#superman thoughts

You blink. Clark-y? What the hell does that even mean?

And that’s when you hear him laugh. Really laugh.

That’s it. That’s the crack. A fine, hairline fracture in whatever unspoken arrangement the two of you have been delicately well stupidly balancing.

You stand, a little too fast.

“I’m going to grab coffee,” you say, mostly to the air.

Clark looks up. “Want me to come with?”

“Nope.” You’re already walking away.

Behind you, the intern giggles again.

You’re back from the coffee run, to-go cup in hand and pride barely intact, when a voice stops you cold.

“Sorry—hold it right there. Light’s hitting you just right.”

You blink, turning toward the source.

He’s standing by the east-facing window, DSLR slung across his chest, a lopsided smile pulling at his lips. Tousled hair, scruff like it’s grown in defiance, and the posture of someone who doesn’t know how not to be confident.

“I’m the new photographer,” he says, as if reading your mind. “Caleb.” He adds extending a polite hand to you

You raise an eyebrow suspiciously before shaking it. “And you just take candids of coworkers without asking?”

“Only when they look that good holding caffeine.”

It should make you roll your eyes. It should. But something inside you, the same something that had to endure Miss Clark-y 20 minutes ago nudges you to tilt your head, just a little and let him snap some photos.

You smirk just a little. It’s harmless. It’s fun. And most importantly, you know exactly who’s watching from the corner of the bullpen, hand halfway to his glasses like he’s pretending to clean them.

Clark.

He’s facing his screen, but his ears are pink. You know that pink.

“Anyway,” Caleb says, stepping back, “if I’m ever assigned to your stories, we should, uh, coordinate. Lunch maybe. Talk shop.”

You nod. “I’ll think about it.”

And just like that, he walks away. No lingering, no pushiness. Just a lingering impression and a very obvious audience.

You don’t even have to look to feel Clark’s gaze. Not just watching. Tracking.

You take one slow sip from your coffee and return to your desk like nothing happened. The rest of the work day drags on with you avoiding Clark's glances and heading straight home after.

--

Your phone buzzes just as you’re about to put it on Do Not Disturb.

Clark Kent

You hesitate. One beat. Two. Three. Then answer.

“Didn’t peg you as a night owl Mr. Kent,” you say, voice soft in the dark.

Clark chuckles. You can hear the faint rustle of his sheets. He’s in bed.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he says. “Thought I’d call my favorite insomniac.”

“Oh? And here I thought I was just your coworker.”

“You know better than that.”

There’s a pause a thick and warm and familiar one.

You let it hang a moment longer. “Hmmm… what’s on your mind?”

“I don’t know,” he says casually. “Just wondering how your day went. You were… smiley.”

You blink at the ceiling. “Am I not allowed to smile?”

“You are. It’s just…” He trails off. “New guy got you grinning like that on day one?”

You smirk, biting your bottom lip. “You mean Caleb?”

“Is that his name? I didn’t know; he didn’t come by and take my picture.”

You laugh. “You’re not even pretending to be subtle.”

“I’m just curious,” he says, too quickly. “Didn’t realize you liked… confident guys with man buns and vintage cameras.”

“He doesn’t wear a man bun, Clark. Is that jealousy I hear?”

“Nope.” He’s quiet for a second too long. “Just trying to figure out what your type is.”

You let that hang in the air.

“I don’t think I have a type,” you murmur. “But I do like when a guy makes an effort.”

He exhales. “I make an effort.”

“Do you?”

“Hey, I brought you soup when you were sick.”

“And I never said thank you properly.” Your voice softens, slow and warm. “You’re sweet, Clark.”

Another silence. Then “I don’t want to just be sweet.”

That does something to you.

You shift under your blankets, suddenly too aware of the sound of his voice through the line.

“So you’re calling me for a bedtime confession?”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “Maybe. Or maybe I just… didn’t like seeing someone else flirt with you.”

“Why?”

“Because…” His voice dips lower. “I prefer being the reason you blush.”

You’re quiet.

Clark clears his throat like he said too much. “Anyway. Sorry. Didn’t mean to make this weird.”

“It’s not weird.”

Another pause.

“You make me act weird, you know that?” he says.

You smile into your pillow. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

Clark laughs, soft and wrecked. “Goodnight.”

“Night.”

“Sweet dreams.” He adds.

“Dream sweet and of me,” You add with a smile before hanging up.

—

You don’t expect anything when you walk in.

No follow-up to the flirt-heavy, “I don’t want to just be sweet” phone call. Just normal Clark behavior: polished, polite, maybe a little sheepish for opening up the way he did.

You definitely don’t expect your exact coffee order, oat milk, half pump vanilla, cinnamon on top sitting on your desk like it manifested from a dream.

You stop. Stare.

There’s a sticky note stuck to the lid:

Figured I owed you caffeine after that late call. – C

Your stomach flutters.

You barely have time to recover before Kat waltzes past, side-eyeing your cup.

“Oof. Is that from who I think it’s from?”

You shrug, playing dumb. “No idea.”

“Sure,” she snorts.

9:05 a.m.

You’ve just settled back at your desk when Clark appears. Not his usual notebook-in-hand work mode. He strolls in like he owns the place. His sleeves rolled to the elbows. Glasses on dangerously close to heartthrob-who-reads-poetry territory.

And he’s beaming. Like nothing in the world is wrong.

He leans against your desk, tilts his head. “Morning.”

You glance up. “Little late, aren’t you?”

He taps your empty coffee cup. “Thought I’d give you time to enjoy that first.”

You deadpan. “That’s suspiciously thoughtful.”

He lowers his voice. “Just making sure I stay your favorite.”

You roll your eyes, but your cheeks betray you.

“Anyway,” he adds, dropping a paper bag in front of you, “they were out of your favorite muffin, so I brought you the second favorite. Blueberry and don’t pretend it’s not.”

That makes you smile. “You remembered that?”

“I remember a lot of things,” he says, voice dipping.

Before you can form a snappy comeback, he’s already walked off.

Kat peers around the divider again, mouthing: WHAT IS HAPPENING

You don’t answer. Mostly because you don’t know anymore.

1:12 p.m.

Caleb returns from an assignment and spots you in the copy room.

“Hey, smiley,” he says, stopping just short of the door. “You free for lunch?”

You open your mouth to respond friendly, casual, not flirty when a shadow moves behind you.

Clark appears out of nowhere, holding a takeout bag in one hand and a smug smile in the other.

“Ooof she’s booked. I grabbed lunch for us,” he says, breezy and bold. “Hope you’re still on your wings kick.”

You turn, confused. “You… ordered lunch?”

Clark nods. “Figured I’d beat the rush.”

He sets the bag down and for the first time in office history brushes his hand against the small of your back. Not obviously. Not possessively. Just enough.

“Sorry,” he says to Caleb. “Didn’t mean to step on your plans.”

Caleb blinks. “Oh. No worries. You guys enjoy.”

Clark just smiles and hands you a box of fries like a man very pleased with himself.

At 3:27 p.m. Flowers arrive.

It’s a small bouquet of wildflowers and peonies soft and subtle. There’s no note. Just a tiny card in the bottom of the vase with your initials. But the handwriting? You’d know it anywhere.

Kat is losing her mind.

“Girl. What is going on. Is this your boyfriend or a PR stunt?”

You laugh, half-exasperated, half-flushed. “It’s complicated.”

Clark walks past your desk with a mug of tea, glances at the flowers.

Then, audible enough to be overheard, he mutters, “Wonder who the lucky guy is.”

Kat actually squeals.

End of the day. The office is mostly empty. You go into the copy room to grab some print outs when Clark appears in the doorway. It’s quiet maybe a little too quiet. Like the building is holding its breath.

“I need to talk to you,” he says, low, almost careful.

You don’t look up. “Now’s not great.”

“Tough.” His voice drops. “I’ve been patient. That’s done.”

You freeze.

He walks in, not fast, but with purpose. Like every step is a choice. He doesn’t stop until he’s close.

“You smiled at him like he made your whole damn day.”

You scoff. “You mean the same way I’ve smiled at you for weeks?”

“That’s different.”

“Is it?”

“I’m the one who knows how you take your coffee. I’m the one you call when you can’t sleep. I’m the one you wear flannel shirts from like we’re already—” He cuts himself off, jaw clenched, chest rising and falling.

You turn slowly, heart pounding, voice quieter. “Like we’re already what Clark?”

He stares at you. And it hurts. Because his eyes aren’t soft right now they’re hungry. Sharp. Bruised.

“I don’t know,” he admits. “But I do know I wanted to tear that camera out of his hands.”

You take a shaky breath. “You didn’t say anything.”

He exhales through his nose. “Because if I said anything, I was gonna say everything.”

You blink. “Then say it.”

He moves. One step. Then another. Until you’re backed up against the copy machine, the hum of it echoing your pulse.

“I want you,” he murmurs. “Not just late at night. Not just when no one’s looking.”

His hand grazes your wrist barely, but it sets your whole body on fire.

“I want to touch you whenever I want,” he says. “I want to sit in meetings and watch you try not to look at me. I want to take you to lunch and not pretend it’s platonic.”

You exhale shakily. “Then why haven’t you?”

His jaw ticks. His eyes flicker down to your mouth, then back up like it physically hurts him to look at you.

“Because…” he starts, voice low, tight, “I won’t be pretending. And if people know—if they connect us—then you’re not just some coworker anymore. You’re a target.”

You blink, a little thrown. “What?”

He swallows hard. “I interview Superman. People already watch me too closely. There’ve been threats before anonymous calls, notes, people trying to leverage my contacts. And if anyone figures out what you are to me—” His voice catches. “I don’t know what I’d do if you got hurt because of me.”

The air between you thickens. Not with fear, but with feeling. Sharp and aching and all-consuming.

“Clark,” you whisper, stepping into him, hand curling around his forearm. “I don’t care.”

“You should.”

“But I don’t.” You shake your head. “I care about you. I’ve been waiting for you to say something—anything—but all I’ve ever wanted was for you to want me out loud.”

He looks down at your lips then your eyes and suddenly he starts leaning into your like gravity, hands finding your waist, your hips, hauling you into him like he needs to feel every word he can’t say. It’s clumsy, frantic, desperate.

You stumble backwards hitting the copy machine. He palms blindly resting his hands on it, never breaking the kiss, never loosening his grip.

“You drive me crazy,” he breathes against your mouth.

“Ditto” you gasp, already tugging at his tie, his shirt, anything to get closer.

He lifts you with a groan, setting you down on the copy machine like you belong there, like he’s dreamed of this a thousand times. His kisses trail down your neck, hot and open-mouthed, like he’s memorizing you with lips and tongue.

“This is reckless,” he mutters, voice hoarse.

You curl your fingers into his hair. “You started it.”

He huffs a shaky laugh, then bites back a moan when you tug him in tighter. “I want you.”

“Then take me.”

His lips press against yours tongue begging to be let in, and there’s no more talking. Just moaning. Gasping. Your skirt is hiked up bunched at your thighs. You hastily unbutton his pants desperate to feel him. Desperate friction. You stroke his cock hungrily. His hand comes down moving your panties to the side. His name gasped against his shoulder as he moves inside you, forehead pressed to yours like prayer, like apology, like finally.

There’s nothing gentle about it just months of buried tension erupting into something real and raw and undeniable. His hands move your hips holding you tightly as he relentlessly thrusts into you. You lean back against the copy machine unable to keep yourself up anymore. He takes the chance and lets his hands explore every part of you.

And when it’s over when you’re clinging to him, lips swollen, heartbeat skittering against his chest. He presses a kiss to your temple.

“No more pretending” he whispers against your forehead

You smile, “No more.” You whisper back breathlessly

—

The next morning the morning air is crisp. City traffic hums in the background. You round the corner, distractedly tugging your scarf tighter, and nearly walk past him.

Clark. Leaning casually against the brick column like he’s in a cologne ad. Two coffees in hand. Hair a little windswept. Tie crooked in a way that makes your stomach flutter.

You stop short. He lifts your coffee and gives you that smile. The private one. The I didn’t sleep much thinking about you one.

“Good Morning,” he says, voice soft. “Brought reinforcements.”

You take the cup and stare at him for a beat. “You waited for me?”

He shrugs like it’s nothing. “Didn’t want to walk in alone.”

You glance at the Planet’s doors, then back at him. “You okay?”

“I’m great.” He bumps your shoulder. “Last night was… clarifying.”

You laugh under your breath, cheeks warm. “You mean wildly overdue?”

He grins. “That too.”

You sip your coffee, then glance sideways at him. “You sure about this?”

Clark’s eyes drop to your mouth, then back to your eyes. “More sure than I’ve been about anything in a long time.”

He opens the door for you, lets you step inside first, hand gently pressed to your lower back like it’s second nature. It sends a chill up your spine, but not in a bad way.

You walk toward your desk side by side, your steps synced, conversation light. And then, right there, in full view of Kat, Perry, Jimmy, and every nosy intern with a crush, Clark does something unthinkable. He leans in.

Not dramatic. Not flashy. Just casual, confident, and real. He presses a soft, slow kiss to your lips like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“I’ll see you at lunch,” he murmurs, like it’s been your routine for years.

Then he walks off. Calm. Collected. Definitely smirking.

You’re frozen.

The bullpen? Silent.

Kat’s jaw is on the floor. The intern drops her pen. Perry mutters something about “finally.”

You sit down slowly, heart hammering in your chest, still holding your coffee like it’s the only solid thing in the world.

Kat leans in, eyes wide. “What the actual hell just happened.”

You take a breath. Smile.

you’re at his apartment and have just finished eating dinner when you lead him over to the couch. one thing leads to another and you’re straddling him, kissing him eagerly while you grind your hips against his growing bulge, your dress already almost up to your hips even though you just started. at first he’s happy to just kiss you, but when you start pushing your hips down harder against him, his strong hands are trying to still your movements.

“sweetheart, what are you doing?” he asks softly, looking at you with furrowed brows. he’s loving every minute of it, obviously, but he doesn’t want you to feel pressured into doing anything you’re not ready for.

“just wanna do something for you,” you say, trying to move your hips in his grip, but it’s difficult with his super strength.

“you don’t have to do anything for me. i’ll wait as long as you need me to.” his words are endearing, but it only makes you want to continue grinding against him even more. he’s such a good man, and he doesn’t even realize how bad you want this too.

“i want to,” is all you say before you’re picking up your pace again. his grip finally falters, instead switching to helping you move against his leaking cock, and you hum happily, then lean in to kiss him.

clark moans into your mouth, and his hands move down to your thick thighs and squeeze, desperate to feel your soft flesh in his grip. you feel that pit in your belly growing, and his eagerness makes your head spin. you can feel him hard under you, and you push your hips down, just to hear him groan into your mouth.

“fuck, baby. keep doing that and i won’t last much longer,” he murmurs, reaching back up to grab your hips, beginning to move you at his own pace. and you let him, too, happy to let him use you as he pleases. you move along with how he wants you to, the feeling of his pants rubbing at your clit through your panties getting needy moans out of you.

“i want you to cum, clark,” you whisper in his ear as he buries his face in the crook of your neck, and he lets out a throaty moan, feeling his dick twitch in his pants.

“oh my- oh, god, baby. fuck, don’t- ah, don’t say things like that,” he says through pathetic moans, his grip tightening on your hips as he gets closer and closer to the edge.

“please, clark?” you say, looking at him with big, pleading eyes, moving your hands down from his shoulders to his chest.

“i’m gonna- sweetheart, i’m gon-” is all he can get out before he’s cumming hard in his pants, not caring about the giant wet patch forming on the crotch of his slacks as you continue to move slowly against him with a proud smile. you didn’t think you could get him there that quick, and the way his head falls back against the couch and his eyes squeeze shut has your pussy throbbing.

you run your fingers through his hair as he leans his head forward and gives your neck open-mouthed kisses. he feels drunk on you, and he needs to be as close to you as possible right now.

“was that okay?” you ask quietly after a few moments. you think it was, but he won’t look at you, his face stays firmly pressed into the crook of your neck.

“okay? that was more than okay, sweetheart,” he says incredulously, finally pulling away from your neck and looking at you with furrowed brows. the smile returns to your face at his words, and you feel your cheeks heat up.

“did you…?” he asks. you tilt your head to the side slightly, raising a brow.

“did i what?” you ask softly, making clark’s heart clench in his chest.

“i’ll take that as a no,” he says, suddenly frustrated with himself. how could he be so focused on his own pleasure that he didn’t even think of yours? then, it clicks in your head, and you smile wider at his thoughtfulness. all you needed was to see him like this because of you; it makes you feel sexy.

“oh, that’s okay. i just wanted you to-” you say, but he shakes his head, shushing you quickly.

“no, it’s not okay. i want you to feel good too,” he says, then in one swift movement, flips you over on the couch. the force of your back hitting the couch punches a sharp laugh from your throat, and you giggle when clark makes himself at home between your legs.

“let me makes you feel good, baby,” he murmurs against your skin as his lips begin to move down your neck to your chest, “please?”

as soon as the soft “okay” leaves your lips, he’s smirking to himself, then moving down to press eager kisses to the insides of your thighs, slowly moving up to where he’s been dreaming of going for months.

you and clark arrived on the farm friday afternoon. it’s sunday, obviously, and you would be staying in kansas for the weekend.

i imagine the kent’s probably do go to church on sunday, simply for the sake of being there, and then martha cooks up a nice brunch before nap time. jonathan probably has a bazillion things to do before dinner, and clark would probably help out, but nap time for you and martha. i love a nice nap before dinner.

dinner in general would be fabulous. martha probably makes a ham and her homemade rolls. there’s mac and cheese and potato salad, and you helped make some lemonade.

over dinner, you all talk—as if you’ve been sitting here for dinner for years. like this isn’t one of your first times meeting clark’s parents. conversation flows easily and they both seem so invested in your life in metropolis.

after dinner is said and done, martha would probably refuse your help with cleaning up and insist that you stay sat at the table. maybe she made her famous apple pie, and maybe it’s as good as clark said it would be.