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୨♡୧ ୨♡୧ ୨♡୧ ୨♡୧ ୨♡୧ ୨♡୧ ୨♡୧ ୨♡୧ ୨♡୧ ୨♡୧ ୨♡୧
The first thing you’re aware of is the heat.
Not the sun spilling lazily through the curtains, not the faint hum of the city beyond the glass—but the lingering, living warmth of Clark’s body wrapped around yours.
His arm is heavy across your waist, his palm resting against your stomach as if holding you there will keep the morning from moving forward. His chest rises and falls against your back, and you feel his breath fan lightly over the curve of your neck.
You’re about to murmur a sleepy good morning when his lips sweep your skin.
It’s not even a proper kiss at first—just the ghost of one. But then he hovers, his mouth soft and warm at the base of your neck, and a shiver runs all the way down your spine.
“Morning, Mrs. Kent,” he mutters, his voice rough and thick with sleep.
The words make you smile before you can stop yourself. “Morning, Mr. Kent.”
You feel him grin against your neck, and then he’s shifting, propping himself up on an elbow so he can look down at you. His hair is messy, his eyes still heavy-lidded, and he’s smiling in that slow, dreamy way that makes it impossible to look away.
“You look beautiful,” he says simply, as though it’s the most obvious fact in the world.
You laugh softly, shaking your head. “I’m pretty sure I have pillow creases all over my face.”
Clark leans in anyway, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Still beautiful.”
And then he kisses you fully, his hand cupping your cheek as if it’s something precious (to him, it is.) The kiss starts light—just a soft press of lips—but when you tilt your head toward him, he deepens it, moving in slow, unhurried strokes.
You breathe into him, your fingers slipping up into the thick, dark hair at the back of his neck. He hums at the contact, angling his head slightly so the kiss can linger longer, stretch deeper.
Somewhere between the kiss and the warmth of his touch, his mind drifts—briefly, but vividly.
The memory flickers like sunlight through lace.
Your hand in his, trembling just enough for him to notice. The way Pa Kent adjusted his tie three separate times before muttering, “You’ve got this, son.” Ma Kent’s teary-eyed smile as she smoothed the shoulder of his jacket, whispering something only for him, but loud enough for you to catch: “She’s your home now, too.”
Lois in the second row, her grin wide and knowing, elbowing Jimmy when Clark’s voice almost broke on the vows. Jimmy, in turn, holding up his phone and mouthing “front page material” while pretending not to tear up.
And you—standing there under the golden light, bouquet trembling just slightly, eyes locked on him like he was the only thing keeping the world in place. He swore he could hear your heartbeat even then, and it had been the only sound worth listening to.
The memory melts back into the present like honey, and you’re kissing him again—full and slow, his lips smiling faintly against yours.
When he finally pulls back, it’s only enough to trail his mouth along your jaw. “Still feels unreal,” he murmurs, the words melting into the soft skin just below your ear. “That I get to call you my wife.”
His smile makes your chest ache in that tender, overwhelming way that only he can do.
His hand finds the hem of your sleep shirt, skimming up beneath it with warm, gentle fingers. He doesn’t rush; instead, he traces the familiar curve of your waist, his thumb brushing idle patterns over your skin.
You shift onto your back, and Clark follows without hesitation, lowering himself until his body is draped over yours. He keeps most of his weight off you, but the press of his chest against yours is enough to make your pulse quicken.
He kisses you again, his tongue just barely sweeping against yours before retreating, teasing. When you chase him, he grins into the kiss, his thumb brushing your cheek as if he’s memorizing every contour.
Your legs part slightly to accommodate him, and he fits himself there naturally—not grinding, not pushing—just close. His body heat seeps into you through the thin barrier of clothing, and it makes you melt into the mattress.
“You’re warm,” he says, kissing you again between words. “You always get warm when I hold you.”
“Maybe that’s because you’re a furnace,” you whisper, smiling when he lets out a quiet chuckle.
But he doesn’t argue. He just kisses you again—deeper this time, like he’s been waiting all morning for this exact moment. His free hand slips lower, smoothing over your thigh before settling on your hip, pulling you just the tiniest bit closer.
It’s still slow. Still careful. But there’s an intensity under it now, a quiet hunger that comes not from urgency but from wanting to draw this out as long as possible.
The shift makes you exhale against his mouth, and he swallows the sound with a faint hum before letting his weight ease more fully into you. There’s no rush in the way he starts to move—slow, deliberate, the faintest roll of his hips to yours like he’s testing how much you’ll let him get away with.
You pull back just far enough to murmur, breathless, “Now Mr. Kent… are you trying to seduce me?”
Clark’s cheeks flush, but his mouth tips in a crooked grin. “I think that ship sailed the second I said ‘I do.’”
You laugh, but it melts into a sharp inhale when he rocks into you again with that quiet, building hunger beneath it. His forehead rests against yours, his breath warm as he whispers, “I just want to feel you… I could stay here all day and still not be satisfied. Even if it’s like this.”
“Then don’t stop,” you whisper.
And he doesn’t.
Clark kisses you like the morning belongs to you alone—no rush, no interruptions, no world outside this bed. His hands wander, slow and reverent, mapping every curve like he’s committing you to memory, even though you’ve been his in every way for longer than yesterday’s vows.
The sunlight drapes over both of you, warm and golden, and you realize you don’t want breakfast, or plans, or anything else. Just this. Just him.
Your husband.
Kissing you like you’re the only thing that matters.
<3!
୨♡୧ ୨♡୧ ୨♡୧ ୨♡୧ ୨♡୧ ୨♡୧ ୨♡୧ ୨♡୧ ୨♡୧ ୨♡୧ ୨♡୧