiting. Eating dinner by yourself. Me showing up late, or not at all. Falling asleep before I get back.” He lets out a humourless laugh. “Feels like that’s not exactly… boyfriend of the year material.”
You stare at him, completely melted already, but he keeps going, words spilling out faster now that he’s started.
“I mean, you could have somebody who’s actually around,” he continues. “Anybody, really. Somebody who doesn’t disappear in the middle of the night because the police scanner goes off.”
He finally looks at you, and his expression must be worse than he thought. The way your lips turn slightly downward, face looking that little bit sadder.
He never should have started.
This is exactly what he didn’t want.
“I just… I don’t know. Feels like I’m not doing enough for you lately,” he admits. “And I hate that. I hate feeling like you deserve more.”
Deserve more than him.
He hears the rustle of the sheets as you sit up on your knees. You go to wrap your arms around him, but he beats you to it, gathering you up on his lap on instinct. Holding you close to him, allowing him to hear your heartbeat soothes him slightly, but he still struggles to look at you after his admission.
“Clark,” you say softly, drawing him back.
He looks down at you, eyes still a little uncertain.
“You think I don’t know who I’m with?”
He goes to speak, but you beat him to it, silencing whatever argument he had formulated in his head.
“You think I’d trade you for someone who just… makes it home on time?”
“Yeah, but that’s not—“
“You’re the most attentive, patient, ridiculous man I’ve ever met,” you go on, thumb brushing over his cheek. “You take care of me better than anyone ever has.”
He still doesn’t seem convinced. It makes sense on paper—yes—but surely you’re just saying that to spare his feelings. Someone as special as you deserves far more than that, not stolen kisses before he has to take off through the open window.
He shakes his head faintly.
Surely that’s not true.
“I’m not always here to do that.”
“Yes, you are.”
He lets out a quiet scoff, looking away.
“Yeah, right.”
You tug his face again until he looks back at you.
“When you’re out there,” you say softly, “saving the world every day… you’re taking care of me.”
He goes still, trying to understand what you’re getting at.
“You make it safer for me to live here,” you continue, voice warm, smile returning. “For me to walk home. For me to sleep. For me to sit here and wait for you without being scared.”
“You think that doesn’t count?” you whisper.
He swallows hard, not quite knowing what to say, your words settling somewhere in his chest where all the doubts usually lived. He’s waiting for a sign that you’re being dishonest, or being just the right amount of honest to spare his feelings. But there isn’t any.
You just keep looking at him the same way you always do—like none of this is really that complicated at all. Like loving him is the most obvious thing in the world to you.
“…You really mean that?” though it’s more statement than question.
You smile, thumb still brushing along his cheek.
“I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t.”
He huffs out an almost a laugh, shaking his head as his eyes drop for a second.
“Honey…” he mutters, now embarrassed. “You always know the right thing to say, don’t you?”
Always know how to keep him steady.
You grin.
“Well, someone’s gotta look after the city’s Superman.”
He snorts softly at that, finally looking back at you, and there it is—that stupid, boyish smile he always gets when you call him that.
“I just…,” he says, rambling now, words coming easier now that he’s started. “Feels like I should be doing more.”
You shake your head immediately.
“I don’t want somebody else,” you say simply. “You’re the one I want. Even when you show up through the window instead of the door.”
That makes him laugh, a real one this time, head tipping forward as he presses his forehead against yours.
“Hey, that only happened twice.”
“Three,” you correct.
“…Okay, three.”
He sighs, eyes closing. He opens them, about to say something else when—
Your stomach growls.
He feels your heart beat speed up as you groan, immediately hiding your face in his shoulder.
“Oh my god.”
Clark stares at you, then lets out the softest, most offended little gasp.
“Well we can’t have that,” he says, like this is suddenly the most serious problem in the world.
You laugh into his chest.
“I’m fine.”
“Nope. Not happening.” He shakes his head firmly, already sliding one arm under your knees. “Absolutely not. I just gave you a whole speech about taking care of you, I can’t let you starve five minutes later.”
Before you can protest, he lifts you clean off the bed, settling you against his chest.
You let out a surprised laugh, grabbing his shoulders.
“Hey!”
“What?” he says, grinning, already heading toward the door. “Doctor’s orders. You need food.”
“I’m not a patient!”
“You are when you don’t eat.”
You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling, arms sliding around his neck as he carries you out of the bedroom.
Halfway down the hall you tilt your head at him.
“…Do I have time for a shower before dinner?”
He stops instantly.
“Of course you do,” he says. “You just say the word, I got all night.”
You raise an eyebrow.
“All night, huh?”
He grins, a little crooked, a little bashful.
You snort, and he laughs under his breath as he pushes the bathroom door open. He sets you down gently on your feet, hands lingering at your waist.
“You alright?” he asks softly.
You nod.
He leans in automatically, pressing a quick kiss to your cheek. Then another to your jaw. Then one to the corner of your mouth.
“Clark,” you laugh, pushing at his chest. “Go. I need to shower.”
“Right, right,” he says, but he’s still smiling.
He backs toward the door, hands up in surrender.
You point at him.
“Out.”
“Yes ma’am.”
He slips out into the hall, closing the door behind him, staring at the wood like an idiot.
You really love him.
I mean, he knew that, but the reassurance had eradicated any doubt he held in his chest. He rubs a hand over his face, shaking his head to himself as he walks back toward the kitchen.
He flicked the stove back on, checking the sauce he made earlier, giving it a slow stir.
Still good.
He smiles to himself, leaning one hip against the counter as the warmth fills the room again.
From down the hall, he can hear the shower start. A second later, soft humming.
He turns the tap on, filling a pot with water for the pasta, setting it on the stove, still listening to that faint little tune drifting down the hall.
Tonight was good. Better than good.
And as the water starts to heat, he finds himself smiling at absolutely nothing, already thinking about what else he can do.
Maybe garlic bread. You like the garlic bread. Maybe dessert if he can find something sweet in the cupboard.
He shakes his head, chuckling quietly to himself.
He needs to slow down. Step one: feed his girl.
He glances toward the hallway again when your humming gets a little louder, warmth settling right behind his ribs.
Yeah.
He thinks he can do that.
a/n: first clark fic wooo!
but no, i know im late but i immediately knew i had to write for him after seeing the movie. please let me know what you think, i havent written in months so i still feel im suuuper rusty
there will most certainly be more where this came from if people want so lmk ! <3
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
pixelskylines
blakekathryn
andulkaphoto
vaporwave
