corenswet!clark kent x fem!reader
summary: you're one of the new, fresh, and young interns of many that were so lucky enough to be chosen for the Daily Planet. a very cute nerdy reporter catches your hungry eye. but he's unsure if bending a few moral rules is a good idea.
tags: 18+ , MDNI , NSFW , smut , age gap (reader is 22 kent is 35) , power imbalance , yearning clark , creampie , eating out , p in v
a/n: wow what an innocent fic
theme: teachers pet (formally inspired by)
"And this," Perry said, stopping just short of Clark's very own cubicle, arm extended, "Is where you will find your mentors."
Yourself and four other interns crowded together, shy, excited, eager.
Your heart did a ridiculous flip when Clark Kent looked up from his typewriter, yes, he still used one sometimes, the endearing dinosaur, and blinked in genuine surprise. He pointed a finger at himself. "Me?"
Perry didn't even glance back. "And Cat and Lois, and whoever else I forgot."
"Rude!" Jimmy called out from behind his own cubicle.
Perry waved a hand without looking. "Olsen, you're taking the one who keeps staring at your blank computer screen. Try not to traumatize her too badly."
Jimmy bounded over immediately, all freckles and enthusiasm, already extending a hand. "Hey! Jimmy Olsen, photographer extraordinaire, your official mentor starting… now. You like darkrooms? I basically live in one. We're gonna have so much fun."
You shook his hand, smiled, said all the right things. But your eyes kept sliding sideways.
The very endearing dark haired man that just radiated some kind of gentlemanly masculinity. Clark Kent. He was already shaking hands and introducing himself to his own mentee.
She was striking. Tall, dark hair swept into a low ponytail, sharp cheekbones, the kind of effortless beauty that made other women unconsciously smooth their skirts.
She laughed at something he said, and Clark ducked his head with that shy half-smile that should have come with a warning label.
Your stomach twisted. Not jealousy, exactly. More like… territorial panic. Like watching someone else hold the thing you'd been quietly starving for. Even though you had no real claim on it.
He glanced up, pure reflex, and caught you looking. You looked away first. Heat crawled up your neck.
Jimmy was still talking. "-so anyway, if you ever need to develop film the old-school way, I'm your guy. None of this digital nonsense. Real photography has soul, you know?"
"Yeah," you breathed out. "Soul. Totally."
The next few days were exquisite torture. You caught glimpses of Clark everywhere.
Leaning over his mentee's shoulder to point at her laptop screen, sleeves rolled to his forearms, voice pitched low so only she could hear.
Carrying two coffees back from the break room. One for her, one for himself, because of course he noticed she took hers black.
And every single time he sensed your eyes on him, he looked. Held the contact a heartbeat too long. Then broke it like it physically hurt him to do so.
You even tried going to him for help more than your own mentor. Which Jimmy quickly caught onto. "You know i'm your mentor, right? Not nerdy old Kent."
You'd forced a smile, mumbled something about "just double-checking facts," but the heat in your cheeks gave you away. Jimmy had rolled his eyes good-naturedly and gone back to developing prints, but the point landed.
Still, you couldn't stop. Clark noticed.
Those stolen glances had turned into something heavier.
You slid the page toward him without a word.
He leaned over your shoulder and braced one hand on the back of your chair, the other flat on the table beside your elbow. His forearm brushed yours. You felt the warmth of him immediately, the faint clean scent of soap and newsprint and something indefinably him. He adjusted his glasses with a knuckle, scanned the text, then pointed to a sentence halfway down.
"Here. The attribution's buried. Move the quote up, lead with the source. Readers trust names they recognize early."
You tilted your head just enough that your temple nearly grazed his jaw. "Like that?"
"Mmm." He swallowed. "Better."
You didn't make any effort to move away, or move much at all. You just stared up at him through your lashes, catching the sharp line of his jaw, his adam's apple bobbing when he swallowed. You could hear his breathing.
"Kent! You flirting with my intern now?" Jimmy shouted, clapping him hard on the back.
The hand on the back of your chair tightened for a fraction of a second, enough that you felt the wood creak, before he straightened like he'd been caught holding something dangerous. His ears went faintly pink and he pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose in that nervous gesture.
Jimmy stood there grinning, arms crossed. "I mean, I get it, she's cute when she's pretending to listen to me. But hands off the merchandise, Smallville."
Clark cleared his throat. "I was just, helping with structure. The lead was weak." He rubbed the back of his neck subconsciously.
"Uh-huh." Jimmy's grin widened. "Real charitable of you."
By nine-thirty the floor was nearly empty again. You'd volunteered to finish labeling a batch of archived contact sheets. Another one of Jimmy's "learning opportunities" that felt more like charity and ended up back in the fifth-floor storage closet.
You were balanced on a short step-stool, reaching for a box on the top shelf, when the door opened behind you.
No knock. Just Clark. He didn’t step all the way inside at first. Just enough to let the door ease shut and cut off the hallway light.
You didn't turn around right away. You kept your arms raised, fingers brushing cardboard, pretending the sudden heat in the room was from the poor ventilation.
"You shouldn't be up there without someone to spot you," he said quietly.
You lowered your arms. Turned slowly.
Shoulders tense. Looking at you like you were the craving he'd been trying to avoid.
"Jimmy's gone home," you said. "Said I could lock up when I'm done."
You stepped down off the stool. Lightly brushed off the dust from your palms. "So?" You notched your head to the side.
Clark stayed by the door, one hand still on the knob like he might bolt at any second. "I shouldn't be here," he said. "You're... you're an intern. I'm—"
"Old enough to know better?" you finished for him, stepping closer.
He exhaled through his nose, eyes flicking to the floor then back to your face. "It's not just the age. It's the position. Perry would fire me on the spot, and he'd be right to."
You slowly crossed your arms, purposely pushing your chest up with the motion. "Then why'd you follow me in here?"
His gaze dropped to your crossed arms, then quickly, snapped back to your face.
"To check on you," he said. "That you might need help moving the heavier boxes. Professional courtesy."
"No," he admitted. "It wasn't."
"Every time you look at me like that…" He dragged a hand through his hair, mussing the neat part he always tried to keep. "It's like you're asking a question I've spent weeks trying not to answer."
"Then answer it now." You fully stepped up now, right in his space.
He subconsciously stepped back.
"I want to," he said quietly. "God help me, I want to. But you're-what? Twenty-four? Twenty-five? I'm thirty-five. I've spent my whole life trying to do the right thing, and this…" He gestured vaguely between you. "This isn't right."
You looked him up and down, slowly raking your eyes back to his face.
"Twenty-two." You corrected.
Clark's eyes widened fractionally behind his glasses. He took another small step back until his shoulders met the closed door. He exhaled dramatically, "Gosh... That's… barely out of college. You're just starting your life here, and I-"
"And you what?" you asked gently, refusing to let him retreat any further into guilt. "You're going to tell me that makes this impossible?"
He swallowed hard. "It makes it… complicated. Immensely complicated." His voice dropped to something almost pained. "You look at me like I'm something worth wanting. That alone is enough to keep me awake at night wondering if I'm losing my mind."
"You're not losing your mind," you whispered. "You're just feeling something real. And so am I." You flicked your eyes up to look at his. He was 6'4, you were 5'4.
All that followed was his labored breathing like he just ran five miles. You stepped closer again, caging him against the door, letting one of your hands reach out to touch him, only to be caught by his massive one.
"I can't," he said, so quiet it almost disappeared. "I can't let this happen."
"Clark." You said, almost fed up. "I'm not a child."
"I know you're not a child," he said, barely above a whisper.
You didn't pull your hand away. Instead you turned it slowly in his grasp.
"Then stop treating me like I don't know what I want," you said quietly.
His eyes closed for a long moment. When they opened again they were glassy, conflicted, aching. "I've thought about this more than I should," he confessed, so softly it felt like a secret he’d never meant to speak aloud. "Very not so nice things. Thing's a respectable man should never think of, let alone with a coworker, a younger one."
"Clark," you said softly. "Look at me."
It took him a long second, but he did. Those blue eyes were stormy now, pupils wide, guilt and hunger warring openly.
"I've thought them too," you told him. "About you. About us. About what it would feel like if you finally stopped being so careful and just… took what you wanted."
"You shouldn't say things like that," he murmured, almost pleading. "It makes it so much harder to do the right thing."
You rose onto your toes, closing the last impossible inch between your mouths.
For a second you thought he might pull away, might open the door and vanish down the hall. Instead he made a small, broken sound in the back of his throat.
It was careful at first. Lips moving against yours like he was afraid too much pressure would bruise you. But when you parted for him, when your tongue brushed his in silent invitation, the last thread of his restraint snapped.
He immediately picked you up like you weighed nothing, your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively. One large hand came up to cradle the back of your head, the other held the underside of one of your thighs.
"I'm sorry," he whispered against your mouth.
"Dont apologize. Don't stop. Please." You gasped for air, threading your fingers through his dark hair, then down his white button up.
He exhaled shakily and carried you the few steps to the nearest low shelf. Your skirt had ridden up to which he immediately smoothed it back down over your thighs with both hands, like propriety still mattered even now.
Then he sank to his knees between your legs. He looked up at you through slightly crooked glasses. "May I?"
"Yes," you whispered, fingers gripping the edge of the shelf. "Please."
The first brush of his lips against your inner thigh was feather-light, almost chaste. His fingers hooked under the lace of your panties carefully. He slid them down your legs slowly, then folded the delicate material neatly and set it aside on the shelf like it deserved care even in a moment like this.
He parted your thighs gently with both hands, thumbs stroking the sensitive crease where thigh met hip. "You're beautiful," he breathed, almost to himself.
Then his mouth found you. The first long, careful lick made your hips jerk. He immediately steadied you with one broad palm flat against your lower stomach. He hummed softly in quiet pleasure at your taste, the vibration traveling straight through you. Every swirl of his tongue was attentive. H drank in every small sound you made, and adjusted accordingly.
When your fingers tightened in his hair he groaned quietly against you and pressed just a little closer, tongue circling your clit. He never rushed. Never chased anything for himself. Just worshipped you with his mouth until your thighs began to tremble around his ears and heat coiled impossibly tight in your belly.
"Clark-" His name came out desperately.
He lifted his head just enough to meet your eyes, lips glistening, expression soft and earnest. "Yeah?"
"Fuck- I didn't tell you to stop."
"I'm sorry, sweetheart," he murmured, voice low.
You exhaled a shaky laugh. "You're killing me with how perfect you are."
He ducked his head but didn't argue. His tongue returned to your clit with the same careful reverence, but now he added the slightest suction, lips closing around the sensitive bud in gentle pulses that made your hips lift off the shelf.
"May I use my fingers too? I'd like to feel you come around them… if you'll let me."
"Yes," you gasped. "Please, Clark-yes."
He pressed one slow, open-mouthed kiss to your clit before sliding two fingers along your entrance, coating them in your slickness. He eased them in, slow, careful, watching your face the entire time. Only when you relaxed did he curl them gently, stroking that perfect spot inside.
Then his mouth returned. The combination undid you. The dual sensation built fast, overwhelming. Your thighs clamped around his head. Your back arched hard against the shelf. Your fingers yanked at his hair as the coil in your belly snapped.
You came over his fingers, his mouth, crying out, louder than you meant to. He kept stroking you through it, tongue softening to gentle laps, drawing out every last tremor until you were whimpering.
Only then did he carefully withdraw his fingers, pressing one last tender kiss to your swollen clit before rising.
"Your turn," you breathed, fingers already fumbling toward his belt.
He caught your wrist. "You don't have to-"
"I want to." You held his gaze.
The buckle came undone under careful fingers. Zipper lowered with a sound that felt deafening in the quiet room. He let the flaps of his pants fall open, so that you could see the visible print of him through his boxers.
You reached out slowly, fingertips brushing the waistband. His stomach jumped under the lightest touch.
"May I?" you asked, turning the question back on him with a teasing smile.
His laugh was soft, breathless. "You're asking me?"
"I learned from the best."
He swallowed hard, Adam’s apple bobbing. "Yes," he said quietly. "Please."
You tugged the waistband down, freeing him. He sprang up against his stomach, the tip of him flushed and dripping with his own pre.
He involuntarily flinched at his own friction.
"God, you're... huge." You nervously swallowed your fear down the best you could. Although, it was probably more excitement if anything. Your small hand looked delicate wrapped around the base, fingers just meeting.
"I know I'm… a lot," he said quietly, like he was ashamed. "We can stop right here if it's too much. I swear to you. I'd never ask you to-"
You cut him off by squeezing along his base and stroking upwards slowly, flicking your wrist at the very tip.
His hips jerked forward an inch on pure instinct before he caught himself. His hands flew to the shelf on either side of your hips, knuckles white.
"Sweetheart-" His voice cracked, hoarse and desperate. "Please… slow. I-I haven't… it's been so long."
You unknowingly parted your lips, like you might genuinely start drooling. "How did girls survive this? You?"
"I don't know," he whispered. "I really don't know."
You bit your lip, slowly pumping him in your hand again. "Well I think I'm about to find out." You pulled him closer by his cock, notching him right at your pink entrance.
"Sweetheart," he rasped, voice, "I need you to tell me again. Please. I need to hear it."
"I want you inside me, Clark. I want all of you. I'm ready. I’m asking."
A long, shaky exhale left him. "Okay," he whispered. "Okay."
His hips flexed forward, the broad head of him nudging just barely inside you, stretching that first delicate ring of muscle.
"Too much?" he whispered, voice cracking like he might cry if the answer was yes. "Am I hurting you already?"
"No," you gasped, legs tightening around his waist to keep him there. "Don't you dare stop. I want to feel every inch of you. Slowly… but don't stop."
"Okay… okay… I'll go slow. I promise. I promise." The stretch burned sweet and bright. He sank another careful inch. Then another. When he was finally buried to the hilt, he let out a stifled moan and buried his face in the crook of your neck.
"Gosh… sweetheart…" His voice was almost babyish in its overwhelm. "You feel… you feel like heaven. I-I don't know how to be calm right now. I'm sorry. I'm trying so hard."
You threaded your fingers through his dark hair. "Don't be calm," you whispered. "Just move. Please, Clark. I need you to move."
He made another small sound and started the tiniest rocks of his hips. Barely withdrawals. Like he was terrified of hurting you and desperate to feel more of you at the same time.
You arched under him, trying to meet each barely-there thrust. "Deeper," you breathed. "A little harder, please."
A whine caught in his throat. "Harder? Are-are you sure? I don't want to-"
"I’m sure," you cut in, kissing the corner of his mouth. "Please."
He groaned and obeyed. The rhythm stayed controlled but grew deeper, longer strokes that made your head spin. The shelf rattled faintly behind you. A few contact sheets slipped to the floor. He didn't notice. His hands roamed everywhere. Stroking down your sides, cupping your breasts through your blouse with the softest of touches.
"Feels good?" he panted against your ear. "Tell me it feels good, please. I need to know."
"So good," you gasped, clenching around him on the next deep thrust. "You're so perfect, Clark. So big… filling me so perfectly…"
A high groan escaped from him. His hips stuttered, then snapped forward harder before he caught himself with a frantic "sorry, sorry, sorry-"
"Don't apologize," you pleaded. "Do it again. Just like that."
He whimpered, actually whimpered, and gave you what you asked for. Deeper, a little faster, still careful.
One hand slid under your thigh, hitching your leg higher so he could angle deeper. The new angle made stars burst behind your eyes.
"Right-right there?" he gasped, voice cracking again. "Is that the spot, sweetheart? Please tell me-"
"Yes-yes-Clark-don't stop-"
He stayed exactly there, not speeding up, and neither slowing down. Keeping the pace just as you requested.
Pleasure coiled tighter, unbearable. Your thighs started to shake. "I'm-Clark, I'm gonna-"
"Thank goodness," he murmured. "Because I-sweetheart, I can't hold on much longer."
You cupped the back of his neck. "Come with me," you moaned, looking right into his eyes.
A full-body shudder ran through him.
You shattered like tempered glass finally meeting its match, pieces cracking open in one large burst. Your walls fluttered and clamped around him, squeezing and tugging him deeper, if that was even possible.
Clark's rhythm broke completely. His breath came out harsh. His hands flew to the shelf on either side of your head, wood creaking dangerously under his grip.
"Sweetheart… oh gosh… I'm-may I-inside? Please, I'm so close, I can't-I need-"
"Yes," you gasped, legs locking around him. "Inside me. Come inside me, Clark. Please."
His whole body shook as he came, spilling hot and endless inside you, hips jerking in tiny helpless pulses. He kept rocking through it, whimpering your name over and over. Drawing out every tremor until he was trembling and empty and completely spent.
Then, so softly you almost missed it.
You laughed breathlessly, carding fingers through his hair. "You're welcome."
"Are you… okay?" he whispered. "Did I… was I too much?"
You shook your head with a smile. "You were perfect."
You tugged him back down for one more slow, lingering kiss.
When you finally pulled away, you whispered, "Next time… my place. A real bed. And maybe you can stop apologizing every five seconds."
"Next time," he replied shyly.