clark's girl

request rules

i will write most things— but here are my ground rules:

i write x readers— not into character x character, as much as i’d like to get lois lane right

most things are good to go- smut, fluff, angst wise. i like exploring all kinds of ideas even if they’re odd/pervy/corny, what have you… we’re all freaks, you will not find judgement from here lmao!

triggering topics can be difficult— we will call them maybes. i will often tap into personal struggles/dispositions, and research what i can if i am writing about an unfamiliar state, but for the sake of being genuine and doing justice to people’s experiences, i tend to steer clear of anything very violent or personally traumatizing (ie. bodily/mental disorders, types of assault, etc.). if you request something like this, it’s possible i may not write it. apologies!

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my works -- (my ao3)

all oneshots, almost entirely fem! x readers

fluff masterlist! smut masterlist!

drabbles!

when clark kent crawls into bed, (fem!chubby!reader)

you & clark’s playlist (fem!reader)

being clark’s exchange student… (fem!exchange student!reader)

fast wins (clark kent x fem!F1reporter!reader)

Without his dad around to make the farm feel full, and while D.C. took his mother away on business 364 days out of the year, Smallville just didn’t have the same charm it used to. Even his friends were based in Metropolis or the stars beyond now. What was left of his childhood was long gone. It was quiet and empty, and yet so could his life be, and that is why he went anyway. Coming home, at the very least, was a chance for him to reconnect with himself. Even if he did it alone in a familiar farmhouse. 

It wasn’t as if Smallville wasn’t nice. It was beautiful all year, littered with lush nature and boasting a quirky downtown. A perfect getaway for most. The AirBNB business would boom here soon, if it hadn’t begun already. Being away had only made it seem sadder, somehow. Metropolis was always bustling, he could barely get any sleep, and part of him liked that; the surge of the city, the never-ending list of tasks, the lights and sounds. Here, nothing ever happened. It was partially why growing up was possible, but also why it felt so impossible at times. He owed much to the small town. 

The long drive down the county road out to Kent Farm smelled of that mid-July fuzzy, homegrown grain he liked to forget when he could. As he rolled up the driveway, he let out a conflicted breath. The house was the same it had been last Christmas. It never changed. The yellow paint still simmered in the sun, the windows still shone, and somehow the plants were green and viney– it had to be one of Martha’s friends, coming by to water them while nobody was home. Clark’s boots clopped up the front porch and he turned slowly, savoring the crisp intake of oxygen. The air never felt fresher than it did at home, which was one positive. The land looked good. It seemed the deal he struck with his neighbors was serving the family acres well. 

Clark would go through the motions– walk the farm, call his mother, do his laundry. Something about the well water out here really got the remaining stains out of his suit. And when all that was done, he’d go into town and see the things he missed the most– the old talon, the bakery that sold the little almond croissants, the bookstore, Smallville High. Things that made life feel like it only just happened, and wasn’t some distant memory of a planet he had left behind long ago. It would help him claw out of this unusual slump he was in, which he desperately needed to shirk. He’d missed two punches, botched a high jump in front of a group of civilians, written three stories with nearly forty typos between them, and nearly lost a mid-air brawl. He was losing his touch, and he needed to get it back. 

It didn’t help that he felt so alone. Sure, he had his friends– Chloe, Jimmy, Lois at the office, Oliver at Queen Industries (when he wasn’t on a jet), Kara and Jonn and the others floating around somewhere galactic. He had people to call. But whatever this feeling was, it had nothing to do with them. It was a gaping hole in his bedside and a missing hand on his head. It was something nobody in his world had been able to fill. There was certainly no finding it in Smallville, but in all honesty, he wasn’t sure where else to go. Even if he had to prolong the ache, at least home would take the sting out, right? He sure hoped so. If not, he was out of luck.

So, he slept in his old bed, and in the morning he would try the bakery first. Sugar cured all ills. 

˚₊‧꒰ა❤︎໒꒱ ‧₊

Early morning rushes on Fridays were predictable. Tom came in for his black coffee and Boston creme donut before sunrise. His buddy Adam followed to buy a dozen for the construction crew up the street, where LuthorCorp was building a new plant. A few of the high school teachers rushed through for a pastry on their way in, eager to close out the week. Sally, the florist, took her time perusing the glass case as usual before ordering the same as always, a cherry danish, and stuffing a five dollar bill into your hand for always being ‘such a sweet girl’. You didn’t mind it; busy was not bad, and predictability was comfortable. Nothing ever changed on Fridays. Or so you thought, until the bell rang above the door, and you glanced up to see a face that you hadn’t in years.

Was that actually Clark Kent?

It had to be. The dark hair was well-kempt, but it had that same black-sapphire shade in the warm light. His eyes, too, were as bright as you remembered them, even behind glasses. When he walked up to the counter, you knew it for sure as he smiled and a sharp row of misaligned teeth appeared. Clark Kent was standing in front of you. The very same who always showed up in the Torch or the Ledger for saving a life, who won the Crows the championship, who used to eat donuts with his band of friends in your aunt’s shop. The very same who once stopped you from tripping over yourself and hitting your head when an inexplicable windstorm swept the prom and nearly killed half the school. Clark Kent was standing in a crisp flannel, a Planet journalist out of water– it wasn’t like you kept track of him– and smiling as if he did not remember you at all.

You felt heat rise in your chest as you brushed the flour from your palms onto your apron and smiled back. “Hey. I– welcome in. What can I do for you?”

Clark fished a wallet out of his jeans and asked conspiratorily, “Do you have any of those almond croissants left, or am I too late?”

Your smile grew wider. “Ah. Yeah, we do. Just one?”

The man nodded and watched as you flipped the case open and unfolded a piece of pastry paper. “Yes, please. Thank you.”

As you wrapped his croissant and tucked it neatly into a paper bag, you studied him. He was peering at the menu behind the counter and thumbing his bills, trying to determine the price. The board wasn’t very specific. Your aunt insisted that unlabeled prices were more artisanal, and therefore more successful. You snickered softly and came back to the counter, sliding it across. “It’s gonna be $3.75.”

Clark seemed pleased enough and handed you four singles. When you opened the register, a sneaky five found its way into the tip jar. Part of you was dying to know if he remembered you, but it was such a silly whim, wasn’t it? You were always in a different class than him, had different friends and interests. He saved a lot of classmates back in the day. You didn’t think you looked all that different– you were still quite chubby, although your hair wasn’t cut the same way anymore. He likely met thousands of people every year with that job he’s got. It wouldn’t be plausible for him to remember a girl he graduated with. But still, you wanted to know.

As you dropped a quarter into his open palm, you cocked your head. “I hope this doesn’t come off presumptuous, but… do you remember who I am?”

Clark blinked in alarm and turned a pretty shade of pink, showing his teeth. “Um…”

You felt a blooming embarrassment and chuckled quickly. “I didn’t think so. It’s okay! Um– just– we graduated together, and you’re always the talk of the town now, what with writing for the Daily Planet and stuff, and I remember when you used to come in and eat donuts with your friends after school, so I just– y’know– I thought I’d ask.” You shifted your weight and winced a bit at your inability to talk at a regular pace.

Clark seemed to stop for a second, considering what you said. His eyes scanned you, and then he narrowed them, and then he smiled. “Wait a second.”

“Hm?”

“You used to work here in high school,” he confirmed, laughing softly. “This is your aunt’s place, right? Yeah! You– you used to win the bake sale drive every year, Chloe used to be so pissed,” Clark said at last. “Everyone used to call you Betty Crocker.”

You flushed plum and shut the register. “Yeah, good times…”

Clark’s grin softened as he scooped up his pastry. “Didn’t like the nickname, huh?”

You shook your head. “Could’ve been worse, though.”

“Yeah, I think it could have,” he teased. “I haven’t seen you here the last few times I came home.”

“I was living in the pacific northwest for a while,” you shrugged, leaning on the counter. “Seattle, mostly. I got my degree out there and worked for a publisher for a few years. I loved the water. But I missed home.”

“Publisher? Are you an author?”

“No, just an editor. But I’m hoping to start my own publishing company soon. Trying to find my roots again first, that’s all.”

Clark’s expression was difficult to read, but it was pleasant. He just seemed a bit… twisted up. Like a rubber band wrapping around itself. “Well, you certainly look right here. This is how I remember you.”

You ducked your head to avoid smiling too wide. “You think?” you gestured to your dirtied apron. 

Clark tilted his head to the side and thought for a moment, before nodding softly. “Yeah.” 

The attention was a bit too warm, but you didn’t move. Instead, you chirped, “Let me get you some coffee.”

“Oh, no, really–”

“Even if it’s on the house?”

Clark couldn’t help his smirk. “Giving out freebies, are we?” “For an old friend,” you tested, turning around to reach the back counter. “You did save me once, after all.”

Clark furrowed his brow. “I did?” he asked, only to think for a second and follow up with, “oh. I did! Prom, right?”

“Yeah,” you giggled, filling a paper cup with coffee from the canteen. 

“You were wearing a blue dress. I do remember.”

You turned around with a handful of scalding drink, but the burn was nothing compared to your skin. “What?”

Clark smiled sheepishly and scratched his head. “You… uh… you wore a blue dress. I remember it, it had, like… beads on it. It was pretty. Is that my coffee?”

You handed it to him with a nervous hand and flushed, trying to find your way back to that easy smile. “Right.”

Clark clutched his croissant and cup awkwardly and nudged his glasses up with a knuckle. “Um, well… I guess I’m good to go, then.”

“All paid up,” you nodded. 

“I’ll see you?” He asked.

There was the smile. “I’ll be here.”

“Good,” Clark said, stepping back. “Uh… have a good day. It was good to see you again.”

“You too, Clark.”

As the memory of a boy all but waddled out of the bakery, you leaned your hip against the counter and watched him go. He was even taller, and yet just as you once knew him. Sweet, teasing, bumbling when he got caught. Perfect. You felt yourself gushing, but there was no harm done if he was gone. For a minute, you felt just like your young self again, going to the football games for no other reason than to ogle the golden child of Smallville High. Everyone had a crush on him. But did he remember everyone?

Clark came back every morning that week until he went back to Metropolis. You assumed as much when he stopped showing up. But it wasn’t until you emptied the tip jar at the end of the week to split it between you and your aunt that you found a note slipped in with a few bills…

Stay at the bakery for a while longer. The croissants have never been better. If you’re still there by Thanksgiving, you’ll make one happy man. Call if you won’t be. xxx-xxx-xxxx

˚₊‧꒰ა❤︎໒꒱ ‧₊

Clark was looking forward to the holiday for more reasons than one. 

His mother got some time off, thank God. That was reason enough to celebrate. He had even convinced his friends to make the trip back, since so many of them were each other’s family now, and a Friendsgiving in the Watchtower just wouldn't do. It would be the first real Thanksgiving he enjoyed in years. He’d taste his mother’s homemade apple pie again. But, on top of all that, there would be almond croissants and coffee. 

You called after you found the note. You got his machine, but you left a message. When Clark called back the next morning, you found his voice was quite nice over the phone, and he was happy to hear yours. I don’t get a lot of calls, he had teased, I’ll clear the machine so you can fill it up. And fill it you did. You called all the time, whether you intended to catch him or not. You told stories about the bakery, and sometimes he was there to laugh with you, or he would chuckle to himself while he recapped upon coming home. The times you did get him to pick up, he would spill the juicy details of what it was like working at the Planet, being in league with the best reporters in the country and just barely scraping by. Sometimes he read his stories aloud for you to edit, given all your experience. Now and again, if he got a big one, he’d fax it to you and wait for you to return it covered in red pen. He earned points with Perry for developing his craft, and he acquired a taste for the cute way you scribbled your Rs and Ks. 

When November rolled around and you had months of phone bills under your belt, Clark had rung one night with a special request. Come to my house for Thanksgiving, he asked, for dessert. Meet my friends. Please? They want to try your baking. And I want to see you. You were sold at the prospect of being wanted, but it took more convincing to get your mother and aunt to see you weren’t ditching the holiday, merely cutting out early for a lateral celebration. They agreed on the contingency that you bring a canteen of the special banana bread coffee the bakery was experimenting with, aiming to hear results from a test group. That was how you ended up in Clark’s living room, polling Crow alumni and strangers alike. 

“Honey, whatever you put in this, I’m gonna need fifteen more of,” a very satisfied Lois Lane grinned. It was safe to say you were mesmerized by her– not only was her name known nationwide for her exclusive interviews with Superman, but she had a head of chestnut hair that flowed the way you imagined Greek goddesses’ did, and her comebacks were witty and sharp, and she looked like hell on wheels in a pair of jeans and a blazer. She gave you a friendly wallop on the arm. “This stuff is a bestseller!”

“It really is,” Chloe hummed, sidling up to you against the kitchen counter. “I wish you had this back in high school. I was running on terrible mochaccinos back then.”

You chuckled softly at the blonde. She was as pretty as you remembered, with her gap teeth and bouncy hair. “Weren’t we all.”

“You know, I really think you’ve got a good investment opportunity on your hands here,” Oliver Queen interjected from across the room, almond cream and powdered sugar clumping around his lips. He had sugared hands like a Pillsbury massacre. “We should talk about stakes. I could put your pastries in airports around the world.

“Dude!” Jimmy Olsen scoffed.

“Absolutely not,” Clark cut in, tossing a napkin in Oliver’s direction. “She’s one person, she can only make so many. No machine could make them taste as good.”

You flushed a bit and shrugged. “Thanks, Clark.”

“You always had a talent for treats, sweetheart,” a greying yet spry Martha Kent lilted as she shooed Chloe and Lois from the counter so she might reach the sink. “Just like your aunt. People talked for years about how those croissants fell in quality when you left for school. I think your mother was making them.”

You had to bite back your laughter as she gave you a wink. You scooted away to give her room for the dishes. 

Clark’s friends were sweet. It wasn’t that you didn’t like them. They were all new to you, that was all. City folk. The people on the other side of the country, when you did work in Seattle and Portland, had a small-town attitude. The world moved differently there. It was kinder, just like Smallville had been growing up. Metropolis was like New York, and New York was the total opposite of Seattle and Portland. In turn, these people were the total opposite of you. They seemed the opposite of Clark in many ways, Chloe included. They were full of jabs and prods, sly jokes, work talk. You had little to contribute but the food you brought and a small story now and again when they remembered you knew Clark in school, vaguely and barely, and asked you to recount something they’d heard of before but never got the full story. They were all reporters or seekers in their own right, and it was frankly exhausting to keep up with. 

Plus, with Lois around, it was a bit hard to breathe.

Clark had been so sweet over the phone. Curious about your life, asking after your progress on building a publishing company and how your family was doing. Invested in a way that gave you hope. He never mentioned Lois outside of work tales. But as she stood in his house now, punching his arm with a sense of camaraderie unknown to you, you worried if perhaps you’d read too much into things. She smiled at his every sentence and flipped her hair, and she drank your coffee while she did so. You were the servant to their obviously undeniable love, forced to watch it play out like some cruel joke. Well, maybe not in so many words, but that was how it felt. It felt, as she ruffled his hair and he flushed while fixing his frames, like Clark had not told you everything. It made you feel like a fool. 

As his friends slumped on the couch with full bellies, bickering over a recording of Miracle on 34th Street, you parceled off the leftovers of your pastries in the kitchen with Clark. 

“I’m glad you came,” he murmured, wiping some sugar off the counter. “Everybody is. They all really like you.”

“They’re nice people,” you offered back, trying not to replay the image of Lois patting Clark’s hand during dessert. 

“I missed these,” he nudged your elbow, poking the Ziploc full of croissants. “And you.”

God, it really wasn’t fair. “You did?”

“Mhm.”

It was hard to tell now, when he touched you, if it was friendly. He touched Lois plenty. And Chloe, and Ollie, and surely everyone else. Hands on the small of their backs, pats between the shoulders. He was an affectionate person. He seemed to speak to them the same, too, as he joked and praised in ways you found so flirtatious over the phone. You were beginning to rethink everything he had ever said and done, retracing it back to when he first reacquainted himself in the summer, worrying that you’d been stupid enough to fabricate love out of a friendship. 

“Are you listening?”

You blinked, snapping out of the spiral as Clark tucked a lock of hair behind your ear. He was closer now, peering down at you with curiosity. Warmth made you shudder as you shook your head. “Zoned out. Sorry.”

“Are you feeling alright?”

“Yeah,” you smiled, but it pulled your cheeks tight. “Great. This was really nice. Thank you for inviting me.”

Clark studied how your hands moved quickly to clean, and he reached out to still a wrist. “You’re not at work. You don't have to do that.”

You paused, a sick feeling swirling in your gut. You had been cleaning all night. Serving, watching, attending to his friends and mother, making sure they liked your food, topping off their coffees. It was the only way you felt useful anymore since coming home. 

Clark slipped a palm around your back and pressed his fingers into the soft pudge of your skin, dimpling the dip. “What is it?”

You swallowed the worry and smiled again. “Nothing,” you said before deflecting. “You never said what you were thankful for, you know. Earlier. Lois said cable television, and Jimmy said film developers, and then you never answered.”

Clark squinted playfully. “Really? Well, what are you thankful for? I don’t recall you answering, either.”

You chuckled weakly. “Um… the bakery. My family. The freelance work I get now and again,” you glanced at him, “and, y’know… other stuff.”

“Stuff?”

You swallowed again, closing your eyes. It was all friendship, this whole time. You knew it. A trick.

Clark leaned down and pressed a kiss to your cheek. “Well, I’m thankful for you.”

Your eyes stayed shut as the tingle resonated like a sonic boom throughout the chub of your cheek. So that was what Clark’s lips felt like. 

“Was that a bad idea?” Clark suddenly asked, voice softer than you were used to. 

You opened your eyes and looked up at him with enough hope to start a fire. “Are we friends?”

Clark blushed. “I was sort of hoping we were a little more than that now.”

A little more than that. So you weren’t an idiot. You read between the lines, like you did for a job once. You found the discrepancy. Smiling like a fool, you nodded. “I’d like to be.”

Clark’s teeth glinted in the yellow light of the kitchen, and he murmured, “You’ve got a little something on your chin.”

A flustered worry overtook you. It could be sugar or soapy water or something worse. “I do?” 

He hummed, taking your chin between two fingers, and he promptly pressed a kiss to your lips. Another trick. He was quite sneaky, that Clark Kent. 

When he pulled away, he offered, “Could you make more croissants for Christmas?"

You just laughed. “I’ll make you whatever you want.”

˚₊‧꒰ა❤︎໒꒱ ‧₊

February in Smallville was postcard-worthy, which was why you emailed a photo of it to Clark a week before you were set to see him again. He sent a picture of a snowy Metropolis skyline, to which you replied, Looks cold. He wrote back, Would be warmer if you were here. 

The commute wasn’t impossible. You worked out a schedule in which every weekend one of you visited the other. When you drove to the city, Clark always had a reservation set at a different kitschy restaurant where you could tuck yourselves into a corner and talk until the wine was gone. When he came home, you’d sneak him freebies at the bakery and he’d talk shop with your aunt at the counter. He’d given you a bracelet at Christmas with a little C charm, and a tiny book charm to go with it. Your two loves. You were smitten, to say the least. 

There had been talks about moving. You scheduled a few tours of office buildings in the city where you might start your business out. There was only one publishing company in Metropolis and it was owned by LuthorCorp, and they did not take on independent artists– it was an untapped market of aspiring writers who were looking to get their work on shelves. You figured that if you were to start new anywhere, that would be a good place to nest. You wouldn’t go back to the west coast. You wouldn’t go anywhere Clark wouldn’t follow. In all honesty, your time there was well spent and left behind. Smallville was home again, and the thought of straying far from it was one you no longer entertained. You could endure the people of Metropolis so long as you had the choice to ground yourself now and again just down the highway. 

Clark felt like everything was falling into place, just like you. He was crushing it at work, getting stories by Perry all the time with his own personal editor waiting with a red pen. His late-night escapades in red and blue were faster than ever, with minimal screw-ups and damage. He was sleeping plenty while your slow breathing filtered through his phone receiver at night. And soon enough, you would be coming to stay with him and start your dream up. He hadn’t felt a slump since summer, and that hole he was drowning in was filled and patched over. Nothing could hurt him now. In fact, it quite motivated him beyond your sensibilities. 

“You’re thinking about something,” Clark whispered, nibbling at your neck. 

You giggled softly and tried to wriggle free. The deep sky did little to light his apartment bedroom through the windows as he wrestled you onto the bed, but you could see his eyes clear as day, gleaming as if they held moonlight like a glow stick. “Tomorrow,” you panted, “that one building by the Planet. I’m hoping it goes my way.”

“It will,” Clark teethed at your jaw, peppering little kisses over the bend. “The loan was approved, you’ve got a good reputation in the industry… you’re gonna get it.”

You carded your fingers through his hair, coaxing him up to get a good look at him. “Do you really think I can do this?”

Clark gazed down at you. His glasses slid down the bridge of his nose, so you tugged them off. He always looked so much like his teenage self without them. It was incredibly deja-vu-ish. “I do.”

“You don’t think I’ll fail?”

“Maybe you will,” he smiled. “But I’ll just write you an article in the paper, and then everyone will donate money or something and we’ll save you.”

A soft bubble of laughter erupted from your chest and you hauled him down for another kiss. Clark grunted with approval as he hitched your legs over his hip and pressed you hard into the mattress, relishing in the pillowy cushion of your body beneath him. 

“I love you,” you professed into his mouth, nails scratching softly down his shoulders, tracing little lines over the skin. 

“I love you,” he parroted. 

You squeaked a bit as he shoved a palm up your shorts and made contact with your ass. “You know, I used to think you had a thing for Lois.”

Clark squeezed as he laughed. “What?”

“I did,” you wheezed, bucking into the touch as his mouth sealed over your throat and his curious hand slipped beneath your panties. “I thought– mmf– at Thanksgiving, you know–”

“You’re crazy,” he purred, hands working magic you– and probably most girls back home– had dreamed about one way or another. It was a familiar pleasure to you, though. Who would’ve thought? “I definitely didn’t, and don’t.”

“I hope not, because that would be embarrassing– ah…”

Clark smothered you with kisses and promises that ever since he found you, it had only ever been you, and in all his life he’d never felt anything like what you do to him. Somewhere in the middle of all the talking, hands stopped and motions started, and you were moving as a unit, twisting the sheets and clinging to each other like fated limpets. Very few things felt better than Clark Kent swearing he adored you while greeting your insides over and over again. 

“I bought the house,” Clark gasped for air, driving his hips home. 

You blinked tears of pleasure from your eyes and tried to make sense of the words. “Mm– hm?”

“The farmhouse,” Clark moaned, clawing at your thighs around his waist. “Bought it off– my mom. We can… keep it… go home whenever we want.”

The flutter in your gut was hard to identify given the duelling notions occurring at once. The sweat of his cheek mingled with yours as he crushed you, and you tried to breathe through it. “You bought me a house?”

Clark grunted, eyes fluttering. He managed a smirk. “Too much?”

You shook your head, swallowing a cry. “No. I’ll– ah– God, I have to bake you stuff forever now!”

“Only because you love home so much,” he reasoned while bullying into you. “Want you to be happy.”

The part of you which wanted to ask if he remembered you, if he could recall that girl from high school who watched him from afar but never said a word, wanted to rear its head again. Clark Kent bought you a house and called you every night and was helping you achieve dreams. Certainly this was a dream, or heaven, or an incredible stroke of luck. But that part got trapped beneath the whines in your throat as he bucked hard enough, thrusting you both over the precipice. Clark collapsed on top of you, breathing in the sweet, heady scent of your perfume as he nuzzled into your neck.  

You panted hoarsely and shook out your head, trying to clear the fog. You smiled like a dope. “I can’t believe you. Are you hiding any other secrets, sneaky? Any more tricks?”

Clark lifted his head to look at you with an expression of recognition. There you were, as you’ve always been, and he loved you. It might have been later in life, and he often asked himself if he could have had you back in high school had he looked past himself, but none of that really mattered now. He could go home any time he wanted and know you were waiting around every corner. Nothing was hard, nothing hurt anymore. He wasn’t alone. That was probably enough to tell you everything, wasn’t it? Because the house was only the beginning. If you loved him, then you had to know it all.