ggclarissa

[ggclarissa]

So we can all agree that we find Clark Kent "I need him ferally" attractive right whereas Superman is just aight/conventionally attractive, right??

Whatever this middle ground is though could get it any day though

It's like a slut

[ggclarissa]

kiddo pt. 2 | clark kent

pt. 1

fandom: dcu

pairing: corenswet!clark kent x fem!reader

content: reader is in her early 20’s, clark is older and unfortunately hot about it, mild age gap, established relationship but barely, office gossip ruins everything, insecure clark, confused reader, lois lane mention, miscommunication, hurt/comfort.

summary: in which your newly blossomed relationship with clark kent seems perfect — until he begins to pull away, and you’re left to wonder what’s changed.

tags: @itsjusta-prank-han

You never thought the hardest part would come after everything felt perfect.

After that late Wednesday night, when Clark had confessed — quietly, tenderly, in that impossibly earnest way of his — the depth of his feelings for you. That the nickname, kiddo, had merely been a facade. That what existed between you hadn’t been imagined or one-sided.

It had been real all along.

Loving him had come easily — effortlessly, even. It was holding onto that feeling, keeping steady, that proved more difficult than you could have ever imagined. But perhaps that was simply the cost of loving a man like Clark Kent.

A man who was soft-spoken and devastatingly kind. Who moved through a world of cynics with a quiet determination to prove that gentleness was not a flaw but a strength. Who chose his words carefully, meant every one of them, and loved as if he feared breaking the very things he cherished most.

You had been together for a month, and you hadn’t stopped smiling since.

At least — not until recently. Not until he stopped.

It began subtly. Small absences.

His hand slipped from yours a little sooner. The texts that once brightened your afternoons dwindled until their absence felt louder than their presence ever had. And then one night, he didn’t walk you home — a ritual he’d kept since the night he confessed. He claimed he was drowning in work, needed to stay late. But he left you without a kiss, no backward glance to cling to, and the emptiness of it settled over you like a weight you couldn’t shake, lingering well into the morning.

You told yourself not to spiral. One off day didn’t constitute disaster.

But then it was two. Then four. Then nearly two weeks of hollow smiles, vague reassurances, and a tenderness that felt less like devotion and more like a prelude to goodbye.

Clark wasn’t deliberately pulling away — not exactly. Yet each time he caught a smirk half-hidden behind a coffee mug, each time the air shifted and the conversation stilled as he entered the break room, it seeped into him slowly — like water through a hairline crack, inevitable and inescapable.

It wasn’t shame. He had never, not once, felt ashamed of you.

On the contrary, he remained quietly astonished by your effect on him — how your laughter could ease the tension from his shoulders before he even noticed it, how your voice could transform the chaos of the bullpen into something bearable. How your gaze never once marked him as strange or ill-suited for the world, but simply as a man striving to do his best.

But he couldn’t shake the whispers.

Clark had been weaving through the bullpen, balancing two mugs in his hands — one meant for you — when he heard it.

He hadn’t intended to eavesdrop; he never did. Super-hearing was, more often than not, a curse as much as it was a blessing. But the moment your name surfaced, he went still.

“—(Y/N) and Kent. They’re definitely a thing.”

“She’s what, twenty-one?”

“Yeah. She was still a freshmen when he was already writing op-eds. I mean, what do they even talk about? Mortgage rates?”

His stomach turned.

Another voice joined in, laced with jest. “Maybe she’s into the whole ‘older guy’ thing. You know — mature, emotionally stable, good credit score…”

A laugh followed. “Sure, but still. You’d think someone like him would go for a woman his own age. Not someone barely old enough to rent a car.”

“Guess Kent likes ‘em young.”

Clark hadn’t stayed to hear the rest — if there had even been more to hear.

He pivoted sharply, dumped your coffee into the nearest sink, and disappeared into an empty conference room — where he sat for twenty long minutes, head buried in his hands, utterly still.

Because the comments hadn’t just been cruel — they’d validated his deepest fear: that he had, in fact, crossed a line by pursuing you. That maybe everyone at the Daily Planet had been silently condemning your relationship from the very start.

And you felt the shift the moment that realization took root in him.

That same day, there was no coffee on your desk. No easy stop by your corner of the newsroom. Not even a flicker of his gaze meeting yours.

You told yourself he was just busy.

But he wasn’t.

He was retreating — one clipped word, one abandoned ritual, one disappearance at a time.

And you noticed.

God, you noticed.

Eventually, you broke and confided in Lois over lunch. Your voice barely carried as you pushed your fork through an untouched salad, the weight of your fears finally slipping past your lips.

“Clark’s been distant,” You admitted lowly. “And I don’t know why. I keep wondering if it’s me. If I’m too young. If maybe he just…lost interest.”

Lois’s eyes snapped to yours over the rim of her mug. “‘Lost interest?’ Are you serious?”

Your shoulders lifted in a helpless shrug. “He called me ‘kiddo’ before we were together, and I thought that meant I didn’t stand a chance. What if he actually thinks that now? That I’m too young? Too inexperienced. That I’m not…enough.”

Lois set her mug down and leaned forward, her gaze sharp. “Okay, first of all — Clark doesn’t do anything casually. If he’s pulling away, it’s not because he stopped caring. It’s because he cares too much. Trust me. I’ve known him a long time.”

You raised your gaze, uncertain. “But what if—?”

Lois’s voice was gentle but unwavering. “(Y/N). If you want answers, go to him. Clark won’t lie — not to you.”

So you did.

It was a quiet Thursday evening when you found him — alone in the copy room, the last of the golden light slanting through the windows and pooling across the tiles. Clark stood over the printer, shoulders tense as he wrestled with a stubborn printer jam.

You waited until the machine hummed back to life before clearing your throat.

He turned at once, startled. “Hey.”

You closed the door behind you, soft but deliberate.

The change in his demeanor was instantaneous — his shoulders snapped upright, his expression guarded. “Everything alright?”

You shook your head. “No, Clark. We need to talk.”

He stilled.

“I know something’s been wrong for weeks,” You said, your voice steady even as your chest constricted. “I’ve given you space. I’ve tried to be patient. But I can’t keep pretending nothing’s changed.”

His jaw clenched, though he remained silent.

You drew a steady breath, forcing the words out. “If you don’t want to be with me anymore, just — please. Be honest. I can take it. I just need to know the truth.”

“What?” His expression shattered then, the answer fierce and immediate. “No. God, no — that’s not it at all.”

“Then what is it?” Your voice cracked despite yourself. “Because it feels like you’re already halfway out the door.”

He looked like the words were pulling him apart at the seams.

“I overheard people,” He admitted finally, voice low and fraying at the edges. “Talking about us. About you. About the age difference, how it looks. And I started wondering if they were right — if I really did cross a line.”

You stared at him, disbelieving. “And you believed them?”

“I didn’t want to,” He whispered, “But the doubt got into my head. I kept thinking…what if people stopped taking you seriously because of me? What if I’m making things harder for you without even realizing it?”

Your eyes flashed, cutting through his words. “That’s not your call to make. You don’t get to decide what’s best for me without even talking to me.”

He looked gutted, his shoulders sagging beneath the weight of it all. “I just didn’t want to be the reason people judged you.”

“They already judge me,” You said softly, each word deliberate. “Because I’m new. Because I’m young. Because I’m a woman. I fight those battles every day. But being with you…it made it easier.”

You stepped closer, your voice fracturing. “But then you pulled away. And that hurt more than anything they could’ve said about me.”

Clark’s blue eyes shone with barely restrained tears. “I’m so sorry. I thought I was protecting you.”

Closing the distance, you laid a hand against his chest, grounding him. “Don’t protect me from you. I never asked for that.”

A prolonged silence settled between you.

And then, in a voice barely above a breath, he said, “I love you.”

You let out a trembling breath. It was the first time those words had ever left his lips — for you.

“Then stop acting like you’re a burden. You’re the best part of my day, Clark Kent.”

Something in him cracked open at that — some insurmountable barrier finally giving way.

And when he kissed you — God, when he kissed you — it was everything he’d kept buried. Raw, breathless, and unrestrained. It was apology and longing, regret and hope, all folded into one desperate, beautiful moment.

When you finally drew back, he leaned in, gently resting his forehead against yours.

“I won’t do that again,” He murmured. “I’m done letting their opinions get in my head.”

You smiled, even as emotion tightened your throat. “Good. ‘Cause I’m not going anywhere.”

You left the copy room with your fingers laced together. And when someone in the bullpen glanced up and whispered?

Clark didn’t falter. He held your hand like it was a statement — and he didn’t let go.

Not for a second.

[ggclarissa]

[ggclarissa]

kiddo | clark kent

pt. 2

fandom: dcu

pairing: corenswet!clark kent x fem!reader

content: reader is in her early 20’s, clark is older and unfortunately hot about it, mild age gap, mutual pining, oblivious clark, insecure reader, lois lane mention, angst if you squint, fluff if you don’t.

summary: in which you convince yourself that clark kent’s habit of calling you “kiddo” signifies you have no chance — until he unexpectedly proves otherwise.

author’s note: i don’t know if clark has an official age in the new movie? i read somewhere that he might be in his early 30’s, so for the sake of this oneshot, let’s just say he’s 30.

You’d heard the nickname before — at family reunions, crooned by aunts with lipstick-smudged teeth and tossed around by uncles who still ruffled your hair like you were five, never mind the fact that you were old enough to drive. Back then, ‘kiddo’ had been sweet. Familiar. Even a little endearing.

But from him?

It stung.

“Nice work on that LuthorCorp zoning piece, kiddo.”

You’d poured your entire weekend into that article — combing through public records at City Hall, chasing down a contractor who insisted on meeting in a dimly lit parking garage, and revising quotes until your fingers cramped. It was the kind of piece you were genuinely proud of.

And yet — kiddo.

He might as well have called you ‘sport.’ Or ‘champ.’ Or ‘slugger.’

You were twenty-one. A fully functioning adult. Old enough to vote, pay rent, and catastrophically destroy your credit score if you pleased. And certainly old enough to recognize a dismissive pet name when you heard one.

Clark Kent had said it with a smile — polite, mild-mannered, not unkind. He adjusted his glasses and offered you a nod like a proud teacher, then strolled back to his desk with the easy, unhurried gait of someone completely unaware he’d just ruined your entire day in a single breath.

A month had passed since then, and you’d been trying — quietly, relentlessly — to be seen as more than just a kid.

You arrived early. Pitched stories with deeper research, sharper angles, stronger sources. Your outfits had shifted towards sleek and deliberate — less intern, more young up-and-coming professional. You swapped the communal Keurig for your own overpriced cold brew in a stainless-steel tumbler, a quiet declaration: you weren’t some wide-eyed rookie anymore. You even started carrying a pocket-sized Moleskine in your blazer — because Clark did.

And yet, every time he passed your desk, he left behind the same three-syllable sting:

“Hey, kiddo.”

And you’d smile. Like it didn’t land soft and patronizing. Like it didn’t shrink you in all the quiet, aching ways you could never admit.

Because of course he didn’t see you that way. Clark was older — only thirty but carried himself with a calm certainty that made him seem decades ahead. There were no plaques on his walls, no flashy accolades, but he didn’t need them — not when he was the only reporter Superman would grant an interview. His credibility didn’t shout; it simply existed. Unshakable. Undeniable.

And you were…well, you.

Fresh out of college, you were still learning how to wear a press badge without feeling like an imposter. Trying — often failing — not to beam like an overeager puppy whenever he passed your desk.

Lois Lane noticed, of course. Over time, she’d taken on the role of the reluctant older sister, guiding you through the chaos of the Daily Planet since your very first days as an intern.

“You look like someone spiked your coffee with battery acid,” She remarked one afternoon, barely looking up from her monitor.

“He called me ‘kiddo’ again,” You muttered, slumping into your swivel chair. You gave yourself a slow push and drifted towards her desk like a defeated Roomba.

Lois didn’t blink. “Maybe it’s his love language.”

“It’s condescending.”

“Or maybe,” She said, typing another sentence, “he just doesn’t know what to do with himself around you.”

You shot her a skeptical look. “He’s Clark Kent.”

At that, Lois finally glanced up, one brow lifting higher than your own. “And?”

“I’m twenty-one. Barely. I use the word ‘slay’ unironically and sometimes sleep in my mascara.”

She offered a slow, knowing smile. “And yet, here you are — working alongside the only reporter Superman actually talks to. Do you honestly believe Perry would’ve kept you around if you were just some clueless kid?”

You wanted to take Lois at her word.

You longed even more to dismiss the way your heart clenched every time Clark said the word — kiddo — as if it were merely a nickname, not an insurmountable barrier between you. You tried not to dwell on the subtle shift in his expression when you spoke up in meetings. You struggled to resist what was clearly beyond your reach.

You tried — and, as always, came up short.

It was a late Wednesday night.

The newsroom had settled into an unnatural quiet — only the clack of keys and the faint buzz of fluorescent lights breaking the stillness. Most desks were empty, long since abandoned. Only the copy editor remained, fast asleep over page twelve, his gentle snores blending with the white noise.

And then there was you — alone, staring down a half-finished Word document and a blinking cursor that refused to yield. The only source of light came from your desk lamp, casting a slightly-too-yellow glow across your notes.

You were halfway through revising your lede when a familiar voice sliced through the silence.

“You always work this late, kiddo?”

You flinched — less from the word itself, more from how softly it landed. This time, it didn’t sting. Not quite.

It settled instead. Lingered in the quiet between you.

You didn’t meet his gaze right away. Your tone was even, almost detached. “Do you really have to call me that?”

A pause followed. There was a subtle shift in the atmosphere.

“Call you what?” Clark asked.

When you finally lifted your gaze, he was leaning against the wall — sleeves rolled to the forearms, tie loosened, glasses slightly askew as if he’d been tugging at them in thought. He looked worn down, but somehow still managed to make disheveled seem deliberate.

“Kiddo,” You said. “You always call me that.”

His expression shifted — barely, but noticeably. As though it hadn’t once crossed his mind that the nickname might carry weight.

“You don’t like it?”

You gave a small shrug, eyes drifting back to your keyboard. “It just…makes me feel like you don’t take me seriously.”

You braced for a laugh. A quick deflection. Something light to dismiss the weight of your confession.

Instead, he closed the distance. “You think I don’t take you seriously?”

You raised your head to meet his unwavering gaze. “You call me ‘kiddo.’ You pat my shoulder. You treat me like I’m…harmless.”

His lips twitched — barely — but he withheld a smile. He circled to your side of the desk, leaning against the edge, regarding you as one might before posing a challenging question in an interview.

“I called you that,” Clark said slowly, “because I didn’t know what else to call you.”

You blinked. “What?”

“You’re smart. Sharp. You care about justice — enough to pursue it when no one else will. You ask better questions than half the newsroom, and you fight for your stories even when Perry barks.” He tilted his head. “You remind me what this job is supposed to be about.”

You stared in silence.

“I didn’t call you ‘kiddo’ to minimize you,” He continued, voice softening. “I called you that because…anything else felt too real.”

You swallowed hard. “Too real?”

“You’re young,” He admitted. “And I’m not. That’s a line I was afraid to cross. But you’ve never been a kid to me. I knew that the day you yelled at Perry for burying the migrant housing story behind WayneTech stocks.”

You had no words. You hadn’t realized he even remembered that moment.

“You said the city deserved better,” He murmured. “That people weren’t headlines — they were human beings. That stayed with me.”

Something caught in your chest. You’d thought no one had listened that day. You cried in the bathroom after that meeting, convinced your voice had dissolved into the noise.

“I only called you ‘kiddo’ because your name…” He paused. “Because it felt dangerous. Because every time I said it, it stayed with me longer than it should have.”

Your heart skipped a beat.

“I thought I didn’t have a chance,” You whispered.

The faintest smile touched his eyes — tired, tender, and achingly sincere.

“You’ve always had a chance,” He said softly. “I just didn’t know if I was allowed to take it.”

A silence unfolded between you — slow, charged, almost unbearable in its honesty.

Then he reached for your hand.

And you let him.

Clark’s hand was warm, steady — large enough to completely enclose yours, yet careful in the way it held you. As if this moment meant something. As if he knew he’d waited too long to risk breaking it.

“I’ll stop calling you that,” He said quietly.

“Good,” You breathed, a smile tugging at your lips. “Or I’ll start calling you ‘grandpa.’”

His laugh was quiet and unguarded, something deep and real.

Then, without pretense or hesitation, he said your name — your real name — not as a tease, not as a placeholder, but with intention. Like it meant something. Like he meant it.

And it was better than you could’ve ever imagined.

You leaned in, uncertain — but open — and he met you halfway. The kiss was soft, assured, unhurried. Like the first line of a story you already knew by heart.

When you parted, his forehead rested rested gently against yours.

No words passed between you.

None were needed.

The next morning, the newsroom buzzed with a quiet, perceptible energy.

You hadn’t exactly been discreet in the way you smiled at Clark from across your desk. By midday, you’d caught his gaze lingering more than once — twice before noon, and again as he stood by the communal Keurig. And each time, his gaze dropped the moment you noticed, a faint flush rising to his cheeks.

You nearly stumbled over a cable when he called your name across the bullpen — simple, warm, and laced with something you hadn’t dared to hope for.

Lois cornered you by the vending machine, mug in hand and that familiar, knowing glint in her eyes.

“So,” She said, sipping her coffee with deliberate nonchalance. “You and Clark.”

You stilled. “What about us?”

Her lips curled into a smirk. “You think I didn’t notice how he said your name like a prayer this morning? Or how he didn’t call you ‘kiddo’ for once?”

Heat crept up the nape of your neck.

“Relax,” She added, her voice softening. “Frankly, I think it’s long overdue.”

Your eyes drifted back to Clark. He was hunched over his desk, deep in concentration, glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose. Something about the sight made you smile.

“Yeah,” You murmured. “Me too.”

[ggclarissa]

excuse me for stating the obvious but like. james gunn outright calling superman an immigrant and doubling down on it when he got backlash (because he IS an immigrant, that's the point of superman) + the in-movie dialogue of "aren't you going to read me my rights?" "you're an extraterrestrial, son. you haven't got any rights to read." + the violence of his arrest and how they torture and mistreat him unapologetically, all under the guise of "protecting america", in a film releasing during the onslaught of violent ICE kidnappings and abuse... yeah it's really no wonder right-wing knobheads are crying about this being woke. they're being forced to look directly at the reasons one of the most notorious heroes of all time would not be on their side. and that's only ONE of the reasons this movie covers

[ggclarissa]

immune | clark kent

fandom: dcu

pairing: corenswet!clark kent x fem!reader, corenswet!clark kent x psychic!reader

content: reader is a psychic/metahuman, clark kent is immune and suspiciously sweet about it, secret identity tension, slow-burn vibes if you squint.

summary: in which your psychic abilities work on everyone except clark kent — and the more you try to figure it out, the more everything starts to make sense.

author’s note: my first longish clark kent oneshot !! this one took me a while, so pls show it some love 🙏🏻🙏🏻 comments, likes, and reblogs are always appreciated.

There were perks to being a metahuman. Free coffee was one of them.

“You want the last cup?” Jimmy offered, already reaching for it — until your eyes met his. A slight tilt of your head. A subtle pulse of psychic energy. His hand froze. Then, smiling as if it was his own idea, he said, “Actually, you go ahead. Looks like you need it more.”

You did. But that was besides the point.

The ability to influence people — gently, subtly, never maliciously — had made life at the Daily Planet significantly easier. Deadlines weren’t challenged. Conference rooms weren’t contested. Even Perry approved your story pitches faster than anyone else’s.

Nobody ever noticed. Because it never felt like a shove, just…a good idea they hadn’t realized was yours.

Except it didn’t work on him.

Clark Kent.

He was maddeningly immune. Like a rock in the middle of a current, unmoved by your waves. You realized that during your second week at the Daily Planet, after he’d bumped into you — apologizing profusely as your coffee spilled down the front of your blouse.

“Don’t worry, I’ve got it,” He said, retrieving a roll of paper towels from his desk.

You met his gaze and allowed your power to flow, smooth as silk. “Actually,” You suggested, “it would be really helpful if you could get me a fresh cup.”

Nothing. No hesitation. No flicker of compliance behind those glasses.

He blinked at you. “The coffee? Uh — sure, yeah. How do you take it again?”

No moment of blank surrender, no silent acceptance of your thoughts as his own. Just Clark, doing a kindness because he chose to.

You laughed it off like you always did when your ability slipped, but it kept happening. Every time. With everyone else, the lightest suggestion became reality. But not with him.

At first, you chalked it up to nerves. Maybe you had a thing for him — he was cute, after all. Tall, steady, old-fashioned in a way that should have grated but didn’t. Always held the elevator. Kept track of everyone’s birthdays. Smiled like your voice was the only one that mattered whenever you pitched a story.

Maybe your ability had no sway over Clark because, on some level, you never truly wanted it to.

But then you began to notice other things. Like the fact that every Superman interview published by the Daily Planet bore Clark Kent’s byline.

You knew plenty of reporters who’d chased Superman through rooftop stakeouts, bureaucratic red tape, and half a dozen dead-end leads. But Clark? He never had to chase. He always landed the first quote, the exclusive, the one-on-one.

“How do you always land these?” You asked as he submitted yet another polished draft — cheeks flushed from what he called a “quick trip to the scene.”

He adjusted his glasses, looking modest. “Right place, right time.”

You offered a polite smile, but something in your gut pulled tight. Clark Kent was many things, but lucky was not one of them.

Then the disappearances started. Whenever Superman appeared downtown, Clark would vanish from his desk.

Perry barked orders — “Get me boots on the ground!” — and Clark was already gone. Taking an early lunch. Stuck in an elevator. Nowhere to be found.

He’d return to the office breathless — loose tie, tousled hair. “Sorry, I missed it. You all right?”

And like clockwork, Superman’s quotes would appear in his next draft.

Immune to your psychic nudges. Always gone whenever Superman appeared. Somehow landed every exclusive with the most elusive man in Metropolis. It was almost laughable, how obvious it was.

You decided to test your theory during the next bullpen rush.

Perry was in a mood — cursing zoning permits and vigilante damage reports — and Clark was buried in a report on LutherCorp’s latest stunt.

“Clark.” You leaned against his desk, smiling.

He looked up, attentive. “Yeah?”

“Could I borrow that highlighter?”

Clark glanced at the yellow highlighter beside his keyboard. You didn’t move to take it — just tilted your head slightly, sending a soft pulse of power his way, like a breeze brushing up against a mountain.

Stillness. Then, after a beat, he blinked and passed it to you, casual as ever.

“Thanks,” You said, watching him carefully.

“You’re welcome.” His smile was guileless — sweet and entirely unreadable.

That night, Superman rescued a train full of passengers just two blocks from your apartment. Clark skipped the staff happy hour.

You cornered him three days later.

The Daily Planet was nearly deserted. Perry had gone home, and Lois was asleep at her desk, worn out from of a day of chasing dead ends. Clark was in the bullpen, coat draped over one arm, bag slung over his shoulder, already halfway to the elevator when you stepped into his path.

He smiled when he saw you. “Hey. Burning the midnight oil?”

You didn’t bother with pleasantries. “You’re immune to me.”

He stilled — just for a moment, but it was enough.

You stepped closer. “Everyone else — one glance, one thought — and they’re bending over backwards. Doing favors. Oversharing. Letting me skip lines. But you…” Your eyes narrowed. “You never do anything I suggest unless you want to.”

Clark shifted his weight, expression unreadable. “Is that…a problem?”

“No,” You replied slowly. “It’s impossible.”

You studied him. Kind, powerful, gentle-eyed Clark Kent. The only person who’d ever helped you freely — not because you nudged him, but because he chose to.

Then, without a trace of psychic influence — just your voice — you said, “You’re not human, are you?”

A pause stretched between you. Then, softly: “No, I’m not.”

You exhaled. A quiet laugh. “Holy shit.”

Clark cast a quick glance around, as if someone might be listening. When he saw the coast was clear, he gave you a small, rueful smile. “I wasn’t trying to lie. I just didn’t want to assume you’d be okay with the truth.”

“I’ve been casually psychic-shoving half the office since day one,” You spoke dryly. “Pretty sure I lost the moral high ground a long time ago.”

That earned you a real smile, one that lingered. “You figured it out,” He said, like he was genuinely impressed.

“I had to. You were driving me insane.” You tilted your head, your voice softening. “Why don’t you tell people? You’re Superman. It’s not like anyone’s gonna stop inviting you to parties.”

Clark held your gaze — steady, warm — and then, gently: “Well, why don’t you?”

The words settled between you, quiet and heavy.

You didn’t respond.

You didn’t have to. Because for the first time since stepping into the bullpen, someone saw you — really saw you. Understood what it meant to live half a life in plain sight. The hiding. The restraint. The quiet ache of knowing you could change the world, if only you were willing to lose a piece of yourself in the process.

Two people, both wrapped in the same quiet lie, carrying truths just beneath the surface.

A moment passed. Then another.

And finally, you let out a slow breath, allowing the stillness to linger before tipping it towards something lighter.

“Clark?”

“Yeah?”

You jerked your head towards the elevator, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Wanna grab a coffee sometime? No psychic interference, I swear.”

That smile of his bloomed, slow and sure. “Yeah,” He said. “I’d really like that.”

[ggclarissa]

period. | clark kent

fandom: dcu

pairing: corenswet!clark kent x fem!reader

content: fluff, kinda cringe writing, period comfort, reader knows clark is superman, just clark being an attentive sweetheart.

summary: in which you try to survive a rough day at the daily planet with nothing but deadlines, cramps, and sheer spite — until clark kent shows up with the audacity to care.

author’s note: y’all asked for more clark content so here we go !! also pls tell me y’all think the title is funny, i couldn’t come up with anything else 🙏🏻🙏🏻

The newsroom buzzed around you like usual — ringing phones, the clacking of keys, someone arguing over editorial changes in the corner. You stayed hunched at your desk, blinking blearily at your computer screen, one hand curled protectively over your abdomen.

You tried to act normal — tried not to wince, not to draw attention. But Clark noticed. He always noticed.

He had passed your desk three times within the last hour — once with coffee, once under the guise of needing printer paper (which he very obviously didn’t), and now again, balancing two mugs in his hands. This time, however, he lingered.

“You okay?” He asked gently, his voice cutting through the newsroom like it was meant just for you. He set a mug down beside your keyboard — peppermint tea. Your favorite. “You look a little pale. And you flinched earlier. Thought maybe you pulled something.”

You mustered a tired smile, waving a hand dismissively. “I’m fine. Just…” You trailed off. Lying to Clark wasn’t worth the effort. “Cramps. Really bad ones.”

His brows pulled together, concern flickering across his face. “Oh.” A pause. “That sucks.”

You let out a snort. “Yeah. Just the perks of being a woman.”

His lips curled into a grin, though the worry never left his eyes. “Seriously, do you want to go home? I could talk to Perry.”

“No. I’ve got two deadlines, and if I lie down, I won’t get back up again.”

Clark hesitated, clearly weighing whether to push back, but just nodded instead. “Alright. Stay here.”

You blinked. “What?”

But he was already weaving through the maze of desks, slipping past his bustling co-workers with ease — as if the surrounding chaos couldn’t touch him. You assumed he was heading back to work. Until five minutes later, he returned holding what looked suspiciously like…a microwaved sock?

“I improvised,” He said, offering you what turned out to be a makeshift heat pack swathed in a clean t-shirt. “A bag of rice, my gym shirt, and, uh…a little heat vision. Not the weirdest thing I’ve done in this building.”

Your gaze drifted from the warm bundle back to him. Faint red lingered around his irises, just visible beneath the lenses. “Okay, setting aside the whole ‘microwaving it with your eyeballs’ thing — Clark, where did you even get rice?”

He scratched the back of his neck, looking sheepish. “Top drawer. Emergency stash.”

“Emergency…rice?”

He nodded earnestly. “And instant oatmeal. And peanut butter. You never know. Earthquakes. Late nights. Hungry co-workers.”

You gave him a long, bewildered look — equal parts moved and mildly concerned. “You might be a genius…or a total weirdo.”

“I prefer resourceful genius, actually,” He said, watching as you pressed the warm bundle against your stomach with a quiet sigh of relief.

“God. You’re gonna ruin other men for me.”

Clark tilted his head, that familiar bashful smile tugging at his lips. If you weren’t paying close attention, you might’ve missed the faint flush creeping up the tips of his ears. “Just trying to help.”

“You are. Seriously, thank you.” You took a slow sip of tea, eyeing him over the rim of your mug with playful suspicion. “But if this thing explodes and spills rice all over my skirt, I’m blaming you forever.”

“That’s fair.”

You glanced at him again, this time more contemplatively. “You know, most guys wouldn’t have even noticed. Or they would’ve bolted.”

“I’m not most guys,” He said, then paused, as if the words carried more weight than intended. “I mean — I just care. About you. And people. Generally. But also you.”

The sincerity hit harder than anticipated, softened by the tea in your hands, the dull ache in your stomach — and the unexpected warmth blooming in your chest (and abdomen).

“Clark?”

“Yeah?”

“If I die slumped over this desk, I want you to have my parking spot.”

He laughed — that soft, genuine kind of laugh that made the world feel a little more bearable.

“I walk to work,” He said, giving your shoulder a gentle pat as he turned to leave. “You can keep it. Honestly, that spot’s not worth losing you, (Y/N).”

You didn’t respond right away. Just held the pack a little tighter and watched him return to his desk — wondering when, exactly, Clark had become your favorite part of the day.

[ggclarissa]

the way he kisses her like a starved man….yeah…..need that.

vid: llanadeco

[ggclarissa]

smile | clark kent

fandom: dcu

pairing: corenswet!clark kent x fem!reader, corenswet!clark kent x photographer!reader

content: tooth rotting fluff, kinda cringe writing, just the reader trying to make clark smile for pics.

summary: in which you’re the daily planet’s staff photographer, and the only thing standing between you and clocking out is one last, impossibly camera-shy subject: clark kent.

author’s note: i haven’t written anything in AGES, so please forgive me if this is a little short or cringy </3

You readjusted the camera bag slung over your shoulder and poked your head around the corner of the bullpen. It was late afternoon at The Daily Planet, which meant the chaos had settled into that familiar gentle hum — printers clacking, phones ringing, and the faint smell of coffee drifting from the nearby coffee station.

Clark Kent was exactly where you expected him to be: buried behind a stack of drafts at his desk, tie slightly askew, glasses sliding down his nose as he typed like the world depended on it.

You cleared your throat. “Hey, Clark. Got a minute?”

Clark startled so hard he nearly sent his mug flying. He fumbled to catch it, cheeks pink as he pushed his glasses back up. “Oh, hey. Sorry, I didn’t see you there. What’s up?”

You grinned, patting your camera bag for emphasis. “Perry wants updated staff photos for the website. Guess who’s the last one left?”

Clark’s expression fell so fast it was almost comical. He glanced at your camera bag warily, as if it might leap up and snap a photo of him at his worst angle. “Oh, do we really need mine? I’m barely—I mean, I’m just—”

“—One of the most published journalists in Metropolis?” You finished, faintly amused by his rambling. “Sorry, Clark, no hiding behind the copy machine. Up.”

He let out a helpless little huff but rose from his chair obediently. You hooked a finger under his sleeve and steered him towards the break room.

Inside, the late afternoon sun poured through the large windows — soft, warm, just good enough for half-decent lighting if you squinted. Clark stood stiffly by the counter, like he was bracing for a mugshot.

You set your bag down on the table and fiddled with the lens cap. “Relax, Clark. Shoulders back. Try not to look like you’re about to admit to a felony. And lose the glasses, too.”

He shuffled his feet, a little uneasy, but obeyed — taking off his glasses and tucking them into his pants pocket. “I don’t photograph well,” He muttered.

You glanced up from the camera. “Why not?”

Clark shrugged, faint pink blooming at the tips of his ears and spreading to his cheeks. “I just…don’t. Never have.”

You found that hard to believe. Clark had always struck you as handsome — even with his awkward posture and thick glasses — but maybe he didn’t see it himself.

You raised the camera, then lowered it again. “Okay, new plan. Think of something that makes you smile.”

He tried. Really, he did — you could see the effort. But every click was the same polite, stiff half-smile that didn’t quite reach those ridiculously blue eyes.

You lowered the camera, huffing dramatically. “Nope. You look like you’re about to get arrested. Try again.”

He shifted his feet again, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “Sorry. I’m trying, I swear.”

“Come on. There’s gotta be something that does it for you. Ma’s apple pies? Tractor rides around the farm? Old movies?”

To your surprise, a quiet laugh escaped him. His arm dropped to his side as his shoulders loosened just a fraction. “Yeah. Ma’s apple pies. Sunday dinners. Clear skies back at home.”

You snapped another shot — still not right. Clark was mid-blink. With a sigh, you stepped closer and lowered your voice. “Okay. Instead of picturing something that makes you smile, why don’t you think of someone?”

This time, when he looked at you, the air shifted. It was subtle but unmistakable — his eyes softened, and something warm flickered there, as if he were seeing only you and all the noise had fallen away. His lips curved into that shy, genuine smile you’d only caught once or twice — like when you brought him coffee exactly the way he liked it, or when you praised one of his pieces.

Click. Perfect.

You checked the screen, a satisfied grin tugging at your lips. “There it is. I knew you had it in you, Smallville.”

Clark flushed at the nickname but couldn’t conceal his smile. You angled the camera so he could see the photo for himself. He slipped his glasses back on and leaned in — close enough for you to catch a hint of his cologne, clean laundry and something warm you couldn’t quite place.

“Huh,” He murmured, eyebrows lifting behind his glasses. “That’s…that’s not so bad.”

You bumped your shoulder against his playfully. “Not bad? Clark Kent, I’d say you look positively you.”

His gaze flickered from the photo to your face — lingering there, soft and earnest, in a way that made your heart do something ridiculous in your chest.

You busied yourself with packing up your camera, hoping your cheeks weren’t as flushed as they felt. “Well, my work here is done. I’ll be expecting a thank-you latte on my desk tomorrow morning, just so you know.”

Clark shifted on his heels, looking like he had more to say but couldn’t quite find the words. Then he blurted out, “How about dinner instead?”

You froze, then glanced up slowly. “Dinner?”

He nudged his glasses up again — his safety net, you’d come to notice — but now there was a shy, hopeful edge to his smile. “Yeah. To thank you. For…all of this.” He gestured vaguely to your camera bag, to the break room, at the way you somehow managed to really see him when he rarely let anyone look too closely.

You tapped your chin, feigning consideration just to watch him squirm. “Hmm. I don’t know. Do you smile better over pasta or tacos?”

Clark laughed — warm and easy — and you almost wished you could capture that too. “I guess we’ll find out,” He teased, falling into step beside you as you made your way back to your desk.

Behind you, the light of the break room glowed softly, like the beginning of something good.

[ggclarissa]

In a world of AO3 warriors, I'm forever a Tumblr Trooper...

[ggclarissa]

glasses are the sluttiest thing a man could wear.

[ggclarissa]

this is truly the funniest timeline

[ggclarissa]

x

[ggclarissa]

writing fanfiction is just. i’m being so creative and original. i’m plagiarizing everyone by accident. i’m a genius. i’m cringe. i’m too angsty. i’m too cheesy. this is not in character. it doesn’t matter that it’s not in character because these are my characters now. i love my hobby. this is the worst possible use of my time. i’m seeking validation. i’m projecting my own personal problems onto this story and i’m barely hiding it. i know so many words and i’m using all of them wrong. im on tumblr posting about it instead of writing it.

[ggclarissa]

[ggclarissa]

friendly reminder that if i have ever befriended you and have not spoken to you in a while it’s nothing you’ve done wrong it’s just because i’m a piece of shit at keeping in contact with people and i still love you okay good

[ggclarissa]