summary: clark can't stop thinking about you even though he's supposed to be working. when his thoughts take a more scandalous route, he takes refuge in the daily planet's secluded supply closet.
content: down bad clark, male masturbation, nefarious use of the planet's supply closet, and even more nefarious fantasy material from clark.
word count: 2.4k
author's note: me 🤝 writing pathetic clark kent. currently needing a man that will stroke it to my heart beat fr... hope y'all enjoy!
It is unfair, really, just how much space you take up in Clark Kent’s brain. One simple work place crush and he is almost brought to his knees.
He knows he should be using said brain to focus on drafting his newest “interview” with Superman, but all thoughts eventually lead back to you. More specifically, the sound of you sitting just a couple of desks away.
Clark’s superhearing can pick up even the smallest sound, from the soft whisper of your breathing to your fingers tapping across the keyboard. All day, his ears have picked up on every one of those little noises; it’s almost like he’s specifically programmed to listen to you and only you. He hears every little sigh from your lips, every little laugh you give your shared coworkers. Sometimes, when the newsroom quiets down just enough, the quiet rush of blood through your veins under your skin.
Clark finds himself wondering what it would feel like to trace that blood flow with the tips of his fingers. Where would his hands end up? If he started from your heart, his fingers would soon follow the curve of your ribs, skimming over your lungs. Would that make you sigh? Would goosebumps erupt over your skin at that? What if he replaces his hands with his lips? He thinks of the kind of sounds he could pull from you while littering your skin with small kisses as he traces that flow down. The thought alone makes his breath catch. What other sounds could he draw from you as he pressed soft kisses along the path of that pulse? Would your heartbeat drown out everything else- or would it grow even louder beneath his mouth?
What about when his mouth goes even lower? He swears he can already feel the tremor of your skin under his hands as they follow his lips lower and lower, until they eventually drag below your navel and lower and lower…
Clark shakes his head quickly. Not here. Not now. Not you. The middle of a workday is no place for this. Hell, maybe even in the privacy of his own bedroom is not the place for this. You’re his coworker, his sexy, beautiful, and captivating coworker. And he definitely doesn’t imagine you in the wee hours of the night, where most of the bustling city falls asleep, as he lies, tossing and turning in his bed, totally not wondering what it feels like with you right next to him, embracing him, teasing him, touching him.
He shifts in his seat, jaw tight, willing the heat in his gut to fade. He cannot continue those thoughts. The absolute last thing he needs is to get hard at work, where fantasies of you have no room. He tries his best to ignore the arousal building in him and get back to his neglected article. The blank page in front of him burns into his eyes, and he takes a deep breath in, equal parts frustration and arousal coming in droves.
It isn’t his fault, Clark could argue. It totally isn’t his fault that he finds himself completely drawn to you, like a moth to a very bright flame or like a bee to a particularly pretty flower. Only you’re more alluring than any flame or flower on this planet, and that’s Clark’s biggest problem right now. You’re dangerous. More like a whirlpool, pulling him and his thoughts down and down until he’s flooded by thoughts of you- the tingle of your breath against his neck, the ghost of your lips on the column of his throat, the warmth of your thighs around his waist-
Wow, he really needs to stop that particular train of thought. He closes his eyes and takes another deep breath, but that only brings another memory: this morning, when you brushed against him in passing. The way you laughed when he steadied you by the waist has his heart stammering against his ribcage. Clark swears he can still feel the warmth of you pressed close, see the shape of your mouth as you murmured something about getting back to work.
He swallows hard, eyes still closed. The heat flares again, deep and insistent, and this time, it doesn’t fade. It spreads down until he can feel himself hardening and pressing against the zipper of his favorite work slacks. Shoot.
Clark’s problem has just become exponentially more difficult to conceal. It doesn’t help that you’re oblivious to his crumbling resolve, making his plight all the more insufferable. He decides he needs to get far away from you and your pull, but where can he go? The obvious tent in his pants would make it difficult to go too far. There is no way he will be able to stay at this desk and will it away with you so close, and he definitely doesn’t want to chance you someone else seeing it.
Clark is convinced his brain has turned into something hazy and liquid. All he can think about is you- how the hell is he supposed to fix this? He glances around the newsroom, looking for any more ideas. A Superman emergency clearly won’t work, considering there is no actual emergency. The stairwell and fire escape are too populated thanks to the Planet’s old, faulty elevators. Maybe the restroom? No, there’s hardly any privacy with those stupid stalls to deal with his not-so-little problem. Darn it.
Finally, after what feels like an eternity, a plausible idea takes shape in his brain. It's a dangerous, risky idea, but it's also incredibly appealing.
He glances around the bullpen to see everyone still busy. Jimmy is tapping something out on his phone, barely looking up from his screen. Perry White is in his office, door half-closed as usual. Lois and Cat appear to be in a heavy discussion by the coffee machine, and Steve is, well… Steve. He can see that you're still working, too focused on your own screen to notice his gaze lingering on you. The coast is clear.
Quickly, he stands up, grabbing a random file on his desk that he holds conveniently low enough to cover his crotch. Clark casually makes his way through the newsroom, taking it slow, just like he's simply heading to the restroom. But instead of veering left down the hall to the restrooms, he veers right in the direction of an old, barely used supply closet. Making sure no one is around to see him, Clark slips into the closet, silently closing the door behind him.
It's quiet in here. Quiet and peaceful, the sounds from the newsroom softened to a dull murmur through the door. He closes his eyes- and suddenly, he's hyper-aware that he's alone in a storage room. Alone, and thinking of you.
Instead of calming down, which, believe it or not, was Clark's original goal when sneaking in here, his body suddenly ramps up. He swallows hard, eyes still closed, but his dick throbs under the tight confines of his boxers and tights. He lets out a shaky exhale, pressing his head back against the wall as a familiar feeling starts to pool low in his hips. It'd be so easy. He's alone, away from everyone… and you're right out in the newsroom, just out of sight…
"Stop it," he mutters, but it doesn't help. The image of you is still vivid in his mind- too vivid, too easy to picture. He lets out another shaky exhale, shifting against the wall like he's trying to get away from his own brain and the thoughts it keeps producing.
He's trying to ignore it, trying to think of anything, any other thing to take his mind off the ache building inside him. He tries counting, reciting his times table, even recalling baseball stats in his head. But even that doesn't work- not when one of the thoughts that flashes through his mind is what it would sound like if you whispered his name.
And that almost breaks his resolve completely. Clark bites his lip, trying not to think about the sound of his name on your lips. But the more he tries not to think about it, the more real the image in his mind becomes. He can almost hear you whispering it, soft and breathy and pleading…
Clark glances at the closet door again, silently calculating. He could be incredibly fast when he wants to, and everyone's still working, completely unaware he's even missing. There is a very high chance he can pull this off without being caught. And suddenly the idea is too good to ignore.
He moves fast, like lightning, as his hand slips into his pants, fingers closing around himself over the fabric of his underwear. Just one touch and he's already so hard it hurts. He lets out a soft gasp, eyes squeezing shut as he starts to stroke, slow at first, testing the waters.
Clark's eyes flutter open, watching the faint light beneath the closet door like it's some lifeline. The sounds of the newsroom beyond that he can hear faintly through the door are making him lose his mind. He realizes he can still hear you, and God does that almost do him in right there.
Clark hears the soft tap of your foot on the office floor below you. He focuses his hearing, straining his ears to block all other sounds but yours. The absentminded sighs that leave your lips every now and again, the sound of your voice, the clicking of your mouse as your fingers tap it… You have no idea what effect you're having on him, no idea what you're doing to him without even trying. He can’t help the way his hand starts to pick up, strokes becoming a little quicker and more purposeful now.
He tries to picture what you look like at this very moment. When you’re deep in concentration, the tip of your pen often finds its way between your lips, snug against your teeth. Are you focusing right now? Are your soft, pillowy lips wrapped around the tip of your poor pen? His mind conjures up an even more explicit image of you, one where your lips are dangerously close to wrapping around his tip instead.
Clark bites down on his lower lip until it hurts. His hand has now found itself snaking under the waistband of his underwear, tips of his fingers finally touching the overheated skin of his cock. When he finally wraps his hand around his throbbing, aching shaft, he releases his lip and grits his teeth hard. Holy smokes, does he wish it were your soft hand wrapping around him instead. If he thinks hard enough, it almost feels like it. He can almost feel your velvety fingers trace the vein on the side of him, stopping when they reach the head to brush away the small dribble of precum collected there. His hips stutter when he imagines your voice, low and sultry, whispering into his ear, “You’re so hard for me, baby. I got you, let me make you feel good, yeah?”
He just barely catches the sound of your name in his throat. His breaths come fast now, quick and erratic. He can still hear you in the office, still see you working at your desk like nothing's happening. Part of him is horrified at himself for this. He's not supposed to be this desperate. He's supposed to be a hero, a symbol of hope, a protector.
But right now? The only thing on his mind is you, and that one thought is burning like a fire in his heart. His hand speeds up even more, a blur over his dick as it moves up and down. It detours every few strokes to circle around his tip. Every time his calloused thumb flicks over his weeping, a sharp pang of pleasure wracks through him that has his hips jerking off the wall into his hand. He can’t help the way his mouth parts slightly, letting small pants fill up the overheating supply closet.
It doesn't take long for him to get close to the edge, and he has to bite down on his other hand to keep himself quiet. Clark zeros in on the sound of you once more, desperate to have some part of you to hang onto while he is falling apart by his own hands in this stupid closet. This time, he is able to focus enough to hear your heartbeat through the walls- a soft, consistent thud thud he swears he can feel deep down in the marrow of his bones. The sound fills his brain, like a solid tether to you that reassures him you're right there while you’re so far.
Without even realizing it, your soft, steady rhythm begins guiding his hand down his dick. You're perfectly in sync despite the fact that you're still working, oblivious to the sinful task he's doing. He’s so close to cumming, his breath hitching in his throat, every muscle taut with anticipation. One hand still jerks himself beneath the fabric, moving with quiet desperation, fast and tight, and the other presses hard against his mouth to muffle the desperate whines that escape his throat.
Clark continues touching himself to the beat of your heart. His entire world narrows to you, for you, with you. The pleasure is so hot, overwhelming all his senses. Every drag of his fingers down his shaft has his thighs trembling and stomach tensing. He’s almost there, right on the edge of that cliff, and it only takes a few more strokes before he falls over. Please please plea-
His brain goes blank as the image of your face-the idea of your sounds and touches- spins in his head, and suddenly he's falling head first, his whole body shaking with it. Thick ropes of cum spurt from his tip, soaking into the fabric of his underwear and smearing down his cock as he pumps himself through it.
His orgasm all but slams into him, quickly spreading through his body and numbing his mind. Clark’s knees buckle with he force, and his head falls back against the wall with a harsh thud. He cries out against his hand. The obscene sound spilling out of his lips is thankfully caught by his hand that is harshly pressed against his mouth, and he continues whimpering and panting as he begins coming down.
For a minute, everything is perfectly, blissfully quiet. His own heart beats in his ears, but all too soon that fades. Clark is suddenly very aware of how his boxers are sticky and uncomfortable, reminding him of the reality at hand. Clark tries to get a hold of himself, breathing hard as the sound of the newsroom slowly comes back into focus. His hand drops limply from his mouth, and he swallows thickly.
“What the hey was that?” he thinks, stiffening against the wall behind him as he tries to catch his breath. It's not like him to be that careless, that impulsive. He's supposed to be better- he’s the man of steel for crying out loud!
But then he thinks of you, still working at your desk in the office, still completely oblivious.
Golly, if you knew what he'd just done… he thinks he would actually die.
thank you for reading! please let me know what you thought of it :)
