#bimbo core

Most people found her endearing, sweet, a little ditzy, sure — but lovable. That is, most people.

She wasn’t trying to eavesdrop that afternoon. She had just tiptoed into the break room to grab a cookie when she heard two new interns chatting at the coffee machine.

“Seriously, who even dresses like that? She looks like a cartoon character.”

“Right? It’s like she raided a preschooler’s closet.”

“I mean, I get that she’s hot, but it’s kind of embarrassing. How does Kent not die of secondhand cringe?”

She stood frozen behind the doorframe, cookie forgotten in her hand.

They laughed. One of them added something about her “Barbie voice” and “dumb little pens.” Then the microwave dinged, and they walked out without noticing her.

She didn’t cry. Not right away.

Instead, she turned around quietly, went back to her desk, and stared at her reflection in the black screen of her monitor. Her pink little bow. Her rhinestone earrings. Her pastel skirt. Her baby pink eyeshadow.

She looked silly, didn’t she?

That night, she told Clark she was “tired” and went to bed early. He noticed she didn’t wear her fuzzy heart pajamas — she wore an oversized T-shirt instead. No pink scrunchie. No lip gloss. She didn’t snuggle him the way she usually did. She just curled into herself, quiet and small.

· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·

The next morning, Clark almost didn’t recognize her.

She always woke up before him and started her work at the Daily Planet earlier than him, although she always kissed him good morning and sometimes prepared him a sandwich. This morning, there was no good morning kiss and neither was a sandwich waiting for him in the kitchen.

So imagine his surprise when he entered the Daily Planet and was met by her wearing a fitted black blazer over a muted gray blouse. Her skirt was straight and sharp and not a single bow in sight. Her lips were bare. Her long hair was twisted into a low, tidy bun. No glitter pens. Just a plain blue ballpoint she found in the supply closet.

Clark stared.

She didn’t meet his eyes.

“Morning,” she said flatly when he walked past her desk.

“Good morning, babe” he said a bit taken aback, and with a smile even though she didn’t look at him.

He spent the rest of the morning observing her and her attitude, and by lunch time he had had enough.

He walked over slowly, his brows furrowed, and gently tapped on her desk.

“Hey, sweetheart?”

She looked up. “Oh. Hi, baby.” She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

“You okay?” he asked softly, crouching a little so he could look her in the face. “You’ve been… quiet today.”

“I’m fine,” she said quickly. “Just trying to be, y’know. Professional.”

Clark tilted his head. “Since when do you need to change anything about that? Doll,” he said, gently lowering his voice and kneeling slightly beside her desk. “Did someone say something to make you feel like you had to change?”

Her eyes widened, her lips trembling. “No, I mean, maybe. I just… I thought maybe I looked silly. Like I wasn’t grown-up enough. And maybe people weren’t taking me seriously. I want to be, like… smart. And respected. And—” She looked down at her papers. “Clark… do you think I look silly?”

“What?” he blinked. “Of course not.”

“I mean, before. The pink, the bows, the sparkles. The unicorn pen. Do you think I’m too…” she trailed off, searching for the word, “…childish?”

Clark’s face softened. “Baby,” he said gently, taking her hand. “What happened?”

She didn’t answer right away. She just sighed, and her shoulders slumped. “I heard some people talking in the break room. About me. About how I dress. About how I talk. They said I was embarrassing. That I looked like a joke. I know it’s dumb,” she said, her voice trembling. “But it made me feel like… maybe I’m not smart enough. Or grown-up enough. Or serious enough to be here. Or even to be with you.”

Clark stood up straight, and for a moment, he looked less like the sweet, mild-mannered reporter and more like someone powerful. Steady. Unshakable.

“You listen to me,” he said, quietly but firmly. “You are smart. And you deserve respect — not because of the color of your skirt, but because of who you are.”

She blinked at him.

“You’re kind. You work hard. You make people smile just by being here.” He paused. “And there’s nothing childish about that. In fact… I think it takes a lot of courage to be yourself in a place like this. You are plenty smart, believe me. You’re thoughtful. You’re organized. You remember birthdays better than anyone here. You can run circles around most of us in kindness and heart.”

He knelt beside her chair again, lowering his voice.

“And honey, you don’t have to change for anyone. Not for some interns who don’t know what they’re talking about. And definitely not for me.”

“But—”

“I love the way you dress. I love the pink bows. I love the sparkly pens. I love the way you call me ‘Clarkie’ and write hearts on your notes. I love you exactly the way you are.”

Her eyes welled with tears.

“You really mean that?” she whispered.

Clark leaned in and kissed her forehead gently. “I wouldn’t change a single thing about you. Not even the unicorn pen.”

She laughed — a little sniffly, but real. “Okay,” she said. “But I’m still wearing this outfit for the rest of the day. I’m not wasting this boring skirt.”

Clark grinned. “Fair. But tomorrow?”

“Back to pink,” she said proudly.

He kissed her softly, on the lips.

“Now that,” he whispered, “is my girl.”

· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·

And the next morning, she strutted into the newsroom in a pastel yellow dress with a fluffy pink cardigan and a butterfly clip in her hair. On her desk sat a bouquet of pink roses and a brand-new glitter pen.

The note said:

“For the smartest, sweetest, most magical girl in the building. – Your Clarkie”

And anyone who had anything to say after that?

Well… let’s just say they didn’t say it loud enough for Clark Kent to hear.