summary: clark has a habit of spoiling you, even more so when you have a rough day
wc: 1.7k +
a/n: this is based on a request, which can be found here! I have a few more fics in the queue that should be coming out throughout the week, so keep an eye out! I hope you enjoy, and please feel free to send any requests my way!
warnings: slightly suggestive situation (very slightly), clark is a love bug who worries incessantly, you are so sweet to each other it's sickening
The first item on the Jimmy Olsen best friends agreement is free relationship advice. Clark has a habit of not taking him up on, well, any of it. “Wait at least a few hours to respond.” He’s replied to your questions about takeout in the middle of fighting a giant robot deadset on trampling half of Metropolis. “Let her come to you, man.” Clark frequently broke into your apartment to make sure that dinner was waiting for you as soon as you walked through the door. “Don’t limit yourself, play the field.” Clark had decided he was going to marry you after your first date, and there’d been a ring shoved in the back of his closet ever since your three month anniversary. Jimmy had changed Clark’s name in his phone to mother hen for a time, and worst of all? Clark couldn’t really argue against it.
He hovered, literally and figuratively. When he was worried, he felt like he was buzzing, and the only way that he’d found to keep himself from instantly scanning the entire city was to fly in circles around your apartment. If it’d been longer than ten minutes without you getting back to him, he gave himself a pass and used his super hearing to check in. You’d never actually been in danger, usually just busy or with a friend, but he couldn’t bring himself to chance you needing him and not be there for you.
When you were having a rough day, he hovered in the more traditionally human sense of the word. Soup made from scratch, warm baths with your favorite scented bubbles. Which is how you’d ended up in your current predicament, head burrowed into Clark’s chest while his hands traced soothing lines up and down your spine. His cheek was squished against the crown of your head and you’d unconsciously timed your breathing with the gentle thuds of his heart.
“How ya doin’?” his voice was soft, as if he was afraid to disturb the peace that had settled around the both of you.
Your arms tightened around his waist, and you scootched even closer to him. “Much better now. Thank you, Clark.”
His chest shook with silent laughter, one hand moving to hold you where your head meets your neck. “Haven’t even done anything yet.”
You pulled back, eyes wide and confused. “What are you talking about?”
He smiled, your noses nearly touching. Your hand unconsciously rose to touch the crinkles at the side of his eyes, his dimples. You can’t help but marvel at him, this kind, soft man you’d managed to swindle into loving you by some otherworldly miracle. “You had a hard day, honey. Gotta let me take care of you.”
Your foreheads met gently. “You’re already taking care of me.” And that was the truth. You’d come home, tears in your eyes. It had been a horrible, no good, absolutely awful day. You were running late for work, and then splashed by a cab hitting a huge puddle on your way there. Your lunch salad had gone wilty and on top of all that, you’d forgotten that it was date night until you’d seen him waiting in your living room, a fresh bouquet of flowers on the table and his button up’s sleeves rolled up on his forearms.
And Clark hadn’t missed a beat. He changed into comfy clothes in the literal blink of an eye, and he’d put your favorite pajamas in the dryer to warm up. Then, he’d led you into the bathroom, turning on the shower and sprinkling a few drops of essential oil on the floor for you. A kiss to one temple, and then the other one for good measure before he told you to take your time and stepped out. A shower was the last thing on your mind, despite the previous puddle incident, but as the steam enveloped you, you could feel the tension draining from your muscles. When you were all done and squeaky clean, he wrapped you in a warm towel and helped you slather yourself in lotion. He’d gently guided your arms through your pajama top and helped you step into your shorts before pulling you onto the couch and settling you against him. At this point, you were in a better mood than you’d managed all day. And somehow, Clark seemed to think he hadn’t even gotten started yet.
He began to sway you gently side to side, his hands supporting your head. Your eyes fluttered shut with the soothing motion, a contented sigh escaping from your lips. “I have pizza on the way, and your heating pad is already on in the bed.”
All you could do was grin from where you were tucked into the hollow of his throat. “You’re spoiling me again.”
He sighed, but didn’t dignify that with a response. “Are we thinking Singin’ in the Rain or Princess Diaries tonight?”
“This is exactly what I’m talking about. You’re ruining me for future partners.”
“Oh, there are going to be future partners, are there?” he asked, laughter coloring the edges of his voice. He clearly wasn’t taking you seriously, not stopping his rocking motions and only pulling you closer.
“Oh yeah, tons.” you grumbled. He could feel you smirking against him, you knew it.
“I guess I’m going to start using my powers for evil, in that case.” He mumbled into your hair.
“I believe that even less than I believe I’m ever going to let you go.”
Clark’s arms tightened around you in response. The two of you sat like that for a few more moments, quietly tangled up in the other. There was a small knock at the door, but somehow neither of you startled. “I told them to leave it at the door. Let’s give it a few seconds.”
You nodded, breathing in his cologne and playing with the curls at the nape of his neck. You weren’t sure how that didn’t tickle, but you weren’t going to complain. Eventually, Clark’s arm wrapped around you, gently picking you up and adjusting you so that your legs were on either side of his waist. He stood, hand slipping around the backs of your thighs and holding you close.
“You’re ridiculous.” you murmured, voice muffled against his shoulder while your arms looped around his neck.
“Mmhmm,” Clark agreed, but made no motion to put you down as he swung the front door open and grabbed the pizza box from the small side table beside your door. He gently placed you on the kitchen counter, and the box beside you. He opened it to reveal your favorite and you were unsurprised. He was nothing if not incredibly observant.
You grabbed a slice and took a bite, leaning against Clark for support. The silence that settled around you both was comfortable and familiar as ever. You both worked your way through the pizza, and you only caught Clark checking you over for signs of discomfort twice, which felt like a lot of improvement for both of you.
When you were done, Clark framed your face with his hands. His eyes searched yours for a moment before he nodded to himself, clearly pleased with his assessment. He offered you a hand, helping you down from the counter. You took it easy on him and held back from pointing out that you were definitely capable of doing that yourself.
He led you into the bathroom, and only let go of your hand when you reached for your toothbrush. You and Clark fell into your normal routine, brushing your teeth with shoulders bumping, Clark using a soft cloth to wipe away the bubbles of your facewash. You smoothed moisturizer across his cheeks and he sealed in your skincare routine with a kiss on your hairline, careful to avoid disrupting your freshly applied products.
He pulled down the covers for you, pillows already arranged in the pattern that you favored most nights. He made a show of pulling the covers up to your chin and tucking the blankets tight against your side. You broke into peals of giggles, the gesture ridiculous when both of you knew Clark would pull you against his chest as soon as he rounded the bed. The grin that spread across his face made your heart stutter. His eyes crinkled, and it was clear he’d heard. You didn’t even have it in you to feel bashful about it.
Like clockwork, Clark slid into bed beside you and you were quickly arranged with your back flush against his chest, one arm thrown over your stomach while you played with his fingers. You snuggled back against him, a contended sigh escaping your mouth. After what could have been a few moments or an eternity, you placed a kiss gently on the back of his hand. He squeezed you impossibly tighter against him.
You take a breath, a thank you already on the tip of your tongue. Clark beats you to it. “You don’t have to thank me.” You crane your neck to catch his eyes, quirking a disbelieving eyebrow at him. His arm around your waist only tightened, a contented smile turning the corners of his lips up. “This was more for me than you,” he sounded sleepy, eyes half closed.
You couldn’t help the cackle that shook your whole body. Clark held tight through it all. When you managed to calm your laughter, you turned to see him still clinging to you like the world’s most overgrown koala. “You’re a saint but I somehow find that hard to believe.”
“I sleep better when I know you're happy.” Your heart lurched at his sleepy confession. “Sleep best when I know that I’m the reason you’re happy.”
You turn in his arms, your forehead finding his in the dark for a moment. He still hadn’t opened his eyes, but he was beaming in a way that rivaled the sun. You tucked your head under his chin, making yourself at home against him. Your eyelids were heavy, and the weight of his arms around you was the most grounding experience of your life. “Maybe Jimmy has a point.” you mumbled.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me.” Clark whispered, mostly to himself.
“You are whipped.”
Clark’s only response was to place a kiss on the top of your head. “You love it.”
He was right, you really really did. You drifted off to sleep feeling more relaxed than you had in days, and Clark soon followed, thinking about the ring he’d shoved deep inside his sweater collection.
I need Clark Kent with coworker!reader who's like the fattest fan of superman liek Lois and jimmy get reader superman merch while Clark outdoes them with a visit from superman (and a fuck probably)
a boy who's jacked and kind
— clark kent x f!reader | oneshot, smut 18+ MDNI | 3k | fingering, cunnilingus, dub-con if you squint, pining clark
a/n: I had a blast writing this idea it was so fun! pining clark is my fave. my requests are open!
There's not many people at the Daily Planet who don't know that you’re the President of the Superman Fan Club.
Doesn't help that your desk is a literal shrine to the man. You have all the limited edition action figures crowding one side, a big blue "I Heart Superman" mug, and even a framed photo of the Big Guy saving a bus that you swear shows off his 'good side'.
Lois and Jimmy think it’s the funniest thing since Lex Luthor's last public meltdown.
Clark thinks it’s a direct threat to his blood pressure.
It's difficult for him to watch you be so smitten with his alter ego. Ever since Superman's taken over your life, you've filtered out every other man in Metropolis. Which, probably, also means him. Just because you're obsessed with Superman doesn't mean Clark Kent might have a chance too, right?
"He's just... the pinnacle of hope, you know? Look at that jawline. It’s a national treasure," you're saying, resting your chin in your palm, staring wistfully at the desk frame of his face staring off to the side.
Clark cracks his pen in half.
"It’s just a jaw, Y/N. I have a jaw. We all have jaws."
It's a difficult thing to admit— he's jealous of… himself.
You just give him a pitying smile, shaking your head as if he’s too simple to understand the nuances of Kryptonian bone structure. Oh, he understands perfectly alright. Normally, you would've launched into a defense monologue at Clark's comment, but you let his comment slide, still smiling. You're extra cheery today, and you have the right to be. It's your birthday after all.
Lois saunters over just then and drops a freshly printed, signed press release on your desk. "The man did an interview this morning. I snagged an extra copy of his official statement just for you. Happy birthday, babe!"
Clark can see stars shining in your eyes as you leaf through the press copy. He wants to groan. He'd only given it to Lois as a favour for covering his shift and is now baffled by how much the stupid piece of text is making you smile.
He had spent a month agonizing over what to give you. It had to be unique, special and grand. Something perfect. But what do you get someone who thinks your alter ego is the pinnacle of everything? Gifting you something Superman related would be too crass and would definitely drown under the mountain of blue and red currently building on your desk.
Because, much to his dismay, parades of people have been swarming your desk all day to present their gifts as tributes, as if they were suitors vying for their queen’s attention.
You’re popular, how could you not be? You’re vibrant, witty and kind. So gosh-darn perfect. He watches you offer that heart-stopping smile to everyone from the clerks to the senior editors, and a dull, heavy ache settles behind his ribs.
He hates that everyone loves you. Not in a way that's malicious. He hates that your beauty and warmth are public domain. It's selfish, yet so very human; if the whole world is smitten with you, how can he ever hope to be special? Especially when your self-proclaimed ideal is a god among men. Every gift piled on your desk feels like another brick in a wall between you, and he’s left wondering if he’s even visible in the shadow of your adoration.
At tea break, Jimmy hands you a box that's sparkly and suspiciously huge. It's the biggest one compared to the pile on your desk so far. Clark watches as you slowly and carefully peel back the wrapping paper, to reveal a three foot tall Superman figure. It's surprisingly detailed; capturing the curl on his forehead, the perfect shade of blue of his suit, even the smile that was reserved for a few special people.
"Olsen, darling, I love you," you shriek at him, throwing your hands around his neck.
"It's one of a kind, custom made," Jimmy says, shooting Clark a sly, knowing smile. "For the one, true super-fan."
Clark has to physically restrain himself from laser-beaming a hole into Jimmy's skull.
He watches as you press a quick kiss to Jimmy's cheek and something burns in his throat. He's not worried about Jimmy— he knows you're best friends and nothing more— but it's the principle. He's the one who flew into a cyclone this morning, but Jimmy gets to be the one being peppered with birthday kisses.
And what's worse, the gift he had eventually decided on, now feels painfully inadequate. It's sitting inside his drawer right now. He knows that nothing would elicit that same joyous reaction from you. He feels a desperate urge to give you something more grand— something so monumental that he finally manages to shine through the relentless noise of your other suitors.
The day winds down, as the sun begins to set over Metropolis. It's wonderful and golden, but nothing compared to how stunning you're looking today. Clark watches, enraptured, as you begin to place some of the gifts into your bag— a vision of meticulous perfection.
He's sure you're disappointed; if the hopeful, fleeting glance you'd thrown him before is indicative of anything. There's about twenty gifts you pack, but none are from Clark. Just a murmured "Happy Birthday" and a side-hug were all he'd given you today. Pathetic.
Clark's heart sinks as he watches you give him a soft but clipped smile and make your way out of the building.
You're not a materialistic person, definitely not someone who measures affection based on price tags but you've been carrying a growing ache in your heart all day. You were surrounded by noise and shiny trinkets, yes, yet the one silence that had stood out was Clark’s. When he’d offered nothing more than a stiff, awkward side-hug and a weak Happy Birthday it had felt like a cold splash of water.
You would have traded every action figure on your desk for one meaningful look or smile from Clark— any sign that you were more than a colleague he occasionally hung out with.
As you make your way into your flat you can't help but wonder...did Clark think you were, at the very least, friends?
You’re halfway across your apartment, setting the three-foot-tall Superman figure on your sofa, when the air in the room suddenly changes. There’s a soft whoosh, a subtle shift that makes every hair on your skin stand up. The scent of ozone and something clean, like the air after a thunderstorm, fills the room.
The window is open. You know didn't leave it open.
Floating just outside your balcony, silhouetted against the amber Metropolis skyline, is him.
Superman.
"I heard it was a special day, of a very special someone," he calls, his voice deep and reverberating through the space of your living room.
"You…you're here," you murmur, and then grimace. The most un-cool first words to say to the pinnacle of man.
He touches down on your balcony with the weightlessness of a feather, long and confident strides bringing him into your room.
He stops a couple of inches before you and you can hardly breathe. Up close, he is staggering. The suit isn't just spandex; it’s a shimmering, alien weave that catches light. But his eyes are what is most striking— they take your breath away. They're an extraterrestrial blue, the irony of the term notwithstanding, yet strangely familiar.
"I couldn't let my biggest supporter celebrate alone, could I?" He offers you a warm smile— one that also looks familiar, though you can’t quite place why. He glances at the figure on your couch and his eyebrow twitches, though says nothing else.
Wait. Did he say my biggest supporter?
"It's a custom made gift," you offer weakly, a blush creeping up from the embarrassment. Great. Now Superman knows you have a doll of him in your house. Totally not weird or creepy.
"It’s very... detailed. But I thought you might like something a little less plastic for your birthday," he says, fighting back a grin.
From some invisible pocket on his suit, he produces a small, delicate box wrapped in simple white paper. He holds it out, his large hand steady and you can hardly believe your eyes, heart thudding against your chest.
"Superman— I... can't...you're…. it's—"
“Oh, it's not from me. I'm just the delivery guy,” he says, flashing you a dimpled grin. “Clark Kent called in a favour and asked me to deliver this to you in person.”
You're truly at a loss for words now, as you slowly reach for the box and take it from him, mouth hanging open. Inside is a small, hand-carved wooden pendant of the sun. It’s beautiful, rustic, and looks like it was made with immense care.
"It’s beautiful," you whisper, looking up at him, eyes shining.
"Thank you.”
He begins to say something and you cut him off— “I know, thank Clark. I will. But still…thank you…for coming. You made my day.”
He leans in, his cape brushing against your arm, and for a second, the Man of Steel looks surprisingly nervous.
"You're welcome, Y/N. And for what it's worth... Clark Kent thinks the world of you. Even if he’s a bit too shy to say it."
He gives you a wink, steps back toward the balcony, and with a thunderous crack of broken sound barriers, he’s gone— leaving you standing in his wake, the air smelling faintly of... Clark's cologne?
Your fingers are still trembling as they trace the smooth grain of the wooden sun, as you slowly move out of the spot and towards your sofa.
Superman was here. The Superman. And he was acting as a courier for Clark Kent. Your Clark.
Not yours in that sense. But still. He had come through. All day you'd wished to hear from him, and now he'd given you this hand crafted pendant… hand delivered by The Man himself.
The air hasn't even settled when a frantic, uneven knocking at your door makes you jump. You don't even have to look through the peephole to know who it is. You pull the door open, and there stands Clark, awkwardly brushing his wind-swept hair. He is panting slightly, as if he'd run up the stairs.
"Y/N, I—I saw him," Clark stammers, gesturing vaguely toward the open window. "I mean, I saw the streak. Did he... did he come? Did he give it to you? I’m so sorry, I shouldn't have asked him, it was so corny, I just—"
"Clark," you breathe, still surprised, pulling him into the apartment and shutting the door. "It was the sweetest thing anyone has ever done for me."
Clark visibly relaxes, his hands diving into his pockets and then back out again. He looks at the pendant in your hand and then at the mountain of Superman gifts on your sofa. "I just... I saw the way you looked at the... doll Jimmy got you. And the gift from Lois. And well, everyone else. And I realized I’d spent a month trying to find something perfect and I ended up with... nothing. I felt like I was failing you."
He takes a stumbling step forward, his eyes earnest behind his glasses. "I know how much you admire him. And I thought, if I’m going to get her something for her birthday, it should be something worthy of her. Something grand. Something that actually matches how.... incredible you are. You're like the sun... to me. Maybe that doesn't make sense but... yeah. You're the smartest, kindest person I've ever met, and I didn't know if this thing I made.... was enough."
He’s rambling now, a fumbling mess of a man who looks like he’s about to vibrate out of his skin.
“And I don't know if it was the right call... to make Superman give this to you. But I...” he begins, his ears turning pink, “I wanted to be the one who made you the most happy.”
Three seconds pass, where you stare into Clark’s brilliant blue eyes and then, hands curling into the lapel of his jacket, you're kissing him.
"Yours was the best gift I've ever gotten."
Clark makes a low, needy sound in the back of his throat, his hands finding your waist and pulling you flush against him with a strength that catches you off guard. He kisses you with a desperate, pent-up hunger, his touch moving from your waist to the small of your back, urging you closer until there isn't a molecule of air between you.
Your lips part at his touch, his tongue seizing the opportunity to explore your mouth. He tastes like coffee and strangely… like ozone. You let your arms circle Clark's neck, as he continues to devour you. His lips move from yours to your jaw with a fervent urgency that makes you gasp.
“Oh, Clark,” you whisper breathily, the sound of his name making his dick twitch against you. His large hands slide down, cupping your ass and squeezing firmly, pulling you so tight against him that you can feel every line of his frantic heartbeat.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, his breathing rugged. There’s a predatory heat in his eyes— a look that tells you he is seconds away from snapping.
“I need you,” you whisper, your fingers tangling in his messy hair.
Clark doesn't need to be told twice. He hoists you up effortlessly by your hips, your back hitting the wall with a dull thud as he pins you there. You hike a leg around his waist, feeling the full hardness of him pressing through his slacks, making heat erupt in your core.
He crashes his lips into you again, attacking your mouth with a ferocity uncharacteristic of Clark. You gasp into the air as he moves to lick the column of your neck, his teeth grazing your skin in little nips and bites that trail down to the collar of your shirt.
With one hand still holding your weight, he fumbles with your buttons, his movements hurried and desperate until the fabric parts. His eyes darken to a midnight blue at the sight of your breasts swelling against your lace bra and your breath hitches. Thank Heavens you'd picked out the lacy ones as a little birthday treat.
His lips instantly latch onto your cleavage; his low, animalistic grunts vibrating through your skin. His tongue laps up the plush flesh, and you arch your back into him, fingers digging into his shoulders. Not even bothering to take the bra off, he pries the pair of your breasts out of the cups, the top wire cutting into your flesh. You can hardly care though, for Clark's mouth is back on them in an instant, biting and licking fervently.
He pulls away for just a second, his gaze locked onto yours, dark and unyielding. He brings two of his fingers to your lips, and you take them into your mouth, your tongue swirling around them as you watch his expression go from strained to lust-drunk. He pops them out with a wet sound and immediately slides his hand down, bunching your skirt up around your hips.
The cool air hits your skin for only a heartbeat before his damp fingers find your center, pushing deep into your dripping core. You’ve never experienced anything hotter— the contrast of gentle, awkward Clark and this sex machine whose fingers are your undoing, giving you whiplash.
His fingers are thick, stretching you perfectly, and his pace is agonizingly slow. He builds a rhythmic friction, eyes never leaving yours, tracking every flicker of pleasure across your face. He knows exactly where to press, his thumb finding that sensitive bud and circling it until you’re starting to shake. You moan, a deep and low sound, a ragged whisper of his name hitching in your throat as your walls clench around him. As the rhythm builds, you find yourself moving along with it, riding his fingers while he worships your core.
"You like that?" he rumbles, his voice a low vibration you feel in your bones. "Like when you take me in?"
Then, before you can answer that sinful question, his fingers pause for the briefest moment as he slowly sets you down and kneels before you. You watch, breath hitching, as he pushes up your skirt and slides your wrecked underwear down your legs.
“God, baby,” he coos, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that vibrates right through your ribcage. You’re still not entirely sure if this is the same Clark who apologizes to the water cooler when he bumps into it. “I’ve dreamt about this so much,” he admits, his breath hot against your core. “Every day at my desk. Just wondering what you’d sound like, taste like when I finally got to do this.”
A fresh wave of heat blooms across your being. The mental image of Clark sitting three feet away from you while secretly planning to take you apart like this? It drives you absolutely feral.
Your eyes flutter shut as his tongue licks a stripe over weeping core, before pushing in, his fingers resuming their ministrations on your throbbing clit. His glasses dig into your thighs and fog up as he breathes your scent in, while he feasts, and you swear no man has ever looked sexier. His gorgeous lips attempt to suck the bundle of aching nerves, but you let out an involuntary yelp at the sensation and Clark quickly soothes it with a tantalizing lick.
He builds the speed then, his fingers and tongue working with a relentless, rhythmic precision. He isn't just moving; his hand becomes a blur of friction against your clenching walls, while his tongues laps up every drop that spills out of you. It’s a pace that almost seems inhuman, a dizzying vibration that sends sparks dancing behind your eyelids. But you’re too far gone to care about the physics of it. You’re just a mess of breathy moans and gasps, your body arching off the wall as he finds that one perfect spot and refuses to let it go.
“That’s it, gorgeous” he growls, watching your legs shudder around his face. “Give it all to me. Everything.”
His rhythm takes you to the absolute peak, the tension in your thighs coiling tighter and tighter until the world snaps. You feel like you’re floating, un-tethered from the ground, as a massive wave of white-hot pleasure rolls over you. You come with a moan of his name, the sound ripping straight from your soul, as your slick release coats his mouth and perfect nose.
He doesn't pull away. He stays right there, licking his lips and wiping the rest, feeling every last pulse of your climax, his thumb sweeping gently over your sensitive nub to draw out every lingering spark of sensation. You’re panting, your heart hammering against your ribs while he stands up and leans over you, looking down with a dark, triumphant satisfaction. The look in his eyes ignites the spark that had just begun to dwindle.
"Happy birthday," he whispers into your skin, pressing a chaste kiss to your forehead. Before you can say anything, he slowly slides the glasses off his face. Earth seems to tilt on its axis, as the haze from your orgasm lifts and the world becomes laser sharp.
Suddenly, everything makes sense. The changed man, his strength, his speed, the favour. Your heart stops, then restarts at a frantic, thundering pace.
There's an awkward, sheepish smile on Superman's— no, Clark's face.
“Now, how's that for another surprise gift?”
a/n: the idea of a clark's glasses fogging up while he eats you out........ crack cocaine
your boyfriend has been upset for reasons he won’t tell you. always dismissing you asking to be let in the know.— “just a stupid work thing” followed by him not even looking your way for the rest of the night.
you knew something was wrong because that doesn’t even sound like clark.
tonight though, was different. he marched in and went straight to the bedroom after seeing you weren’t sitting up in the living room.
once he made it into the room,
“hey baby, how was work?” you asked hoping he’d tell you why he’s been so upset. instead,
clark walked two steps before speaking “turn over” whilst undoing his belt “wait—right now?” you question shocked at how abrupt he is being, “yes right now” before grabbing your wrists and using his belt as rope.
your hands tied behind your arched back with nothing under your thin frilly nightgown. clark tugged on the belt a bit as he teased your entrance with his tip.
you whined at the feeling and without warning he slid in. “fuck” the man cursed wasting no time to thrust into you.
he fucked into you quickly and mercilessly. each thrust he pulled on the leather of the belt before arching your back deeper.
“clark, right there” you moaned losing your arch before he shoved your stomach against the bed and pounded deeper, hitting your sweet spot. “don’t move” he demands continuing on with his attack.
you were a mess.
soon, he pulled the leather bringing your back up to his chest. he fucked you so good, you ended up finishing first (like most nights). “keep taking it, im almost done with you” he’d tell as he fucks you through the aftershocks while chasing his own release.
“you’re gonna be a good mom” was all he said before he reached his climax.
soft sounds from another planet | chapter 1 - off the face of the earth
ao3 | series masterlist | next chapter >
pairing: clark kent x fem!reader
genre: rom-com
summary: clark kent is not superman. he’s just a grumpy journalist with too much baggage and exactly zero interest in being interviewed, especially not by you, a sunshiney reporter who asks way too many questions and doesn’t take no for an answer. you’re not supposed to like him. you’re supposed to write a quick feature, turn it in, and go back to your regularly scheduled life. not linger on his front porch. not stay for coffee. and definitely not fall for the man who writes like he’s trying to outrun his own heart.
warnings: none for this chapter but this series is 18+, has smut, and mentions of canon typical violence even tho it's an au (cannot un-lex luthor lex luthor, soz)
word count: 2.2k
a/n: i'm a little rusty, bear w me but i loooooved superman sm and since ive been on a rom-com kick,, i just had to.
“I’ve found that most people will tell you the truth if you ask the wrong question long enough.”
Clark Kent, “Interview Technique and Other Lies - An open letter to the journalism students of America, 2019”
you’ve been staring at the blinking cursor for eight minutes and thirty-four seconds, which wouldn’t be that bad if it weren’t on an empty google doc titled “digital loneliness in a post-pandemic cityscape.” you’re supposed to write a 1,200-word lifestyle feature. so far, you’ve written: “loneliness is…”
and then you stopped, because honestly? you’re not sure you know anymore. or worse, you know too well.
you tap your keyboard like that’ll fix something inside you.
“tell me you’re writing and not just admiring your font choice,” dani says, suddenly appearing beside you with a cup of something suspiciously green in one hand and a raised eyebrow in the other. dani, your editor, champion, tormentor, and unofficial life coach, who once edited an entire piece of yours using only fleabag quotes as comments after you got her wine drunk and forced her to watch it.
“don't make me an optimist. you'll ruin my life.” she’d scribbled in the margins.
dani is… dani. she always walks like she’s being timed. there’s something olympian about her gait: deliberate, kinetic, a little terrifying. at 6’1, she doesn’t really tower as much as she commands the air around her, as if ceilings move to accommodate her. when she laughs, rare, short bursts, like a balloon being let go too soon, it feels like applause you didn’t know you’d earned.
she’s the only person who ever made you want to work weekends. not out of fear (though that’s there, too), but because her approval is the kind of thing that makes you believe you're not completely wasting your twenties. she’ll knock three paragraphs out of your lede with a single, “too slow,” and then send you a picture of her lunch ten minutes later with the caption “nommy nommies.”
you don’t know everything about her - she’s private in a scandinavian way, minimal and pristine - but you know she used to figure skate competitively and once told you, over cocktails at a christmas party, that the trick to good reporting is “keeping your skates sharp and your soft parts softer.” you still don’t quite know what that means, but you’ve quoted it in two different extended family events and once on a bumble date, and all times gotten an impressed nod in return. it still makes you giggle.
she took you in when you barely knew what an em dash was and made you believe you were going to be someone. not someone important, necessarily. but someone who could write something that mattered. lol.
you straighten up. smile. you are the cheerful one™ after all. the girl who brings in muffins on mondays. the girl who says “no worries at all!” and actually means it.
“of course i’m writing,” you say, clicking randomly just to make the screen do something. “i’m deep in the magic. elbow-deep in isolation statistics and accidentally poetic reddit posts.”
dani gives you a look. the kind that says don’t test me, sunshine, but with love. mostly.
“cool,” she says. “just checking. deadline’s in six hours, and i need to pretend like we’re still a paper of record and not just a content farm for sad single millennials and the occasional corruption scandal.”
you nod, looking at the clock that tells you it’s lunch time. “six hours is a lifetime. i could fall in love and get married in that time.”
dani smirks. “not with your track record.”
ouch. but fair. but when she notices that you aren’t smiling back this time, she sighs and shakes her head.
“take a walk,” she says. “go outside, read a trashy novel, eavesdrop on some teens having an existential crisis on a park bench. find your story. and when you come back, maybe take a look at this.”
she hands you a thick manila folder.
you flip it open. it’s a profile piece request; freelance, technically. high-risk, high-reward. the subject: clark kent.
you freeze. you’ve read everything he’s ever written. his luthor laboratories exposé. the pulitzer pieces. the live leak...
your stomach twists. you remember the last byline, the last photo. then the silence. the speculation. and now-
“you want me to write about clark kent?” you repeat, and it sounds a little stupid in your own mouth, like when people say “i love you” too quickly in movies and everyone watching knows they don’t mean it.
“yes.”
you blink. “you mean that clark kent? pulitzer-and-pulitzer clark kent?”
dani grins. “the very same.”
the room seems to tilt slightly. you’ve written front-page stories. you’ve exposed a congressman. but this feels… biblical. clark kent hasn't spoken to anyone in five years. he hasn't been seen in nearly three. the last time his name trended, it was alongside the words reckless, traitor, and murderer.
“i don’t think he talks to anyone,” you manage.
dani shrugs. “then make him.”
you let out a small, nervous laugh. “dani. come on.”
“this is big, kid,” she says, leaning forward on her elbows. “i’m not giving this to someone else. and i’m not asking if you want it. i know you do.”
she’s right. of course she’s right. this is the kind of thing careers are built on. hell, rebuilt on. this is the story that could carry your name into newsrooms you haven’t even dared to imagine yourself in. and clark kent? he’s the reason you got into this line of work in the first place. not just because of his prose, which is legendary, but because, back before everything went to hell, he wrote like people mattered.
“and hey,” her voice cuts through your thoughs. “deadline for your lifestyle feature is still 7pm.”
you want to glare at her because you have never once missed a deadline but you’re still dazed. your heart is racing now, and your palms feel clammy. if you do this right - really right - you’ll never have to pitch another goddamn story again.
clark kent. jesus christ.
–
you get home, flick on the light, and immediately step over yesterday’s laundry. it’s a one-bedroom with a closet-sized kitchen, an overworked radiator, and a view of the bodega’s neon sign across the street. but it’s yours. well. yours and meera’s.
you toss your bag on the couch, hang your keys on the little ceramic cat meera bought from the hospital gift shop - “because even doctors deserve cute things” - kick off your shoes, and collapse in front of your laptop like a woman on a mission.
the adrenaline’s still buzzing. somewhere between the last espresso and dani’s parting “don’t screw this up,” your brain has sprinted ten paces ahead.
you force yourself to start with the basics: a reread of clark kent’s greatest hits - or at least the ones you’ve dog-eared emotionally. the arms of the city. blood in the rubble. and, of course, the broken bell. his first pulitzer. the piece that made you want to be a journalist.
but not in the all the president’s men, trench-coats-and-righteous-indignation kind of way. clark’s writing didn’t make you want to chase truth, it made you want to hold it still, long enough for someone to feel it.
the broken bell covered the gotham sanitation strikes, but it cracked open the entire city. clark embedded himself with the people slipping through the cracks: nurses skipping meals to buy their kids textbooks, subway workers sleeping in break rooms, janitors who hadn’t been paid in six weeks. he reported on the dysfunction and dismantled the entire machine, piece by corrupted piece. budget cuts, hush money trails, a mayor who campaigned on empathy and governed like a banker with a vendetta. and then clark walked into a press conference, pressed record, and didn’t flinch once.
you remember your favorite line. you’d screenshotted it in college, back when meera still called you “baby amanpour” in your family group chat:
“they say gotham’s built on bedrock, but they don’t talk about the hands that laid it. the calluses, the backs broken under steel and snow. maybe they think we’ll forget. maybe they’re counting on it.”
it wasn’t just journalism. it was a punch in the throat.
and then he vanished. no bylines in five years. no panels, no podcasts, no alumni reunions. just... gone. the last thing he wrote was that article.
you dig into the obvious leads first: public databases, old newswires, even his ancient byline email. dead ends. his last known address is now owned by a hedge fund analyst and a french bulldog named miso. reddit threads spiral into fan conspiracies. a tumblr tagged #journalismdaddy went dark in 2023. his linkedin is a ghost town.
it’s not just that he disappeared. it’s that he disappeared clean. no trail. no statement. no explanation. the industry moved on. but you didn’t. couldn’t. not when he was the reason you’re here in the first place.
eventually, you open that article.
the luthor laboratories exposé is still online but barely. comments disabled. metadata stripped. halfway through, you feel the chill in your spine, a tone you’d missed before. the cadence is uneven. the voice, tight. something broke in him writing this. he was afraid. and he was right to be. two women died after that piece. two women whose names weren’t supposed to be revealed, but were, accidentally, during a livestream he gave while promoting the story. you remember the coverage. how fast it all burned. clark kent had told the truth, and paid for it.
you lean back in your chair, throat dry.
the world decided he was done.
but. he's your white whale now.
you open a new tab. search: “underground press clubs.” “dead journalist forums.” “where did clark kent go?” you know it’s a long shot, but something in your chest refuses to let go.
and then, of all places, an old fucking 4chan thread, half-buried in conspiracy rambling:
my source says he went back to smallville after everything. never heard of it? yeah, no one has.
smallville.
you blink. you honestly haven’t.
you grab your phone. call meera.
she picks up after one ring, a heart monitor beeping in the background. “about time, fucking weirdo.”
“hi. sorry. but i have a question.”
“no. you have the voice. the idea voice. i can hear it.”
“have you ever heard of a town called smallville?”
she pauses. “like… kansas?”
“…how’d you know?”
“remember that journalist guy you used to be obsessed with? cute, tall, serious? did all the late-night stuff after his nobel prize?”
“clark kent? pulitzer, not nobel, you dunce.”
“yeah, fucking whatever. tonya in med school had an actual shrine. she used to watch the daily show clips of him like they were marvel trailers. anyway, she once said he was from some blink-and-you’ll-miss-it town in kansas. pretty sure it was called smallville.”
you actually bounce in place. sometimes you could kiss meera’s elephant memory.
this might actually be something if two different people can confirm it.
“hello?” she says, annoyed now. “did you die?”
“still alive! sorry. i literally called you about clark kent.”
“wait. seriously? why?”
you fidget with your notepad, flipping to a blank page. “i might be writing about him.”
there’s silence on her end. then, quieter: “be careful, sissy.”
you hang up and stare at your screen, her words echoing louder than you want them to. she’s never so quiet and that means her words hit harder.
between dani’s deadlines and meera’s late-night pep talks, you’ve somehow survived three years in this city. three years at the paper, and the last time one of your pieces trended, it was because a tiktok astrologer said your headline gave her a panic attack.
you’re good at what you do. you are. but you’re not where you thought you’d be. not yet. and looks like the key is clark fucking kent. the man who told the truth and then disappeared off the face of the earth.
you open the long-abandoned document titled: “new article/book - big serious project???”
and for the first time in months, you actually feel the electricity in your fingers as you type.
and i loved it so much. i think that i want to start writing for David Corenswets Superman specifically so please send any requests (oneshots, drabbles, headcanons only please, i do not have the capacity to write a whole fic rn) and i will do my best to learn how to write him
summary: Clark is late for bookclub, and his coworkers beat him there. Meddling ensues
wc: 3.5k+
a/n: previous part here!. I don't think that it is strictly necessary to read the first part before diving in, but it might help to see their vibe prior to diving into this one! Please feel free to send any requests my way!
warnings: general fluff, reader owns a bookstore, reader has no idea about clark’s powers/secret identity, meddling friends
“Are you sure we shouldn’t give him a quick call dear?”
“We wouldn’t want him to be caught in the middle of all this-”
“And he would do the same for us!”
The chatter only increased, with voices overlapping and getting louder by the second. You were leaning against the front door of the shop, watching what seemed to be a giant in deep sea diver gear being lured away from your street by Superman. You hadn’t met the man, but you were grateful that he always managed to minimize as much of the damage to Metropolis as he could. You had a hefty insurance policy for the First Fable, passed down at your grandmother’s insistence after several renovations prior to her passing away. It seemed that in her lifetime, the monster of the week had a habit of thinking the shop was a welcome mat. Somehow, you had gotten lucky since taking over the shop. Superman had managed to lead all of his foes a safe distance away and the phone book with all of the store’s typical repair people was gathering dust in the back office.
“I’m sure he’s alright, ladies. Clark has a talent for keeping out of trouble.” you did your best to sound confident, but you had a bad habit of worrying after him. Despite his spotless track record in terms of gigantic monsters and threats, Clark was a bit clumsy and bumbly in general. You couldn’t blame them for worrying after him. Regardless, Superman was a small speck in the sky at this point, so you made your way back to the circle of mismatched chairs in front of the new releases display. Hopefully, Clark was on his way and far from the threat of being smushed.
The members of the Tender Hearts Book Club had almost adopted him in a way. He adored all of the ladies and did his best to never miss a meeting.You’d started the club hoping to connect with the longtime regulars of the store when you’d taken it over. You were so worried you would end up sitting in the shop alone, Clark had insisted on attending ‘so there’s at least one inaugural member’. You were blessed with several attendees, but now Clark was stuck- not that he’d use that exact verbage. Every month, he came with notes on the chosen book and some kind of midwestern hot dish without fail. You constantly insisted that the food was unnecessary, you had plenty of snacks stocked, but he only ever replied that his mother would be disappointed if he showed up empty handed.
Rhonda, the kind woman who owned the florist’s shop just down the street, had threatened to stop the weekly flower delivery if you so much as hinted the food was unnecessary one more time. Tammy, who always ended up with the leftovers for her twins, had seconded the motion, and your protests died there. It didn’t hurt that Clark always brought a separate container of extras for you, knowing that you’d never take them from the kids- and that you had a nasty habit of forgetting to pack lunch for yourself. The day following book club rivaled the actual event for your favorite time of the month, and you weren’t too proud to admit that Clark’s cooking was the main reason.
Despite his habit to be tardy for work, it was strange for him to be running so late for this. After he’d seen you struggling to pull a particularly heavy armchair into the circle, he was always twenty minutes early and ready to move all of the chairs himself, despite your protests.
Jeanie, a kind woman who distinctly reminded you of your grandmother in a way that made your heart warm, patted the back of your usual seat, a gentle smile on her face. Jeanie had been a staple at First Fable before you were even born. You gave her your best attempt at a smile and sank into the plush blue arm chair.
It was a popular conspiracy theory amongst the rest of the club that Clark was ‘sweet on you’, if anyone else was heading the charge. Rhonda, on the other hand, usually preferred more colorful vocabulary. She looked sweet in her pollen smudged apron, but she was always responsible for choosing the books that had Clark blushing for the full hour the club met. And her quest to make his face turn endearingly red didn’t stop with her literature selections.
“He did help you hang that new shelf, didn’t he, dear?” Dora asked, placing a mug of steaming tea in your hands. Dora and Jeanie both had a habit of caretaking anyone in their sight. You had to imagine that was why they were still desperately in love after forty years.
“Oh excellent, we are getting around to this early!” Tammy laughed, crossing her legs and steepling her fingers together jokingly.
You fought back a groan, nodding into your mug. “We took care of it over the weekend.” You tried to brush it off, but there was more to the story. You’d mentioned offhandedly that you were thinking about creating a new display of local authors, and before you knew it, Clark was volunteering. And if you’d discovered he looks very cute with a crease between his brows and a pencil tucked behind his ear, you were going to keep that to yourself.
“You mean he took care of it.” Rhonda said with a smirk. “We all know that he wouldn’t let you within five feet of a ladder.”
“He’s very protective.” Jeanie added, eyes shining.
“As if she isn’t!” Tammy cackled. You ducked your head low, hoping to avoid further scrutiny while knowing that this would only make it worse. “You stopped stocking that one, author-”
“James Arnold,” Jeanie supplied.
“Right, him! He made one critical observation about Clark’s article, and you haven’t restocked his book since.”
“In all fairness, it hasn’t exactly sold out either.” you muttered into your mug. You all knew it was improperly shelved in the back corner of the store, but they spared you from that reminder.
Their peals of laughter felt warm and kind, thankfully. You were the youngest member of the group by far, everyone else having a good fifteen years on you, but they were among your truest friends, and you knew they meant no harm with their teasing.
You’d started the Tender Hearts Club soon after taking over the shop. You were missing your grandmother dearly, and this felt like a way to keep a part of her in your life. You hadn’t been wrong, they all had countless stories about her. But even more so, you’d found more comfort amongst these women than you could have ever predicted. The jingling of the bell over the door- also installed by Clark- broke you from your thoughts.
“Are we sure this is the right place?” Jimmy Olsen’s hands were shoved deep in his pockets, his gaze assessing the rows of shelves. Your gaze snapped to the front door, where a group of people you had only seen in passing, mostly in photographs scattered around Clark’s apartment, were clustered in the entry way of your bookstore.
“You are the girl from the picture on his desk? Clark’s desk, I mean.” You were almost certain that was Cat Grant, whose gossip column was a guilty pleasure of yours. You offered her a sheepish wave, shoulders hunched slightly.
“You’re all being absolute freaks. You promised me you wouldn’t be freaks if I let you come with me.” Lois grumbled. She glared at them, before her face quickly lit up with a smile as she made her way towards you. “It’s so nice to meet you! Sorry we’re late, there was a bit of a giant gorilla monster situation at 34th and Main.”
“It’s nice to meet you too,” you said with a smile, standing and making your way over to the small group. “...I think” you added, mostly to yourself as you noticed Steve and Jimmy horsing around. They were very close to toppling your new releases display.
“Boys!” Lois snapped. They both instantly straightened, and had the decency to look a little ashamed. Cat rolled her eyes, adjusting her hair and shuffling her large tote to the other shoulder.
“Can I, um” you paused, unsure of how to proceed. “Can I help you all with something?”
“We’re here for the club, man!” Steve called, arms raised above his head like his team had just scored a winning goal.
You blinked, doing your best to wrap your head around the situation. “The book club?” you asked, confusion obvious in your voice.
You could hear the ladies behind you laughing softly. Lois’ brow quirked, clearly amused. “Is there another club here on Thursdays?” All you could do was shake your head. “Then yes, the book club.”
You nodded slowly, sure that you were looking positively befuddled. And then, the finer details started to click. Lois had the book of the month tucked under her arm, small post it notes sticking out on all sides. Steve’s mass market paperback looked somehow thoroughly worn, despite the book coming out less than a month ago. Cat dug around in her tote for a moment, before pulling out two copies of the book. The one she handed to Jimmy looked like it’d barely been touched, but Cat’s was dog-eared in a couple of places. You did your best not to cringe over that.
“Right, okay!” you nodded once, and then a few more times as you tried to clear your head. “Great! We love new faces.”
“Or we would if there ever were any,” Rhonda muttered, earning a light round of laughter from the rest of the regulars.
“I’ll just go ahead and grab some more chairs from the basement! There’s coffee and tea on the counter, make yourselves comfortable!” you called, already headed for the door to the stairs.
Jeanie and Dora were already out of their chairs, fixing a few mugs of tea. Cat and Rhonda were surveying the romance shelves with a militant energy about them. Lois was smiling with Jimmy while Tammy showed off pictures of her toddlers, an entry level requirement for admittance to the club. You smiled to yourself, surprised but delighted by how easily the two groups seemed to be meshing already. You nodded once before spinning on your heel and heading downstairs to grab the folding chairs you typically only needed during author events.
The stairs to the basement were rickety and old- and would stay that way if you had anything to say about it. It wasn’t that Clark ever seemed like he was burning out or over exerting himself- how he had endless energy without a crippling caffeine addiction you’ll never know. It was more so that you didn’t want him to think you were only keeping him around to help you with things.
You made sure to avoid the second step from the bottom that tended to wobble and ducked underneath the lightbulb that was dangling from the ceiling in a way that you were sure would be concerning if you knew anything about electrical engineering. You picked your way across the cluttered space, promising yourself for the thousandth time that you would go through things down here next week, and grabbed a few chairs under your arms.
You were about to turn around when a soft “ow” broke your concentration. You turned to see Clark, brows scrunched together and rubbing at a spot in between his eyebrows. Okay, the lightbulb situation was getting moved up the to do list. You were about to ask if he was okay, when the air was knocked from your lungs.
Clark was beaming at you, tension melting from his shoulders as he opened his arms for you. The chairs were quickly forgotten as you slotted yourself against him, standing on your tip toes to be able to place your arms around his neck.
Clark’s arms were tight around your waist, pulling you up against him to the point that your feet were dangling in the air beneath you. “Hey, Wormy.”
From anyone else, the nickname would have grated on your nerves like no other. Clark had come into the store during storytime, back when you barely knew each other. You were still figuring out how you fit into running First Fable, and Saturday Storytime was among the few moments throughout the week that you felt at ease. You’d been reading a book about a family of book worms, complete with voices and a homemade puppet to boot. A few of the younger kids had taken to calling you Miss Worm, and it made everyone giggle.
You’d regretted foregoing a correction when Clark had used the name later at the register. But he had the biggest smile on his face, and he seemed so earnest about it, you’d let it slide. The name had gone through several evolutions, until he landed on just ‘Wormy’. For some reason, it fit.
“I’m sorry I’m late.”
“Seems like you have a pretty good excuse, what with the giant scary monster of it all.” you began to laugh, but it died in your throat when you felt him tense beneath him.
“Could’ve done with a warning about the pack of wolves waiting upstairs.” he said, voice slightly muffled by your hair, distracting you from his weird reaction to the monster mention.
You squeezed him tighter for a moment, before he gently placed you back on the floor. “I thought they were your friends, Clark.”
“They are my friends, but when Lois finds something she deems worth investigating, it’s hard to get her to drop it.” he said sheepishly, his hand rubbing at the back of his neck as he winced.
“Tender Hearts is worth investigating?” you asked, confused.
“I think they’re more interested in you.” The chuckle he let out mid explanation did little to stop your heart starting to pound. You shook your head, as if that would get the thoughts to line up and start making sense. Clark’s hands rested your arms, and his breathing became slightly exaggerated. You did your best to copy him. “It’s not like that, I promise.” You nodded, but it did little to calm you. Clark’s breaths got bigger and slower as he brought one of your hands to rest on his chest.
He didn’t say anything, just nodding encouragingly when your breaths started to slow. You could feel your heart rate evening out along with the slight ringing in your ears that you hadn’t noticed until it faded.
“I dodged their invitations for after work drinks too many times, and Lois got curious. I didn’t think they were going to show up.”
Your head tilted forward to lean against his chest. “If it makes you feel any better, it seems like most of them read the book.”
Clark threw his head back and laughed. “Golly! What a month to start!” Your brow creased for a moment, as you attempted to make sense of what he was implying. And then it hit you, Rhonda had chosen the book this month.
And suddenly, the tears were running down your cheeks and you couldn’t catch your breath for an entirely different reason. “Oh god! They had to read the part-”
“With the cake in the stable?” Clark supplied when the words were swallowed by peals of laughter. You nodded, arm finding his shoulder to support yourself as your legs started to wobble.
You took a few steadying breaths, and Clark followed suit, wiping tears from his eyes. “Talk about trial by fire.” The both of you took steadying breaths, before seemingly remembering that there were, in fact, many people upstairs waiting on you both. Clark ducked around you, scooping up all four chairs and gesturing for you to head upstairs. “I can carry a couple, you know?”
“When have I ever let you carry anything?” Clark asked, not looking back.
You stopped short, hit with the realization that Clark rarely let you carry anything. Whether it was chairs or groceries or frustration with the poorly managed tax recorders your grandmother had left behind. For as long as you could count Clark Kent as a friend, he refused to let you carry things alone. It felt so natural, you hadn’t even noticed until now.
“You comin’ Wormy?” Clark had turned on the stairs, backlit by the light from the first floor. It wasn’t that you were oblivious to Clark’s good looks, but something about that sight knocked the wind right out of you. You could only nod.
Somehow, the meeting had gone shockingly well. Lois had a fully annotated copy of her book and prepared several talking points about the realism of the small town politics that were mentioned maybe twice in the entirety of the four hundred page cowboy romance novel that had Clark blushing every time he squished himself into the reading nook in the back of the store.
Cat enjoyed making quips with Rhonda that had Clark’s face beet red after ten minutes, and even though it was incredibly clear that Jimmy hadn’t read the book, you were delighted to have him there. It was clear that he and Clark were close, and it was so nice to see someone else appreciate Clark the way you did.
Your regulars were delighted to have the team from The Planet. Jeanie and Dora had made them all promise to come back next month five times over. Rhonda had given Steve half a pack of tissues when he was somehow moved to tears by the convoluted third act break up that made little sense to everyone else, but seemed to be a sore spot for him. You made a mental note to try and steer away future picks from romantic strife, at least for the next few months.
Tammy had insisted that Lois choose the book for next month, as a welcome to the family gesture. Lois had tried to refute the offer, but the rest of the ladies had insisted. If you trusted Lois Lane any less, you’d be dreading the 500 page Cronkite biography. You were looking forward to it, but that might have more to do with Clark’s promise to read it to you during your weekly refresh of the shop. He knew that nonfiction had a habit of putting you to sleep, and that you wouldn’t forgive yourself if you showed up to next month’s meeting unprepared. He had a habit of solving problems before they could really bother you.
“I’ll be right back.” Clark’s head snapped up from where he was throwing paper plates into the large garbage bag he was lugging around the shop. His eyebrows were about to disappear into his forehead, and the confused look on his face stopped you dead in your tracks. You set the two chairs you had under each arm down, hand finding its way to your hip. “What?”
“I’ve got it.”
“Clark, don't be silly! It’s fine!” you went to pick up the chairs again, but the sound of your full name from across the room had your heart thundering. You couldn’t remember the last time that he had called you anything besides some variant of Wormy.
He was beside you now, gently easing the chairs from your grip. “The second stair from the bottom is still loose- don’t think I forgot.” You tried to interject, but the look in his eyes made the words die in your throat. “I don’t like you carrying this alone.”
“It’s a few folding chairs,” you shrugged, eyes fixed on your shoes. You were willfully missing the point.
“Hey,” Clark had ducked down, neck craning to make eye contact with you. He was smiling, fully aware of how ridiculous he was being. And you couldn’t help it, you were grinning too. “There she is.” he said, more so to himself than to you. His dimples were on full display, and just like always they made your heart pound in a way that you weren’t ready to fully explore. “You’ll let me take these downstairs?” you nodded, knowing that your face was heating up and there was little you could do to stop it. “Walk you home after?” you nodded again. He leaned up, placing a kiss on your forehead before straightening out and grabbing the chairs.
He smiled to himself, scooping up all the chairs and making quick work of taking them downstairs. Clark decided to take it easy on you for the rest of your night as he listened to your heart pounding away in your chest from the basement. There was time for him to push you on it later, notice the way his smile made it rush, the way him tucking the stubborn front pieces of hair behind your ear made it thud in your chest. There was no need to rush you along, not when something as simple as helping you clean up after bookclub- something he would do for anyone. He decided then and there that tomorrow he would be fixing the second stair from the bottom no matter how much you insisted you could call a handy man for it. And then, he was going to make it clear how devastatingly in love with you he is.
soft sounds from another planet | series masterlist | ongoing
pairing: clark kent x fem!reader
genre: rom-com
summary: clark kent is not superman. he’s just a grumpy journalist with too much baggage and exactly zero interest in being interviewed, especially not by you, a sunshiney reporter who asks way too many questions and doesn’t take no for an answer.
you’re not supposed to like him. you’re supposed to write a quick feature, turn it in, and go back to your regularly scheduled life. not linger on his front porch. not stay for coffee. and definitely not fall for the man who writes like he’s trying to outrun his own heart.
warnings: 18+, smut, mentions of canon typical violence even tho it's an au (cannot un-lex luthor lex luthor, soz)
chapter 1 - off the face of the earth
chapter 2 - stars hollow istg
chapter 3
(divider from @saradika-graphics)
this series on ao3
i have a taglist!! please let me know if you would like to be added <3
