#softdomclark

you tilt your head back, brow raised, and your stomach drops a little when you see it — the tiny sprig of mistletoe dangling above you on a thin string. it sways slightly from the draft, but you swear it tilts suspiciously toward clark, almost like fate itself is nudging you two closer. you blink once, then slowly turn around, and the sight of him standing there with his hands in his pockets makes your breath catch just slightly. clark’s cheeks are a soft pink from the cold, the color warming even deeper at your expression, like he wasn’t expecting you to actually look at him like that. he gives a small smile, tiny, soft, one side rising before the other and your heart tugs at the sweetness of it. “pretty sure the rules say something about this,” he says, eyes flicking up to the mistletoe… then down to your mouth.

you tell yourself the warmth in your chest is from the cider, not the way he’s looking at you now, like he’s waiting but trying not to hope too loudly. clark takes one step closer, careful, almost painfully gentle, as though the air itself might break. there’s a hesitation in his eyes, something like a question he’s too polite to ask, and you feel your breath tighten in your lungs because he’s too sweet, too careful, too impossibly endearing. you lift your chin just slightly, and the tiny movement is all the permission he needs. he leans in, slow, deliberate, the faintest whisper of his breath brushing your cheek before his lips follow. the kiss is barely a kiss at all, more a warm press of softness that lingers just one beat longer than necessary. long enough to make your pulse jump, short enough to pretend it was nothing.

when clark pulls back, he’s still close, so close enough that you can smell the peppermint on his breath, close enough that you can feel him thinking. his lashes dip, then lift again, and his expression is unreadable except for the faint curve of his mouth betraying him. he steps back, slowly, giving space even though you feel the tug of wanting him to stay. you swallow around a smile you don’t fully understand and slip away into the crowd, pretending not to feel his eyes on your back. the party resumes its rhythm, but your heartbeat does not. it’s still skipping around that tiny, lingering kiss under a sprig of mistletoe he definitely didn’t hang himself.

twenty minutes later, you find him again, well maybe he finds you, you’re not entirely sure. either way, the universe seems determined to shove you toward clark kent like it’s gently matchmaking a pair of awkward teenagers instead of two adults who should absolutely know better. you reach for a tray of cookies in the kitchen when you see it: another sprig of mistletoe, positioned suspiciously perfectly above the doorway. you stare at it then at the fresh tape barely hidden behind the molding. and then at the tall man standing sheepishly beside you holding a plate he clearly doesn’t need.

clark follows your gaze to the mistletoe and widens his eyes like he’s shocked to discover it. “what? that wasn’t there earlier,” he says, voice filled with a sincerity any normal person would buy… but you’re not normal, because you’ve watched clark kent try to lie exactly twice in the three years you’ve known him. you raise an eyebrow, and he fights a smile, poorly. “weird,” he adds, and you swear he’s going to break into laughter, except clark kent would rather be struck by lightning than flirt too confidently. still, there’s something in his tone, something teasing and low, that sends a flutter through your chest. “must be a very dedicated holiday elf.”

you take one step toward him, and he takes one toward you, like you’re both being drawn in by something magnetic. his eyes flicker down to your mouth again quickly, almost involuntarily and you feel heat unfurl at the base of your spine. “you know mistletoe rules,” you murmur, letting your voice dip just enough to see how he reacts. clark’s breath catches, just barely, but enough for you to feel it, enough to make your stomach flip. he takes your hand, gently, like he’s testing how much boldness he’s allowed to have tonight. “so i’ve heard,” he whispers.

his kiss this time isn’t as shy 'nor is it rushed, or hesitant, or accidental no matter how much the two of you might pretend otherwise. clark leans in slowly, fingers brushing along your waist in a way that is reverent and hungry at the same time. his lips find yours with a soft pressure that deepens almost immediately, something warm and intent pushing through the gentle facade he usually wears. he kisses you like he’s been imagining this not in detail, but in longing. not in fantasies, but in hopes he’s been too careful to voice.

when he finally pulls away, your breath is uneven, your lips tingling from the heat he left behind. clark looks at you like he’s memorizing your reaction, like he’s storing it away for later, like this moment means more to him than he’s ready to say out loud. his hand lingers on your waist for one heartbeat longer. then another. then another, until he finally seems to remember himself and steps back too far, too quickly, and you hate how much you miss his warmth the second it’s gone.

by the time the third mistletoe appears, you’re done pretending you don’t notice the pattern and you’re pretty sure clark’s done pretending it’s accidental.

the party’s calmed into a softer rhythm now, people nestling into conversations, laughter quieting, music dipping into the background like a warm hum. you slip into the hallway to take a breath, your pulse still unsteady from the second kiss he gave you. you don’t expect him to follow, but he does almost immediately, like your absence tugs at him harder than physics itself. “hey,” he murmurs, voice soft but loaded with something thicker, warmer. “didn’t mean to crowd you.”

you open your mouth to tell him he’s not crowding you at all. in fact, you’re not sure you’ve ever wanted someone crowding you more but the words get stuck when clark lifts his hand. he’s holding a tiny sprig of mistletoe between two fingers, not taped, not rigged, even positioned by chance. just him, holding it like he’s finally admitting what he wants without hiding behind holiday rules. “guess we ran out of strategic locations,” he says, tone low, amused and hopeful.

you let out a soft laugh that comes out more breath than sound. he steps closer. until your back touches the wall, not because he pushes you there but because your legs carry you backward instinctively, your body reacting to the heat rolling off him in waves. clark doesn’t touch you, not yet, but his restraint feels like a match held an inch above gasoline. “this okay?” he breathes, voice almost trembling.

you nod and he doesn’t dare waste a second.

clark kisses you like he’s been holding back too long not rough, but deep, warm, hungry in a way that makes your entire body light up. his hand finds your waist again, and this time there’s no tentative testing of boundaries. he pulls you in fully, pressing the soft heat of his body against yours. you feel the strength beneath his sweater, the warmth against your chest, the faint tremble in his fingers as he cups your jaw with the gentlest touch imaginable. you kiss him back harder without meaning to, and he makes a low sound into your mouth. quiet, restrained, devastatingly soft and a sound that makes your knees weaken and your heartbeat thrum violently in your chest.

when he finally pulls back, it’s only far enough to breathe against your lips. you can feel his heartbeat through his shirt, fast and strong, matching your own like a mirrored rhythm. his forehead drops to yours, and he whispers your name like it tastes good on his tongue. “we’re not still calling these accidents, are we?” he mumbles, smiling against your mouth. you breathe out a shaky laugh as your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt. “do you want them to be accidents?”

“no,” he admits, voice thick with a truth he can’t swallow anymore. “not even a little.”

he kisses you again, painfully slower this time, lingering, savoring, like he’s trying to memorize every possible version of your mouth. you sink into him, and he catches you effortlessly, large hands steady on your waist like you’re something he intends to hold onto. every kiss deepens the warmth between you, every breath shared pulling you further into a space where neither of you is pretending anymore. the mistletoe slips from his fingers and falls to the floor unnoticed. clark barely breaks the kiss to whisper, breath warm against your lips, “we’re gonna need… a lot more mistletoe.” you laugh into his mouth, breathless, dizzy, wanting him all over again.

he pulls you closer — not roughly, never roughly, just firmly enough to let you feel everything he’s been trying so hard not to show. your fingers thread through his hair, and he shivers under your touch. his hands slide up your back, heat radiating through the thin fabric of your shirt, and your breath stutters at the warmth of it. he kisses you deeper, hands holding you like he’s afraid you might vanish if he lets go. he murmurs your name again, softer this time, like he’s tasting it. like he’s falling into something he didn’t mean to fall into so quickly.

you lose track of time in that hallway every single kiss, every soft sound, every brush of his hands melting into the next. your mind goes hazy with warmth and want and the slow, addictive sweetness of him. clark kisses like he means it, like he’s been waiting for a reason, a moment, an excuse and now that he has one. he’s not pulling away, not tonight, not from you.

when he finally stops kissing you, it isn’t because he wants to, it’s because he needs air. you’re both breathing hard, chests rising and falling in uneven sync, the world outside the hallway disappearing completely. clark keeps his forehead against yours, breathing you in, grounding himself in the closeness. “i’ve wanted to do that,” he admits softly, “for… a while.” his thumb traces your cheek, slow, gentle, almost reverent. “longer than i should say out loud.”

you swallow, heart racing. “you can say it,” you whisper, voice small but sure. his eyes drop to your lips again, darkened with everything he’s still holding back. “later,” he murmurs, brushing his nose against yours. “i wanna kiss you again first.” and he does much softer, slower, deeper like a promise.

the walk to your bedroom shouldn’t feel like this, like gravity got hands and wrapped them around clark’s wrist, tugging him behind you with something deeper than want. he follows you quietly, but not hesitantly; there’s a charged certainty in his steps, like he already made the decision the moment he kissed you in the hallway. the door clicks shut behind you, soft but final, and the sound steals both your breaths at once. clark stands there for a second, chest rising slowly, eyes tracing over your face like he’s trying to memorize the exact moment you let him in. his voice comes out low, almost rough at the edges. “are you sure?”

you answer by stepping into him.

his exhale is soft but shaky, the kind of sound someone makes when a long-held restraint finally slips. clark’s hands find your waist like they’re drawn there, warm and steady, and the way he pulls you into him feels almost relieved. he kisses you again deeper, nothing tentative now. your fingers curl into his shirt, needing him closer than close. he walks you backward until your knees hit the edge of the bed, and he breaks the kiss just long enough to search your face for any flicker of doubt. there is none and you feel his breath against your lips, warm and wanting.

clark leans in, his forehead brushing yours, and whispers, “tell me what you need.” he always asked, no matter what cause it was you. his whole entire world, wrapped in one person.

his voice alone sends heat racing down your spine. you don’t answer with words, you simply tug him down with you, falling back onto the bed with a soft gasp as his weight settles gently above you. he braces one hand beside your head, the other sliding along your waist in a touch so careful it almost breaks you open. his lips find your neck, slow and lingering, each kiss deeper than the last, each one unraveling another piece of you. he’s warm everywhere, steady everywhere, but there’s a tension running through him like a wire pulled taught. a quiet, desperate wanting restrained only by his need to be gentle with you.

your hands find the hem of his shirt, fingers brushing skin, and clark makes a low sound against your throat, a soft breathy whine come undone. he pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes dark, pupils blown wide, chest rising unevenly like he’s fighting not to lose control too quickly. his thumb strokes your cheek in the softest line imaginable. “you have no idea,” he whispers, “how long i’ve wanted you like this.”

he kisses you again, slower this time, deeper the kind of kiss that feels like being discovered, not devoured. his hand travels up your side, under fabric, fingers tracing warm paths that make your breath stutter. you guide him closer, and clark follows instantly, letting out another quiet, fractured sound against your mouth. the room fades into warmth and breathes and the rustle of clothes, the bed shifting beneath you as he presses closer, deeper, without crossing any lines you haven’t invited him to. it’s the heat and tension with softness tangled into one moment that feels like it’s been waiting to happen for months.

clark kisses down your jaw, your neck, your shoulder slow, reverent, like he’s memorizing what you sound like when you breathe his name, just like the first time. the air between you grows hot and heavy, your bodies moving together in a rhythm that needs no guidance, no explanation. every touch he gives you feels intentional, slow-burning, patient but hungry underneath. he keeps whispering your name like it’s something sacred, something he’s been scared to say out loud like this.

when he finally settles against you again, chest to chest, breath mingling with yours, his voice drops into something low and sincere. “i’m not going anywhere,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb along your lower lip. “not tonight.”

you breathe something back you’re not sure what, its a blur of desire because his closeness scatters every coherent thought. his forehead rests against yours, warm and grounding, and you feel the shift in him the moment his restraint starts to fray. the way his fingers lace with yours and his breath stutters when your knee brushes open onto his hip. he whispers your name like it's the only hting he belives can save him. his mauved lips find yours, slower, thoughtful, a kiss that speaks more promises than words can say in an urgency.

your hands slide up the back of his shirt, feeling the soft strength there, tension he'd been holding since the first mistletoe of the night. clark exhaled against your mouth like you'd undone him without having to try. that was the one thing you adored the most about him, just you alone got him so boyish. the room grows warmer, soft and intimate as his touch becomes purposeful. he's not rushing, not. being greedy, just a firm steady kind of certainty. his touch knowing your body for months, your reactions, knowing your hearts desires.

every touch of his hands roam, just ignites some spark of desire inside you. you can't help but tug him closer, he instantly follows you. the sound of clothes shifting, not frantic, just with ease between those sweet whispered kisses and soft loopy smiles. thw outside world fades into nothing but the candlelit glow on the walls, the sound of heavy pants. your pants "haa, angh, clark..." he cups your jaw like you're the most precious thing to him, cause you are. he doesnt excute his strength because he's superman, he treats you as your a fragile being, someone he loves and intends to protect even in moments such as these.

the bed groans, creaks with a tired wail with settling springs as the movement picks up. clark's weight settles as he lifts himself up, his hands fast as he removes his shirt, chisled abs and a faint trail of hair leading south. he leans in, bracing himself back onto the mattress, hand pressed beside your shoulder. his eyes lock with yours that tender shade of blue darkening with want, with need, with something that steals the breath from your chest. “tell me what you need,” he whispers, voice husky enough to pull a shiver down your spine.

your chest tightens, heat coiling low, and you can’t hide it — your body leans into him, practically begging him without saying a word, wishing he’d stop asking and just take you already. you instantly follow through with your thoughts and guide him, and he listens. your hands guide his hands showing him exactly how to hold you, how to explore without breaking the unspoken rhythm between you. his fingers trace slow, reverent paths along your curves, tilting your body toward him, leaning into every shiver you make.

his mouth finds the soft skin of your neck, pressing gentle kisses that leave you gasping, heat pooling low in your stomach. you let your lips brush against his jaw, your fingers threading through his hair, tugging him closer without meaning to. every touch, every brush of skin, feels like a quiet explosion, a wordless conversation that leaves both of you unsteady. he leans into you, chest against chest, arms around your waist, grounding you while making you ache for more without a single word.

his frustration getting the best of him, he practically tears your jeans off, only your soft pattern striped pink and silver panties with a soft wet patch are stopping him. "god your driving me insane clarkie, please." you huff out as you grab his hand and suckle onto his thumb, suddenly he picks up on what you want. his thumb is met onto your bud and rubbing slow careful circles. "haa! uh! fuck clarkie!" you gasp at the sudden pressure on your achy clit.

his hands move with a careful, deliberate pressure, every touch designed to make you shiver and gasp. you arch into him, body responding instinctively, every nerve alive under the warmth of his touch. he leans closer, lips brushing against your ear, whispering your name in a husky, low tone that sends heat pooling through you. your fingers dig into his shoulders, holding him close as the quiet friction and closeness coil tight inside you.

every brush, every press, every sigh becomes a silent conversation between the two of you, no words needed to know what the other wants. he stays attuned to you, careful and persistent, as if memorizing every reaction, every shiver, every breath, leaving you trembling beneath him. "golly i want to watch you fall apart honey." he pants, his cock straining against his jeans. he leans into you, words husky and full of want, and you can feel every ounce of his desire pressing into the space between you.

your fingers clutch at him, pulling him closer, heart hammering as his voice drips through you like fire and velvet at once. every brush of his body against yours, every sigh and whispered name, makes the air around you thick and heavy, impossible to ignore. he keeps his hands roaming, teasing, grounding, and guiding you, so aware of your reactions it leaves you trembling and breathless. your body responds instinctively, arching, shifting, drawn entirely to him, and it feels like the room exists only for the two of you.

his gaze never leaves yours blue darkened with want, warm and steady, memorizing every shiver, every gasp, every quiver, holding you completely in his focus. his tongue follows your neck as he dives into you, finally pushing himself inside you. so wrapped up in the bliss of pleasure he'd given you. he buries his face against you, lips and breath hot on your skin, every movement deliberate and teasing, making your body arch instinctively toward him. your hands thread through his hair, pulling him closer, reveling in the way he fits against you, the quiet weight and warmth of him holding you. his chest presses into yours, every shiver, every gasp met with a gentle, grounding touch, like he’s memorizing the way your body reacts to him.

you tilt your head back, letting his whispers and low hums wash over you, each one sending warmth pooling through your core, leaving you trembling. "oh honey, golly your so beautiful like this. so pretty and fucked out huh?" the room shrinks to just the two of you. heat, breath, skin, the private storm of touch and want that makes the world outside fade completely.

he holds you like he’s afraid you might disappear if he lets go, and you cling to him the same way, lost in the slow, perfect intensity of him. your orgasm nearly ripping you apart as you see stars and flashes of clark's expression, and the layer of sweat on his body. "go ahead darling, let go for me. i'm right... haa! right-right behind, golly... you!" he groans as ribbons of white spur inside you. your arms wrapped around clarks neck as he comes down from his high.

clark rolls gently off you, careful not to crush you under him, and collapses beside you with a soft groan that’s almost as breathless as yours. his arms wrap around you, pulling you close, chest to chest, the heat from his body still radiating into yours, grounding you both. you rest your head against his shoulder, fingers tracing idle, tender patterns along his back, the tension of the moment melting into quiet warmth. his lips brush the top of your head, soft, lingering, murmuring little words that make you melt, “you okay… you’re okay, darling.” he strokes your hair, kisses your temple, and whispers your name, like he’s memorizing the sound, the taste of it, the way it makes you shiver still.

for a long while, you both lie there, chests rising and falling together, heartbeats syncing, a quiet intimacy that says everything the kisses and touches did before, and more. clark shifts carefully, brushing stray hairs from your face as his fingers trace soft, gentle patterns along your skin. “let me,” he murmurs, leaning close, pressing soft, reverent kisses to the places where he knows you’re still sensitive, just to make sure you’re comfortable, cared for, safe.

his hands move with quiet attentiveness, slow and soothing, wiping away every trace of the night’s heat while murmuring little reassurances, “you’re perfect… just perfect, darling.” you lean into him, chest to chest, letting the warmth of his body seep into you, every shiver and flutter settling into a calm, steady glow. when he’s satisfied you’re completely tended to, he wraps you up in his arms, strong yet gentle, holding you like he never wants to let go, and you press yourself into him, breathing in the steady rhythm of his heart. eyes heavy from the activity the both of you just did.