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little libraries

clark kent x fem!neurodivergent!reader

original ask <3 ao3

summary: clark takes you to the hardware store, your least favorite place. you’re neurodivergently wired to have sound sensitivity, so the harsh sounds drove you up a wall. lucky for you, your boyfriend understood your machine quite well. his obsession with your nuts and bolts helps you stay grounded… in more ways than one.

word count: 2.2k

contains: fluff & sensory overstimulation. suggestions of future smut… maybe part two eventually… chubby!reader if you squint, loud noises, hand stimming, sound overstim. clark is a freak about you. calls you kitten teasingly (but he means it.) *no use of y/n

a/n: another request for a lovely anon! <3 i picked the neurodivergent half of your prompt only because i’m not well acquainted enough with ED experience and didn’t want to misrepresent. being neurodivergent, though… i know a little about that. this is mainly based on my personal experience with it. hope you like. :)

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Clark watched your fingers flex. There was a melody to it. Open, close, open, wiggle, close again. Silent music that punctuated the start and stop of your thoughts, the rise and fall of your heart rate. You clenched harder if you were nervous, or if you couldn’t find the right words to explain yourself. You barely clenched at all when you had his fingers running through the ends of your hair. He thought the music of your brain was beautiful. A tune to which you held the conductor’s baton, but to which he beat the drum, to keep you on time. He watched again as your fingers twitched over your skirt, and then the music came once more– open, close, open, wiggle, close.

It wasn’t surprising to either of you that the stimming was rearing its head, because you were standing beside Clark in a line at the hardware store, and you were extremely against the hardware store. It was like a mine field of violent and unexpected noises. Men in canvas jackets would literally rev a chainsaw without notice, and then let out some animalistic cowboy’s yodel. Men screwed with the wrenches in cubbies and made metal scream against neighboring metal. Wooden planks dragged from piles like nails on a chalkboard. The paint mixing machine rumbled harshly. Nuts and bolts dropped on the floor. Loud men, loud men taking up the air, pumped with entirely too much testosterone and not enough warning. Older men with ambiguous intentions would brush past Clark and yourself, rattling voices questioning, “Whaddaya doin’ bringing that pretty thing ‘round here?” and “Look at you carryin’ wood, princess!”

Clark knew that being in the little Smallville institution was a sensory nightmare for you, but you seemed to jump at the chance anyway each time he had to make the trip. He suspected it had something to do with watching him stack everything in the truck bed and unload it when he got it back to the farm. Or maybe it was the way he talked respectfully to the shopman Sam, using all the right technical language, laughing at farming jokes that only someone who knew the craft could pick up on. Surely if he asked you, he’d be proven right, but he liked to watch the way your face lit up at those little things and revel in the projection. Perhaps the torture within the equipped walls was worth the results, but he did feel quite guilty watching you twitch and jump at all the noise. Your sensitivity to sound, among the other neurological quirks you possessed, wasn’t something he wished to inflame.

His hand adjusted around the few planks of plywood he held by his side, and a gallon of baby blue paint dangled from his other palm. You two were actually here for a project that arose from your own ambitions; you’d read in the Daily Planet that there was a small trend going around in the city which made your literary heart soar. Unknown contributors were nailing these ‘little libraries’ next to newspaper boxes, painting the structures in bright colors and hinging little plastic doors on the front, and placing free books to take or lend as passerby pleased. It was encouraging sharing stories with the world, people you’d never know, people who something you left inside might possibly leave an impression on forever. You imagined nailing one of these book boxes to the Kent Farm post would be perfect– people drove past coming to and from town, so maybe they'd stop– take a book, leave a book, you’d write on the door. You wanted to stock it and keep it cared for. Clark barely had to listen to your proposal before he packed you into the car.

He smiled softly as you rocked on your feet while the customer ahead of you both in line had an asinine conversation with the woodsy owner. He nudged your arm with his elbow.

“Okay?”

You blinked and your head jerked up towards him, palms flexing yet again. “Hm?”

“I asked if you were okay,” he chuckled.

“Oh! Yeah. Fine, good,”

Clark’s baby blues caressed the slight anxious flush of your cheeks, and he hummed softly, “Mm. Right. We’ll be away from the noise in a minute. Stay strong, pretty.”

You shot him a soft glare, lacking any real anger, and you nudged his arm back.

The man at the head of the line let out a barking laugh and scooped up his bag, grumbling something about being back in a few days, and Clark quickly swooped in to get his supplies rang up.

The only cashier, only stocker, only owner- a tall, stocky man talking through a magnificent beard, smirked at the hulking boy before him. “Mr. Kent Junior! How ‘bout that? And you brought the girl! Nice to see you, cupcake,”

You offered a pursed-lip smile, tucking your hair behind your ears, and your hands flexed ever quicker. You didn’t try to answer, you just swallowed thickly and let Clark handle it.

“My girl comes with me everywhere, Sam,” Clark smiled, but there was a bite of authority there, as if the unspoken words that followed were, She’s got a name and you know it.

Sam made serious efforts to chain Clark to the register, asking questions about the farm, about how it’s running without his dad, about his sweet mother and her seat on the Senate; Clark indulged each inquiry with charming grace, as always. Short but satisfactory answers, sly glimpses at his watch to subconsciously alert Sam of his dwindling time. It seemed like the man would never stop, he just kept asking and asking, even after Clark had carefully folded his receipt and shoved it into his red pocket, and had the plywood and paint back in his possession. But there was someone, somewhere out there who was looking out for you– albeit in a distasteful way– because another customer, a man quite old for hardware shopping, knocked over a bucket of nails. The shrieking of sharp metal scraping the concrete floor made you jump out of your skin, and you shook your head out, jerking it into your shoulder a few times, trying to squeeze the sound out of your ears. Your hands leapt to cover your ears, just for a second, and you winced, curling your fingertips into your hair.

Clark was swift in placing the wood and paint against the register and slipping an arm around the small of your back, hand curling into the pudge of your side, and his lips found your temple. Gentle and concise, he tapped his pointer and middle finger against your hipbone in twos, mimicking a slower heartbeat. Thump-thump, thump-thump. His voice was like a feather down your spine.

“Shh, s’okay. Just some nails. Easy, baby.”

You subsided into the touch, and you tapped the back of his palm. Thump-thump, thump-thump. Grounding. You’d learned it together. A ribbon of joy wrapped around his heart, rushing giddily through his bones, because you were so cute he wanted to burst. He peppered the side of your face with kisses, disregarding the masculine environment he was absolutely polluting with passion.

“Theeere she is,” he grins, “See? Can’t hurt ‘ya.”

A soft giggled bubbled up in the back of your throat, and you threaded your fingers over the dips of his knuckles. “Clark– Clark, hey, we- we’re in a store!”

The farmboy rolled his eyes and left one more lip-smack against your cheek before untangling from you and gathering his supplies up again. Sam gives him a cocked eyebrow and, chuckling gruffly, he supposes, “Odd one, ain’t she? Twitchy as a bug.”

Clark could barely muster the expected grin, and for him, it was quite mean! He didn’t like when people commented on your quirks. Ever. But he managed one anyway, and without words, turned on his heels to usher you out of the store. You smirked softly and muttered as you passed through the metal-frame door: “Brr. Is it cold in here, or is it just you?”

Clark snorted at your quip and hauled the bound planks across the lot to the truckbed. You trailed behind, looking at the eroding grey lines specifying parking spots from the one beside, the cement cracks stuffed with burgeoning green grass. This hardware store had been in Smallville forever, and Clark looked like every gorgeous boy who ever built anything in this town, in his own way. The curvature of his muscles flexed and ebbed as he shoved the planks in and dropped the paint tin on the bed, shoving it back so it wouldn’t roll around on the drive home. Your lips curled up, sweetly cheshire, as you got your payment for coming to the world’s worst store.

Clark peeked up at you as he flipped up the trunk door, and he brushed his palms on the blue of his jeans. “Easy, tiger. You look like you're gonna pounce.”

You laughed softly and tilted your head, hair tickling your eyelashes. Your fingers tapped at your thigh now, no more flexing, no more stress. “Tiger?”

Clark stalked around the edge of the truck, watching how you turned on your heels to back up in anticipation, and his hands followed the expected trajectory; hooking your waist and pressing you to the metal, boxing you in with a smile. He leaned in to nuzzle your cheek, eager as a puppy, and he kissed down the curve of your face, eyebrow to jaw, fingertips rising to map the dip.

“You’re right. Not a tiger. Kitten, maybe.”

You blushed and curled into his touch like an unshrinking violet, pressing a rosy lipstick-kiss to the meat of his palm. “Clark, we’re in public,”

“What was that, cupcake?” He chuckled, “God, sometimes I want to– just… yell at Sam for stuff like that.”

“Guys throw punches for far less,” you beamed, nosing his cheek. That yell was hard for him to even consider (how cute). “You have remarkable self-restraint. Almost alien.”

Clark sighed in faux-annoyance. “Low blow.”

“Had to.”

His hands tickled at the small of your back and you squawked, elbows knocking into the metal of the truck. “Hey- Clark!”

His eyes squinted devilishly. He always picked the worst times to tickle you, and it was because of his freakish fascination with the way you twitched. Your hands hovered in the air, half-touching, half-not, fingers splaying, face twisting. You squeaked and giggled and tried desperately to wriggle free. Now you were a spasming kitten without claws. He refused to let up until you were red in the face and breathless, and whining about the soreness his fingertips left behind. He smoothed his palms up your back and scattered smooches all down your neck and collarbone in repentance, smiling like a fool.

“Jeez… you're gonna bruise me one day, Clark!”

“But you look so pretty when you squirm,”

You burned cherry red and swatted at his arm, but it fell lame on the Kryptonian mass. The mauve of his lips quirked into a grin and he shut up your incoming complaint, the movements lazy and slick with the saliva he swiped across them just moments ago. You might’ve kept insisting about public indecency if the careless way he bit at your lip didn’t have you purring. Docile even when his hands squeezed at the softness of your behind, riding your skirt up.

“Mmf- Clark!” you grumbled into the kiss, hands rushing to cover yourself up.

The silent You’re flashing me to the people in this parking lot was amended with a snarky, “They’d be– mmf– so lucky.”

He kissed you into oblivion to watch how your fingers twitched and clamped midair, fist, flex, fist, flex, working overtime so you didn’t slip away into dreamland. Soft heat curled in wisps between his hips. God, he just wanted to eat you alive sometimes.

Without warning, he whisked you off the ground and flung you unceremoniously into the passenger seat of the cab. You plopped down, accidentally knocking your noggin on the back window. “Oof- hey!”

He laughed and leaned in to kiss your cheek, passing over the bump dotingly. “Sorry, baby. Got excited. Just- buckle up, we gotta get back.”

You watched him dart to the driver’s side, and you flushed, mumbling teasingly. “You’re that excited to build my library?”

The truck rumbled to life as Clark lunched across the truck cab to catch your lips again, and his hand curled under your chin possessively. “Pretty girl,” he crooned, “That’s a stupid question an’ you know it.”

You did know it. He was lucky he closed the back up, because he tore out of that lot like a man being chased. Between the way your hand curled over his bicep, and the merciless rouge kisses you pressed to his neck as he tried not to veer off the road back to Kent Farm, he was all but exploding to throw you onto a bale of hay and give you a sensory overload that you’d beg for. You barely had time to ask if he’d let you do the pretty blue painting to the little wooden box before he whisked you into the house. He loved the way you twitched, and he would see you do it again, in a matter of minutes. The world could wait on your library one more day.

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