Tags / TW: 18+, MDNI, coworkers-to-lovers, mutual pining, slow burn, jealous Clark, protective Clark, touch-starved Clark, emotional tension, smut, fem!reader, oral (f!receiving), light dom Clark, edging, creampie, aftercare, unspoken feelings, “accidental” confession, fluff to filth. | Smut, Mutual Pining, Oral (F & M Receiving), Vaginal Penetration, Creampie, Praise, Soft Dom Clark, Touch Starved, Dirty Talk, First Time
Summary: You’ve worked beside Clark Kent at the Daily Planet for years—close enough to memorize his sighs, his typing rhythm, his tie rotation. But lately, something has shifted. You start receiving gifts: things too specific to be random. A book you’ve mentioned once in passing. Your favorite flower tucked into your desk. Then, one night, after a particularly brutal date with someone else, you find Clark waiting for you outside—wet, pissed off, and clearly done watching you want someone else.
The flowers show up after your date with that idiot from IT.
You’d barely made it through dinner. He’d been late, hadn’t held the door, and called the waitress “sweetheart” like it was charming. He kissed like he was trying to prove something—aggressive, sloppy, forgettable. You came into the office the next morning still irritated, your head aching from too much wine and too little satisfaction.
And there it was. A single tulip sitting on your desk. Purple. Your favorite.
Fresh, perfectly centered beside your keyboard. No card. No note.
You looked around the bullpen like someone would jump up and confess. No one moved. The buzz of conversation, clack of keyboards, and scent of burnt coffee carried on as if nothing was different. But something was.
You didn’t miss the way Clark looked away the second you turned toward him.
He was already at his desk, glasses low on his nose, typing with that usual intense focus like he was writing the world into shape. His tie was a little crooked. His sleeves rolled up to the elbow, exposing his forearms. You watched the way his fingers moved across the keys—calm, deliberate, powerful. You swallowed and turned back around, forcing your attention to the screen in front of you.
It wasn’t like you hadn’t noticed Clark before. You always noticed Clark. You noticed the way he laughed with his whole chest, how he always stood when someone entered the room, how he knew when you needed space before you asked for it. But he was… untouchable. Gentle in a way that made you want to break something. He offered you gum once and your fingers touched. You’d thought about it for weeks.
The tulip wasn’t the last thing.
A few days later, a package showed up on your desk. You didn’t order anything. It was wrapped simply—brown paper, twine. Inside was a paperback book. Out of print. A poetry collection you’d mentioned once months ago while proofreading one of Clark’s articles late at night. You hadn’t even remembered saying it aloud.
You opened the cover and there was one line written on the inside:
“For when the days feel too loud.”
Your breath caught. You stared at the handwriting. It wasn’t familiar, but it was careful. Neat. Intentional.
You glanced over at Clark. He was chewing his pen, eyes locked on his screen. When you got back to your desk and said softly, “This was a really thoughtful gift,” he didn’t even turn his head.
But his fingers paused. Just for a second. Like he’d been caught mid-breath.
You let it go, but your heart didn’t.
That week, you watched him more than you should’ve. You noticed how he never touched anyone. Always kept a polite distance. When someone clapped him on the shoulder, he’d stiffen, almost flinch. He walked softly, too, like he didn’t want to be heard.
You wondered what it would take to make him want to be seen.
He’d always had this air of control, like he was holding back something massive just under the surface. And sometimes, when your hands brushed passing each other a file or you leaned too close over his shoulder to look at his screen, you swore he stopped breathing.
It started to drive you crazy.
The way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t looking.
The way he never looked when you wanted him to.
One afternoon, you caught him staring. You were eating lunch at your desk, spinning the stem of a cherry between your fingers, bored out of your mind, when you looked up and saw him.
His eyes were fixed on your mouth.
You popped the cherry into your mouth and bit down slow. Didn’t break eye contact. The juice slid along your lip, warm and red. You licked it away.
“See something you like?” you asked, voice soft.
He looked startled. His gaze snapped back to your eyes, then downward.
Clark opened his mouth like he wanted to explain himself, but couldn’t find the words. His hand was curled tightly around his coffee mug.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured.
And for some reason, that disappointed you.
After that, things got strange. He was quieter, more distant. The next time you went on a date—and made the mistake of mentioning it—he didn’t speak to you for two days. Not coldly. Not mean. Just… gone.
You asked him a question in a meeting, and he gave you the shortest answer possible. No eye contact. No softness. Like someone flipped a switch and shut him off.
You told yourself it didn’t matter.
You weren’t even sure who you were trying to convince anymore—yourself, or the part of you that watched Clark Kent like he held the answers to every ache you never admitted out loud.
It didn’t matter that he’d gone quiet. That he hadn’t said good morning. That he didn’t make a dumb joke when you tripped over the carpet coming back from the printer. That his eyes didn’t linger on your lips anymore.
Because his silence wasn’t cold. It was careful. Surgical. Like he’d studied exactly where to pull back without drawing suspicion. Like he thought the distance would protect you from something.
He didn’t stop being kind. He still held the elevator. Still left you the last good coffee pod in the breakroom. Still moved your cup off your keyboard when you got up and forgot about it.
But he stopped looking at you.
And that was somehow worse than being ignored.
You caught yourself watching him more than you should have. Watching the way his jaw tensed when someone flirted with you. Watching the way he gripped the edge of his desk when you wore lipstick.
At night, you lay awake and remembered his laugh. The softness of it. The way it filled up the air around you like sunlight through a window.
You wondered if he laughed like that for everyone.
You wondered if he’d ever laugh like that with you again.
You started to feel haunted by him—by the absence of him—while he was sitting right there.
And then you started getting bolder.
The cherry was a test. You were eating lunch at your desk, the fruit juicy and sweet, and you noticed him watching you. His gaze locked on your mouth.
You licked the juice off your thumb, slowly.
“See something you like?” you said, meeting his eyes.
He looked wrecked with guilt. Swallowed hard. “I’m sorry.”
You didn’t know why that disappointed you more than anything else.
After that, he got quieter.
The next time you mentioned going on a date, he didn’t speak to you for two days. Not even a nod in passing.
You told yourself it didn’t matter again.
Until one night, you came home, mascara smudged from crying in the Uber, heels in your hand, phone full of texts you didn’t want to answer. You stepped out into the street to get some air—just for a second—and stopped.
There was a figure leaning against a lamppost across from your apartment.
His white button-down was soaked through from the rain, sleeves clinging to his forearms. His hair was wet, a dark curl falling over his brow. No umbrella. Just standing there, unmoving, watching your building like it owed him something.
“Clark?” you called, voice unsure.
You walked down the steps slowly. Water soaked through your socks. Your dress clung to your thighs. A car passed between you, spraying your calves with gutter water, and still he didn’t move.
When the street cleared, you finally saw his face.
Not in the way people usually mean—bags under the eyes or messy hair. No. She looked like she’d given up something just to stand there.
He wanted to fly to wherever that guy lived and make sure he never spoke her name again. He wanted to wrap her in a towel and hold her until she forgot how to frown. He wanted—God, he wanted.
And he couldn’t have her.
He’d left flowers and books and notes because it was the only way he could show love without risking her. Because if she knew—if she saw what he really was—what he could do—
And her voice cracked when she said his name.
And something inside him broke clean open.
“Clark?” she called again, softer now, like a secret.
And then she said the one thing he couldn’t take.
“I don’t want them. I wanted you.”
He was moving before he knew he’d decided. Across the street, through the rain, heart pounding harder than it had on any battlefield. The closer he got, the more he saw—the way her mouth trembled, the way her arms folded across her body like she was holding herself together.
He stopped just inches from her.
She smelled like rain and perfume and everything he’d tried to forget.
His voice cracked when he said it. “You have no idea how long I’ve waited for you to say that.”
She stepped forward. He did too.
He kissed you like he’d been holding back for years.
His hands cupped your face, thumbs stroking your cheeks like he needed to ground himself in you. He tasted like rain and heat and something deeper—something barely controlled. And when you pressed your body against his, feeling just how hard he already was, a desperate sound caught in his throat.
You pulled him upstairs. Not a word between you. Just wet clothes, shaky hands, and every second of longing crashing down all at once.
Inside your apartment, you dropped your purse on the floor and turned to look at him—fully, finally—and he looked like he might fall apart.
His shirt stuck to his chest, sheer in the dim light, outlining muscle and scars you’d only ever imagined. You reached for the hem and started to pull it up, but he caught your wrists.
“Let me,” he said, voice hoarse.
He peeled it off slowly, rain-slick fabric clinging to skin. His eyes never left yours. Not even once.
“You’re shaking,” you whispered.
“I’ve imagined this so many times,” he murmured, “I don’t know if it’s real.”
You stepped close, pressing your palm flat against his chest. His heart thundered under your hand.
“It’s real,” you said. “Touch me.”
Carefully at first. Reverent. His hands slid under your soaked dress, calloused palms gliding up your thighs, fingers trembling. He kissed your neck—soft, then harder. Teeth. Tongue. His breath grew ragged when you moaned.
He whispered your name like a prayer and lifted you in one clean motion, like you weighed nothing.
He laid you down on your bed as if you were made of porcelain. You reached for him, but he shook his head.
“I need to taste you first.”
He sank to his knees at the edge of the bed, hands on your thighs, spreading you open like a gift.
You were already soaked between your legs. He could see it before he even touched you. Glowing with arousal, lips glistening, like your body had been waiting for this as long as his had.
He dropped to his knees, pressing a kiss to the inside of your thigh. You twitched.
“Just relax,” he murmured.
“You’re so wet,” he rasped. “Is this all for me?”
“Say it,” he growled, mouth hovering just above you, breath hot on your soaked folds.
“All for you,” you panted. “Always been for you.”
Clark’s mouth met your pussy with no hesitation—like a man starved. His tongue was slow at first, long strokes from your entrance to your clit, savoring you, tasting every reaction. When you whimpered and arched, he groaned, gripping your thighs tighter.
Because the second his tongue met your pussy—he lost all control.
You were sweet. Warm. Slippery. Better than any dream.
And you tasted like you belonged to him.
He licked a stripe from your entrance to your clit, slow and deliberate. You gasped, back arching, and it made his cock twitch painfully in his pants.
His hands gripped your thighs, fingers digging in just enough to leave marks. He sucked your clit into his mouth and groaned when you moaned his name. He felt you tremble, felt the way you ground into his face like you needed him deeper.
She’s letting me do this. She wants this. She wants me.
Your thighs tightened around his head, and he welcomed it. He buried himself in you, nose nudging your clit, tongue fucking you slowly, then fast, then slow again until your legs were shaking and your hand was yanking his hair.
That did something to him.
He dove back in harder, sucking your clit, fucking you with his tongue, messy and desperate and filthy. You cried out, fisting the sheets, grinding into his mouth like your body couldn’t help it. He moaned when you did, rutting his hips against the bed like he couldn’t take it.
But when you told him to touch you, something inside him snapped.
He wasn’t thinking anymore. He was acting. Driven by every glance you ever gave him, every smile you ever aimed his way, every outfit that made his mouth go dry because he couldn’t stop wondering what was underneath.
And now he had you in front of him. Bare. Soft. Shivering.
“Give it to me,” he growled, licking you through it, holding you open while you shattered against his mouth.
And when you did—when your whole body went tight and you cried out his name like it meant something—he came so close to finishing just from that.
He licked you through it. Slow. Gentle. Thorough.
When he finally pulled back, your chest was heaving, your skin damp with sweat, your eyes half-lidded with need.
And all he could think was:
I’d die between her thighs if she asked.
He didn’t stop until you begged him to.
When he finally rose, his face was soaked with you. His pupils were blown, jaw tight, chest heaving.
“You okay?” he asked, brushing hair from your forehead.
“Yes.”you said, voice cracked and wild.
He cursed under his breath and stood, tugging off the rest of his clothes with shaking hands. When his pants dropped, you saw all of him.
Thick. Heavy. Flushed dark pink at the tip and leaking.
“I’ll go slow,” he said, voice strained. “I’ll stop if it’s too much.”
You reached for him. “I don’t want slow, Clark. I want you inside me now.”
He climbed onto the bed, eyes locked on yours as he lined himself up. He pushed in slowly, stretching you inch by inch, watching your face for any sign of pain.
You gasped when he bottomed out, your legs wrapping around him instinctively.
“Fuck, you feel so good,” he whispered. “So tight. So perfect.”
He started to move—slow thrusts at first, deep and grinding, like he wanted to memorize the way you clenched around him.
You cried out as he hit the perfect spot, and that broke something in him.
He pinned your wrists above your head and fucked you—deep, rhythmic strokes that left you moaning into his mouth as he kissed you between gasps.
“You should’ve been mine this whole time,” he growled. “You’re mine now. Say it.”
“I’m yours,” you gasped. “God—Clark—don’t stop—”
He let go of your wrists to cup your face again, forehead pressed to yours, pace quickening.
“I’m gonna cum,” he groaned, “inside you—if you let me.”
“Do it,” you begged. “Fill me up. Want it so bad.”
His thrusts grew frantic. He cursed again, and then he was coming—hard—his whole body shuddering as he spilled inside you, hips jerking, cock throbbing as he groaned your name like a vow.
You came again just from that.
From him falling apart over you.
He collapsed beside you, pulling you into his arms immediately, still buried deep inside.
His breathing was uneven. His hands trembled as they held your waist.
You weren’t done with him.
He’d kissed you like he was starving, eaten you out like he was dying, and now he sat at the edge of the bed, hands still shaking, mouth still wet with you.
You pushed him back gently, straddling his thighs, and whispered, “Let me take care of you.”
He shook his head. “You don’t have to—”
You kissed him to shut him up.
Then you sank to your knees between his legs, hands already sliding up his thighs, and when you wrapped your fingers around his cock, his whole body shuddered.
He was so thick. So heavy in your hand. Veins bulging, tip flushed and leaking.
“Fuck,” he breathed. “You don’t have to—”
You licked the tip slowly. Just once. His hips jumped.
Then you took him into your mouth, slow and deep, until your lips brushed your hand.
A deep, broken sound that made you throb between your legs.
His hand tangled in your hair—not to force you, just to feel you. Ground himself. His thighs were trembling. His breath ragged.
“God,” he groaned. “You feel—fuck—you feel perfect.”
You sucked harder, spit dripping down your chin, hollowing your cheeks just the way you knew would make him lose it. Every time you pulled off to breathe, you stroked him with your hand, lips swollen, eyes locked on his.
“You’re gonna kill me,” he whispered. “You’re gonna ruin me.”
Then went back down, deeper this time, until he hit the back of your throat. You swallowed around him, humming, and he nearly came right there.
“Baby—wait—if you keep going, I’m gonna—”
You wanted to see him come undone. Wanted to see the man who had held back for so long finally break.
Then he gasped, low and guttural, hips jerking as he came down your throat. Hot. Heavy. Endless. His hand gripped your hair like a lifeline, his eyes squeezed shut, body tense with release.
You swallowed every drop.
When you pulled off, he looked completely wrecked—sweaty, wide-eyed, panting, yours.
You climbed into his lap and kissed him again.
“Still think I didn’t have to?” you teased.
Clark smiled, dazed. “If that’s what I get for shutting up, I’ll never speak again.”
His mouth was still on yours when you felt it—his cock twitching between your legs again.
You pulled back from the kiss, panting. “Already?”
Clark didn’t answer right away. He looked wrecked—hair tousled, lips swollen, chest rising and falling like he was trying to calm something deeper than just breath.
He reached for your face with both hands, cupping you so gently it almost broke you.
“I’ve waited too long to stop at one.”
Your heart slammed in your chest.
You kissed him again, and this time, there was no hesitation. You were already on top of him, thighs straddling his lap, your slick heat pressed against the length of his cock.
He grabbed your hips, steadying you, grinding up between your folds.
You moaned into his mouth.
The stretch as you sank onto him again was deeper now, slower. The first time had been frantic. This was something else.
You braced your hands on his chest, fingernails digging into muscle as you took him all the way in. He hissed through his teeth.
“God, you’re tight—still so tight.”
You started to move—hips rolling, rising and falling, slow at first, then faster. His eyes locked onto where your bodies met, and you heard the ragged growl in his chest.
He looked like he was in pain.
“Is this what you’ve been wanting?” you whispered.
His fingers gripped your waist tighter. “Since the first day I saw you.”
You rocked harder. The sound of skin slapping echoed around the room, wet and fast and so good. Sweat slid down your spine. His eyes never left your face—even when he was losing it, even when he groaned your name like a prayer.
You leaned down to kiss his neck, biting just enough to make him gasp.
“I love how you sound,” you murmured. “Love how you beg.”
He thrust up hard, surprising you.
Then he flipped you—fast, dizzying—and suddenly you were beneath him, wrists pinned above your head, legs spread wide as he sank back in, deeper than ever.
Thrusting into you like it was the last thing he’d ever do. Like he needed to claim you from the inside.
“You feel like heaven,” he groaned. “Like you were made for me.”
You clawed at his back. “Don’t stop.”
He fucked you like a man losing his mind—fast, deep, hard. Your body was shaking beneath him, crying out with every stroke, your vision blurring with the intensity of it.
His forehead dropped to yours. “Come for me again. I want to feel you.”
You did. Loud and fast and helpless, your whole body clenching around him as you came.
He followed you seconds later, growling deep in his throat, holding you tight as he spilled into you, trembling with it.
You lay there tangled, chests rising and falling together.
He kissed your temple. Your cheek. Your mouth.
Then he whispered the thing you were both too scared to say before:
“I want you. Not just like this. I want you.”
And this time, you let yourself believe it.
You barely made it into work on time.
Everything still ached—in a very specific, thoroughly satisfied way. Your blouse collar was tugged just a little too high to cover the fading bruise Clark left with his mouth. Your gait? Not quite a limp, but not far from it.
You were trying to keep your head down, heart still buzzing from Clark’s Good morning, sweetheart whispered in the hallway when Lois cornered you in the copy room.
“So…” she said slowly. “How’s your weekend?”
“Mm. Fine. Right.” She stepped forward, pulled a folder from the copier, and gave you a look. “You’re glowing like you just had a religious experience. And Kent came in with his shirt inside out.”
Lois smiled like a cat who had the cream. “You missed a button, by the way. And there’s a very suspicious mark under your left ear.”
Your hand shot up to cover it.
“Please tell me you didn’t let the Boy Scout hit and run,” she whispered. “Because if you broke Clark Kent’s heart, I’ll break your kneecaps.”
You blinked at her, mouth dry. “I… we…”
“Oh, sweetie,” she said. “You’re in so deep.”
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