Pent up
clark kent x f!reader
summary: clark’s been crushing on you for weeks now. at night, you’re all he thinks about. but it just feels wrong to let his hands wander to places they don’t belong and think about you. so you might need to help him out.
cw: smut (mdni), referenced masturbation (m), a little surprise I don’t wanna give away yet, handjob (m receiving), oral (m receiving), implied legal age difference
wc: 4k
a/n: well. um. i just like to make clark whimper in my fics. happy valentine’s day ♡
He is as hard as a rock. And aching. But he can’t do it.
Clark won’t let his hand brush along his belly, slip into his boxers, and wrap around his cock. It would be so wrong. So sinful. So completely corruptive.
He can’t picture sweet you, even as his tip grows a dark red color, all the blood in his body rushing south. He won’t let his mind recall the softness of your skin or the way you smiled at him when you shook his hand as you first met. He doesn’t allow himself to remember the cute little outfits you wear to work—shirts cut low enough to make his heart beat faster, skirts short enough to make his pants tighter.
He won’t do it.
Not when you’re possibly the sweetest girl he’s ever seen.
So pure and so not meant for his fantasies.
It’s not the first time Clark has encountered this problem. He believes it’s the way he was raised. He is supposed to honor and respect women, not make them the focal point of his dirty daydreams. Back when he had crushes in high school or college, he’d run into a wall—a wall of celibacy for however long the crush lasted.
He just couldn’t get off while thinking about the girl of his dreams.
And that has led him right here.
Flushed cock straining against the cotton of his underpants, his balls painfully tight. Every bit of friction almost sends him over the edge—just the adjustment of his hips has him thrusting into the air in desperation.
But he’s blocked. He can’t. He couldn’t possibly.
When he had come home from work, he immediately went for a run to try and burn off all the energy that was flooding through his body. The distraction hadn’t worked. As soon as sweat began to pearl on his temples, his mind had wandered to you, and in what other situation he might be coated in sweat.
So he took a shower, warm first, then cold, because the steam had clouded his mind even more. Being naked also didn’t help.
Then he ate dinner. Tried to watch a show. Tried to read. Tried to think about corn fields and cow manure and his first heartbreak—but it all had led him back to you.
You’ve occupied his mind like a virus. And his dick just won’t stop throbbing.
He is close to tears by now. Anxiously, he picks at a loose thread on his pants, then has to remove his hands because they’re too close to where he needs them.
Nothing works.
And he is about to die. Either from spontaneous combustion (one way or another), or from embarrassment.
He’s too old to have blue balls because of a girl. A woman, he means.
Sleep won’t come to him, and part of him thinks it might be for the better. He doesn’t want to wake up to ruined sheets and morning wood. But he’d do anything for some relief. A short break, however momentarily, from his tightly drawn muscles. His teeth clench hard enough that he hears them grind.
Temptation, sweet as the devil himself, screams at him.
He presses his palm over his bulge and instantly groans out loud. Bad idea.
Clark is a good man, but he keeps having to remind himself of that. As the night creeps by, every second stretching longer, his fingers twitch, his legs begin to shake, but he doesn’t give in.
By morning, he feels like he got crushed by a planet.
His shirt crumpled, his hair messy, and his bulge awkwardly hidden behind his bag, Clark stumbles into the bullpen with his usual lack of grace. He almost takes out Jimmy, who looks at him with a mix of concern and annoyance, then knocks into Lois. She says something to him, but he can’t make it out.
As he turns back to call out an apology to her, he trips over his own feet and bumps into… you.
He almost cums in his pants as your bodies connect.
There you are—a bewildered smile on your face as you stagger back a couple of steps and then chuckle.
“You in a hurry, Kent?” you ask.
He gulps heavily and has to force his eyes to stick to your face. He can’t look at your outfit, can’t see the way your blouse fits snugly around your chest or the way your pants hug your hips like they were sewn onto you.
Mission unsuccessful.
Clark clears his throat twice, then almost chokes on his spit as he shakes his head.
“Don’t… uh… I don’t wanna be late again,” he explains hastily and receives another strange look from you.
“You’re early for once,” you inform him after a glance at your watch.
“Oh, really?” he stutters, then looks anywhere but at you.
“Yes—“ you laugh softly, “Clark, are you okay? You seem a little… off?”
His hand grips his bag tighter and holds it up—terribly indiscreetly—higher.
“I’m great,” he squeaks, “Just… didn’t get much sleep last night. How- how are you?”
You take your time with your answer as you inspect him critically, attempting to catch his eyes. He avoids your gaze and instead focuses on the printer behind you.
“I’m good,” ends up being your reply, but he barely even hears you over the ringing in his ear. He’s sure that every ounce of blood he possesses is currently located in his cock.
“Are you sure you’re alright?” you ask, then take a step towards him. “Are you sick? You look a little flushed.”
Clark sees your hand coming up to his forehead and practically jumps away from you.
“No! I mean, no, I’m great. Yeah, I’m-I’m, um, better than great. Lots of work to do. See you!”
He rounds the next corner he sees, and just barely misses the disappointed look on your face as he disappears.
The next few hours are pure torture. His cock won’t go down, no matter how much he immerses himself in checking his grammar in his latest article. Maybe the lack of sleep is getting to him, because he’s sure he’s started hallucinating.
Twice, he thought he saw you walking behind him in the reflection of his laptop screen. Both times, he whipped his head around just to see his colleagues look at him with concern.
Your perfume lingers. His sense of smell is already enhanced just by his alien nature, but today, it takes the cake. Clark makes himself a cup of coffee and almost drowns in it as he tilts the cup far up his nose in order to flood his olfactory receptors with something other than you.
The brown liquid spills across his already messy shirt, and he hisses out of reflex. The heat doesn’t really hurt him, but he’s so pent up that every bit of external stimulation has him gasping for air.
Then he hears you call his name. Worry clings to every syllable, and he sees you stepping closer, your eyebrows drawn tight.
He short-circuits.
The cup hits the surface of the kitchen counter so hard that he is surprised it doesn’t shatter. Then he speed walks. Past Perry’s office door, down the corridor, right into the first coat closet he can find. Darkness envelops him, and for a few seconds, he feels some semblance of peace.
Until you catch up to him.
Your knuckles rap against the door in three sharp knocks, then your voice follows. “Clark, my gosh, are you okay? Are you hurt?”
He can picture the concern on your face, but he really shouldn’t picture you at all because that makes his pants even tighter.
When he doesn’t answer, your pitch rises. “Did you burn yourself? Do you need me to get the first aid kit?”
He doesn’t hear anything past the ‘needing you’ part and almost replies with yes.
As he leans back against the wall, the cooling surface grounds him for a second. The tips of his fingers brush against the cold concrete, and he swears a clear thought surfaces in his head for just a moment.
It vanishes without a trace once you speak up again. “Clark, can you please answer me?”
The fool in him yearns for you. He knows he shouldn’t open the door, but the devil on his shoulder whispers that a glimpse of you might make things easier.
He pushes himself off the wall and wraps his fingers around the door handle, then presses down.
You’re revealed to him like a new piece of art in a museum, taking away his breath and ability to speak. The soft frown on your face makes you look even sweeter, you with your lips slightly parted and eyebrows knitted together, and his corrupted mind tells him he could make you look like this again under different circumstances.
“I…” his voice gives out as he stands before you, his head barely sticking out the door.
“I’m really sorry,” he tries again.
“What? What are you sorry for?” you ask.
Clark closes his eyes for a brief moment, then meets your gaze again.
“I’m… I’m kind of dealing with a- a situation right now, and, um, it’s… It’s private,” he mumbles. Whatever blood not needed to keep his cock erect at the moment finds its way to his cheeks.
You only look more confused.
He scrambles for words but doesn’t find any.
“Can I… can I do something to help?” you question carefully.
An involuntary smile ghosts across his face as he thinks about all the things you could do to help. He’d very much like to kick himself. “No, it’s… it’s, uh,…” Once again, he runs out of words and lets his head fall against the door frame.
“Clark, whatever it is, I’d like to make it better. You seem upset,” you mumble gently.
He can’t take it. Not your kindness, not your sweetness, not the softness of your voice.
“Honey-“ the nickname falls from his lips before he can stop it, “This really isn’t something you should see.”
Your eyes widen slightly, and you take a step back. While Clark is actively trying not to look at you, he still sees the way you begin to examine him ever closer, letting your eyes drift over him in search of something to explain his behavior. Even though he’s barely visible with just his head showing, he shifts uncomfortably—every voice in his head is screaming at him to just hurt your feelings for a second and shut the door in your face instead of scaring you away with his… pant situation.
As he awkwardly fumbles with the door, he takes a step forward and immediately regrets it, but there’s no way of taking it back. Your eyes keep wandering, and they keep getting lower, and then he hears it—your gasp.
It’s a sound he catalogues for another day; he really shouldn’t think about it too much right now.
The sharp intake of air turns into something much more horrifying: a giggle.
You instantly press your hand against your lips, but the sound still reaches his ears, just a little muffled this time. A mixture of mild guilt and amusement twists your face into an expression Clark can’t quite read.
He wishes he would faint.
“Clark,” you mumble, a little sheepishly so, “Is that why you won’t come out?”
The ‘that’ is adorned with a vague gesture to his groin, and even just the most minimal approach of your hand to that specific region makes his skin burn even hotter.
“It’s… it’s not what it looks like,” Clark stutters, then sighs. It’s exactly what it looks like. “I mean,” he begins again, “I… I… I’m sorry.”
Your mild laughter follows, but quickly dies down when Clark’s face drops from embarrassed to mortified. “Gosh, Clark, you don’t need to apologize,” you reply, then take a step closer. He whimpers uncomfortably and foolishly leaves his post at the door to retreat further into the coat closet. You follow instantly, and Clark wonders whether he can really hold his breath for an hour because it suddenly seems like there’s no oxygen left in the small room.
“I mean it,” you say, “There’s no need to be embarrassed. This is… natural, and you know, you just… gotta let things happen.”
He shakes his head vehemently, and the corners of your mouth twitch traitorously.
“Clark…” You say his name like a mother scolding a child. “It’s really not a big deal. You can either just wait for, um, it to go down, or, you know, take care of yourself.”
Clark’s eyes shut involuntarily, and he starts recalling all the mayors of Metropolis in his head—just to block out your voice as you dare to even imply the concept of masturbation as a way out of this.
The air in the room thickens as you step close enough that he can feel the warmth from your body pulsing against his. “So?” you ask, “What’s it gonna be?”
He swallows thickly before he opens his eyes. Then stares dumbfounded and counts your individual lashes. You’ve never stood this close to him, and it’s safe to say that you’re even more beautiful like this.
“I’ve tried—” his voice cracks, so he clears his throat and begins again, “I’ve tried to wait it out. Didn’t work out.”
Your eyebrows scrunch together. “When did this start?” you ask.
Since the ground doesn’t open beneath him to swallow him whole, Clark has to answer. “Yesterday evening.”
You make a sound that’s half chortle, half pity. “Then maybe you just need to—”
“No.” The word comes out equally harsh and desperate. His eyes bore into yours, and you grow quiet. It really doesn’t help that you won’t stop staring at him.
“It’s not something to be ashamed of,” you murmur, “Everyone does it.”
That is arguably the worst thing you could’ve said because now Clark has that image in his head. You. You alone. Your hands slipping down and past the waistline of your panties, right between those soaked folds—
“I can’t do that,” he confesses quietly.
Your mouth falls open. “Like… never?”
He shakes his head. “No, I mean… yes, I’ve done it, but I can’t do it at the moment,” he clarifies.
“Why not? You could just… go to the bathroom, or to your car if you’re uncomfortable here or—” you propose, but he holds up a hand.
“It’s not about the place,” Clark says timidly. He knows he’s treading into dangerous territory now.
“Then what’s it about?” you question. You’ve hit the jackpot. This is already the worst day of his life, so he might as well make it even more horrible.
He takes a deep breath that almost hurts his lungs. Anxiety fills his chest, and he opens his mouth multiple times to say it before he finally manages.
“Because when I try… I see your face. And I can’t… I can’t do it, not when you’re there,” he explains lowly. Shame floods his veins, and he drops his head down to stare at the vinyl flooring.
You squeak in surprise. “You imagine me?” you echo, your voice raising an octave and a half from your usual tone.
He might not be able to look at you, but he starts apologizing instantly. “Please, you gotta believe me, I don’t do it on purpose, you’re just… very beautiful, and of course very smart, too, and I—”
This time, you interrupt him. “Oh, Clark, it’s alright,” you assure him softly, “It’s… it’s really flattering.”
He winces.
“No, I mean it,” you insist, then reach out. Your fingers press against his chin, lifting it so that he’s forced to meet your eyes, which watch him so tenderly that he might be able to forgive himself. Might. “Does that mean you like me?” you blurt suddenly.
Clark should’ve seen that coming Now’s the time.
He doesn’t feel like the strongest man alive when he nods. “Yeah,” he whispers.
Next thing he knows, your lips are on his. He gasps into your mouth, every single one of his neurons giving up simultaneously before he groans and kisses you back.
It takes a moment for the rest of his limbs to catch up, but then he quickly finds himself wrapping his arms around you to pull you closer to his chest. You taste like that tea you always drink and just… you. He closes his eyes and curls himself down towards you, then tightens his grip around you as your lips move against his.
Relief, like he’s never felt before, flushes his system, and he moans softly.
You feel the growing wetness between the two of you first. A faint stain on the front of Clark’s slacks forms as his spent spills. He registers it half a second after you and almost jumps out of his skin.
Pink creeps up his neck as he sputters, “Gosh, I… um, I’m so sorry, this doesn’t happen usually…”
You shush him gently, then cup his face. You pull him in for one more kiss before you whisper, “It’s okay.”
Clark drops his forehead against yours and groans softly.
“This is so not how I imagined telling you that I like you,” he mutters.
“How did you imagine it?”
“Less claustrophobic and embarrassing,” he replies.
You chuckle, then glance up at him. “Let’s get you some tissues and make up some excuse why we both need to do a half day, okay?” you offer.
Clark freezes up slightly, and you tilt your head.
“I- I can’t go out there yet,” he murmurs.
“We’re gonna be really quick, no one’s gonna see you,” you promise, then try to take his hand, but he stops you.
“No, I mean…” he gestures down to himself, and you see the problem. Clark is still hard.
“Oh,” you say dumbly.
He nods and exhales heavily.
“Well, if that’s the case, then let’s do something about it,” you conclude.
Just as Clark is about to ask what you were planning, your hands fly to his waistband. He feels the warmth of your fingers through his clothes, even the smooth texture of your skin, as you glance up at him, waiting for him to stop you.
He doesn’t.
The button pops much quicker than he had expected, and the sound of his fly being undone follows just as instantaneously. He watches you work, taking off his pants and shoving down his boxers with such vigor and gentleness alike.
His mind starts working again when his cock springs free, blushed and slick with his previous load. You gasp at the size of him. “Sweetheart,” another nickname he let slip, “You- you can’t do this here, and you also don’t have to.”
“Yes, I can,” you reply, “And I know I don’t have to. But if you want me to, I’ll do it gladly.”
Time freezes for a moment. Clark’s lips part, but no sound escapes. Then he nods.
Not able to wait any longer, your fingers wrap around the base, and you give him a slight squeeze, which causes Clark to moan out loud.
“Gosh,” he whines, “Your- your hands are really soft.”
As you begin to work him, Clark finds himself staggering back until his back hits the wall. The feel of your fingers gliding over his slick cock, using his earlier spent as lube, is indescribable. He babbles words and makes sounds he doesn’t remember half a second later, and his hips roll up into your hand like the waves to the moon.
“Jeez, sweetheart,” he whispers, his eyes rolling back as you grip him tighter and twist your wrist each time you reach his tip, “What did I do to deserve this?”
A mischievous grin settles on your face as you look up at him. The first thing you register about him is the glassy look in his eyes, then the furrow between his brows as he thrusts into your hand.
“You don’t need to do anything to deserve this,” you mumble softly.
A groan that originated deep from his chest breaks free when you swipe your thumb through his slit, collecting pre-cum. Clark’s eyes flutter shut, and you use that moment to drop to your knees.
He’s so lost in the pleasure that Clark doesn’t notice until you replace your fingers with your lips as you pepper soft kisses along the side of his shaft. He meets your eyes, his own shimmering with tears of need.
“’s that what you want?” he questions timidly.
When you nod, you feel him pulse against your lips. Your tongue slips out, and with the tip of it, you trace one of the prominent veins on his thick cock. His salty flavor blooms in your mouth. Your shier kitten licks into something slower, more confident.
It’s truly over for Clark when your lips part far enough that his cock slips past them. He’s heavy on your tongue, and your jaw already begins to hurt as you open your mouth further to accommodate his size.
“Oh shoot, honey,” Clark groans, “You’re… you feel so good. So warm and perfect…”
His praise is accompanied by involuntary mini thrusts of his pelvis. His tip hits the back of your throat, and you almost choke on him. Spit collects in one of the corners of your mouth and dribbles down your chin as you relax your muscles to take him in further.
You wrap your fingers around the rest of his cock that doesn’t fit in your mouth, then begin to bob your head up and down.
“Gosh dang it, you’re- you’re killing me,” Clark grunts. He can’t help the way his hips twitch forward, burying his cock further down your throat every time. You swallow around him, taking in more and more until you’re at Clark’s mercy to decide when you breathe and when you don’t.
And still, he’s gentle. He watches you from half-lidded eyes, but he’s aware of every inch of him. You can see it in his face that he’s close, but he doesn’t grow aggressive or hasty. He reaches for you, threads his fingers through your hair, but doesn’t yank. Instead, he strokes your cheek as the neatly trimmed hair at his base tickles your nose.
Tears stream down your face as he throbs in your mouth, and he catches them with his thumb.
“I’m gonna cum, sweet girl,” he manages to groan, and you nod. But you don’t let him go.
Clark’s eyes widen.
“You want me to… here?” he asks, disbelief apparent in his voice. You nod again, as best as you can.
Clark’s breathing changes, turning more rapid. He can’t take his eyes off of you, even as his balls tighten. He pulls out enough that he won’t come right down your throat. Instead, he spills in your mouth, where warm and salty headiness leaks across your tongue. You try to swallow every drop he gives you, struggling to keep up with the load he pumps out.
Clark falls back against the wall, his chest heaving, but he tugs you with him. For a moment, you both simply sit there, his arms wrapped around you, and the flavor of him just dissipating. Then he speaks up.
“We’re both taking that half day,” he mumbles against your hair, “And the rest of the week.”
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