Clark “let me ask my wife” Kent who gets invited to every last-minute newsroom outing. Drinks after work, poker night at Jimmy’s place, a weekend trip someone’s cousin planned with suspiciously little notice. And Clark always smiles politely, adjusts his glasses, and says the same thing with complete sincerity: “Let me ask my wife.” It becomes such a regular response that Jimmy starts saying it before Clark even can. But Clark never laughs it off. He genuinely wants your opinion. Half the time, he already knows you’ll say yes, but he still asks. Because if he’s going to spend time away from you, he wants it to be something you’re good with.
Clark “let me ask my wife” Kent who is physically the most capable man in any room, but still pauses before agreeing to help someone move furniture, fix a roof, or drive three hours to pick something up. Not because he can’t do it. Because he has plans with you, or maybe you just mentioned wanting a quiet night together. So he rubs the back of his neck and says, “Let me ask my wife.” Everyone teases him endlessly about it. But Clark just smiles, soft and steady, like they’re missing the point. To him, checking with you isn’t an obligation. It’s respect.
Clark “let me ask my wife” Kent who refuses to buy big things without consulting you first. New truck? “Let me ask my wife.” Accepting a promotion? “Let me ask my wife.” Someone at the farm suggesting a change to the property? “Let me ask my wife.” Your opinion matters as much as his. Sometimes more. The thought of making a decision that affects your shared life without hearing what you think first just feels wrong to him.
Clark “let me ask my wife” Kent who says it even when you’re standing right there beside him. Someone will ask if he’s free next Saturday, and he’ll glance down at you, smile a little, and say, “Let me ask my wife.” And then he’ll lean closer and murmur, “Are we busy Saturday?” like the two of you share a calendar only you can see.
Clark “let me ask my wife” Kent who secretly loves the way you roll your eyes when he says it around other people. Later, when you’re alone, you’ll nudge his shoulder and tease, “You know you don’t actually have to ask me about everything.” And Clark just looks down at you with that warm, steady smile and says quietly, “I know. I just like hearing what you think.”
Clark “let me ask my wife” Kent who absolutely melts when people call you Mrs. Kent. Someone at the farmers market will ask him if he wants another crate of tomatoes, and he’ll smile politely and say, “Let me ask my wife.” And when he says the word wife, it comes out softer than the rest of the sentence. Like it’s still a little unbelievable that he gets to call you that.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
IN WHICH, reader is obsessed with david corenswet!clark kent’s dimples…
“what’re you doing, hon?” clark’s eyes are wide as saucers looking down at your crazed eyes zeroed in on his flushed cheeks.
“can’t i admire my boyfriend?” each word is punctuated by a little kiss on either side of his smile, into the little dents that crinkle there whenever he grins, or chuckles, whenever he talks or even when his scowl deepens.
“yes, but,” he chortles at your frenzy of pecks and your relentlessness, “what about me?”
“these cute little things,” you say simply, poking into his little dimples. they deepen when you press into them. he’s suddenly ticklish, you’re both caught in a fit of giggles when he reaches down to attack your own lips while you’re still reaching for his face. you reach out to flay your arms around his neck instead, back on your tip toes.
he’s poking at your cheeks now, and you’re smiling into his prodding fingers.
“what’re you doing now?” you inquire at him with a curious tilt of your head.
“going to make you some dimples to match,” he grins cheekily, kissing and prodding at your smile lines while you try to swat his hands away relentlessly, laughing into the depth of his kisses and rustling your wandering hands through his mussed hair.
A/N : Hellloooo I rewatched Twisters last night and I may or may not have written something inspired by David’s character Scott. Let me know if you would like to read it! Requests are still open feel free to send me one Clark Kent related or not!
=====================================
Daily Planet, 11:44 a.m.
You feel her before you hear her.
The intern. Madison. Or Madeline. Something with lip gloss and a fake laugh.
She floats past your desk again, third time this morning, armed with a stack of files she definitely doesn’t need help carrying.
You keep your eyes on your monitor. You’ve gotten good at pretending. Good at pretending a lot of things.
But you don’t miss the way her heels click to a stop at Clark’s desk.
“Oh my gosh, you’re seriously working through lunch again?” she coos, like it’s an original observation.
You can practically hear Clark smile. “I like to get ahead on edits. Makes Perry slightly less terrifying.”
She laughs way too loudly.
You tap your pen against your notepad. One, two, three. Breathe.
“You know,” she says, “I read that piece you did on the fires last month? The way you described the scene… it was like I was there.”
“Thanks,” Clark replies, gracious as ever. “It was a tough one to write.”
“Oh, I don’t doubt it. You’re so good with words.”
You look up then. Clark is smiling. Polite. Friendly. Maybe not flirting, but… not shutting it down either.
Your stomach knots not necessarily from insecurity, but from the quiet ache of knowing you don’t get to say anything. Not here. Not where people would ask questions.
Not where you’d have to admit that you snuck into his apartment last weekend and fell asleep wearing his flannel shirt. So you turn back to your screen. Focus. Breathe.
Until you hear her say “I don’t know how anyone expects me to get anything done with you sitting over there being all—” She lowers her voice. “Clark-y.”
You blink. Clark-y? What the hell does that even mean?
And that’s when you hear him laugh. Really laugh.
That’s it. That’s the crack. A fine, hairline fracture in whatever unspoken arrangement the two of you have been delicately well stupidly balancing.
You stand, a little too fast.
“I’m going to grab coffee,” you say, mostly to the air.
Clark looks up. “Want me to come with?”
“Nope.” You’re already walking away.
Behind you, the intern giggles again.
You’re back from the coffee run, to-go cup in hand and pride barely intact, when a voice stops you cold.
“Sorry—hold it right there. Light’s hitting you just right.”
You blink, turning toward the source.
He’s standing by the east-facing window, DSLR slung across his chest, a lopsided smile pulling at his lips. Tousled hair, scruff like it’s grown in defiance, and the posture of someone who doesn’t know how not to be confident.
“I’m the new photographer,” he says, as if reading your mind. “Caleb.” He adds extending a polite hand to you
You raise an eyebrow suspiciously before shaking it. “And you just take candids of coworkers without asking?”
“Only when they look that good holding caffeine.”
It should make you roll your eyes. It should. But something inside you, the same something that had to endure Miss Clark-y 20 minutes ago nudges you to tilt your head, just a little and let him snap some photos.
You smirk just a little. It’s harmless. It’s fun. And most importantly, you know exactly who’s watching from the corner of the bullpen, hand halfway to his glasses like he’s pretending to clean them.
Clark.
He’s facing his screen, but his ears are pink. You know that pink.
“Anyway,” Caleb says, stepping back, “if I’m ever assigned to your stories, we should, uh, coordinate. Lunch maybe. Talk shop.”
You nod. “I’ll think about it.”
And just like that, he walks away. No lingering, no pushiness. Just a lingering impression and a very obvious audience.
You don’t even have to look to feel Clark’s gaze. Not just watching. Tracking.
You take one slow sip from your coffee and return to your desk like nothing happened. The rest of the work day drags on with you avoiding Clark's glances and heading straight home after.
--
Your phone buzzes just as you’re about to put it on Do Not Disturb.
Clark Kent
You hesitate. One beat. Two. Three. Then answer.
“Didn’t peg you as a night owl Mr. Kent,” you say, voice soft in the dark.
Clark chuckles. You can hear the faint rustle of his sheets. He’s in bed.
“Couldn’t sleep,” he says. “Thought I’d call my favorite insomniac.”
“Oh? And here I thought I was just your coworker.”
“You know better than that.”
There’s a pause a thick and warm and familiar one.
You let it hang a moment longer. “Hmmm… what’s on your mind?”
“I don’t know,” he says casually. “Just wondering how your day went. You were… smiley.”
You blink at the ceiling. “Am I not allowed to smile?”
“You are. It’s just…” He trails off. “New guy got you grinning like that on day one?”
You smirk, biting your bottom lip. “You mean Caleb?”
“Is that his name? I didn’t know; he didn’t come by and take my picture.”
You laugh. “You’re not even pretending to be subtle.”
“I’m just curious,” he says, too quickly. “Didn’t realize you liked… confident guys with man buns and vintage cameras.”
“He doesn’t wear a man bun, Clark. Is that jealousy I hear?”
“Nope.” He’s quiet for a second too long. “Just trying to figure out what your type is.”
You let that hang in the air.
“I don’t think I have a type,” you murmur. “But I do like when a guy makes an effort.”
He exhales. “I make an effort.”
“Do you?”
“Hey, I brought you soup when you were sick.”
“And I never said thank you properly.” Your voice softens, slow and warm. “You’re sweet, Clark.”
Another silence. Then “I don’t want to just be sweet.”
That does something to you.
You shift under your blankets, suddenly too aware of the sound of his voice through the line.
“So you’re calling me for a bedtime confession?”
He huffs a quiet laugh. “Maybe. Or maybe I just… didn’t like seeing someone else flirt with you.”
“Why?”
“Because…” His voice dips lower. “I prefer being the reason you blush.”
You’re quiet.
Clark clears his throat like he said too much. “Anyway. Sorry. Didn’t mean to make this weird.”
“It’s not weird.”
Another pause.
“You make me act weird, you know that?” he says.
You smile into your pillow. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
Clark laughs, soft and wrecked. “Goodnight.”
“Night.”
“Sweet dreams.” He adds.
“Dream sweet and of me,” You add with a smile before hanging up.
—
You don’t expect anything when you walk in.
No follow-up to the flirt-heavy, “I don’t want to just be sweet” phone call. Just normal Clark behavior: polished, polite, maybe a little sheepish for opening up the way he did.
You definitely don’t expect your exact coffee order, oat milk, half pump vanilla, cinnamon on top sitting on your desk like it manifested from a dream.
You stop. Stare.
There’s a sticky note stuck to the lid:
Figured I owed you caffeine after that late call. – C
Your stomach flutters.
You barely have time to recover before Kat waltzes past, side-eyeing your cup.
“Oof. Is that from who I think it’s from?”
You shrug, playing dumb. “No idea.”
“Sure,” she snorts.
9:05 a.m.
You’ve just settled back at your desk when Clark appears. Not his usual notebook-in-hand work mode. He strolls in like he owns the place. His sleeves rolled to the elbows. Glasses on dangerously close to heartthrob-who-reads-poetry territory.
And he’s beaming. Like nothing in the world is wrong.
He leans against your desk, tilts his head. “Morning.”
You glance up. “Little late, aren’t you?”
He taps your empty coffee cup. “Thought I’d give you time to enjoy that first.”
You deadpan. “That’s suspiciously thoughtful.”
He lowers his voice. “Just making sure I stay your favorite.”
You roll your eyes, but your cheeks betray you.
“Anyway,” he adds, dropping a paper bag in front of you, “they were out of your favorite muffin, so I brought you the second favorite. Blueberry and don’t pretend it’s not.”
That makes you smile. “You remembered that?”
“I remember a lot of things,” he says, voice dipping.
Before you can form a snappy comeback, he’s already walked off.
Kat peers around the divider again, mouthing: WHAT IS HAPPENING
You don’t answer. Mostly because you don’t know anymore.
1:12 p.m.
Caleb returns from an assignment and spots you in the copy room.
“Hey, smiley,” he says, stopping just short of the door. “You free for lunch?”
You open your mouth to respond friendly, casual, not flirty when a shadow moves behind you.
Clark appears out of nowhere, holding a takeout bag in one hand and a smug smile in the other.
“Ooof she’s booked. I grabbed lunch for us,” he says, breezy and bold. “Hope you’re still on your wings kick.”
You turn, confused. “You… ordered lunch?”
Clark nods. “Figured I’d beat the rush.”
He sets the bag down and for the first time in office history brushes his hand against the small of your back. Not obviously. Not possessively. Just enough.
“Sorry,” he says to Caleb. “Didn’t mean to step on your plans.”
Caleb blinks. “Oh. No worries. You guys enjoy.”
Clark just smiles and hands you a box of fries like a man very pleased with himself.
At 3:27 p.m. Flowers arrive.
It’s a small bouquet of wildflowers and peonies soft and subtle. There’s no note. Just a tiny card in the bottom of the vase with your initials. But the handwriting? You’d know it anywhere.
Kat is losing her mind.
“Girl. What is going on. Is this your boyfriend or a PR stunt?”
You laugh, half-exasperated, half-flushed. “It’s complicated.”
Clark walks past your desk with a mug of tea, glances at the flowers.
Then, audible enough to be overheard, he mutters, “Wonder who the lucky guy is.”
Kat actually squeals.
End of the day. The office is mostly empty. You go into the copy room to grab some print outs when Clark appears in the doorway. It’s quiet maybe a little too quiet. Like the building is holding its breath.
“I need to talk to you,” he says, low, almost careful.
You don’t look up. “Now’s not great.”
“Tough.” His voice drops. “I’ve been patient. That’s done.”
You freeze.
He walks in, not fast, but with purpose. Like every step is a choice. He doesn’t stop until he’s close.
“You smiled at him like he made your whole damn day.”
You scoff. “You mean the same way I’ve smiled at you for weeks?”
“That’s different.”
“Is it?”
“I’m the one who knows how you take your coffee. I’m the one you call when you can’t sleep. I’m the one you wear flannel shirts from like we’re already—” He cuts himself off, jaw clenched, chest rising and falling.
You turn slowly, heart pounding, voice quieter. “Like we’re already what Clark?”
He stares at you. And it hurts. Because his eyes aren’t soft right now they’re hungry. Sharp. Bruised.
“I don’t know,” he admits. “But I do know I wanted to tear that camera out of his hands.”
You take a shaky breath. “You didn’t say anything.”
He exhales through his nose. “Because if I said anything, I was gonna say everything.”
You blink. “Then say it.”
He moves. One step. Then another. Until you’re backed up against the copy machine, the hum of it echoing your pulse.
“I want you,” he murmurs. “Not just late at night. Not just when no one’s looking.”
His hand grazes your wrist barely, but it sets your whole body on fire.
“I want to touch you whenever I want,” he says. “I want to sit in meetings and watch you try not to look at me. I want to take you to lunch and not pretend it’s platonic.”
You exhale shakily. “Then why haven’t you?”
His jaw ticks. His eyes flicker down to your mouth, then back up like it physically hurts him to look at you.
“Because…” he starts, voice low, tight, “I won’t be pretending. And if people know—if they connect us—then you’re not just some coworker anymore. You’re a target.”
You blink, a little thrown. “What?”
He swallows hard. “I interview Superman. People already watch me too closely. There’ve been threats before anonymous calls, notes, people trying to leverage my contacts. And if anyone figures out what you are to me—” His voice catches. “I don’t know what I’d do if you got hurt because of me.”
The air between you thickens. Not with fear, but with feeling. Sharp and aching and all-consuming.
“Clark,” you whisper, stepping into him, hand curling around his forearm. “I don’t care.”
“You should.”
“But I don’t.” You shake your head. “I care about you. I’ve been waiting for you to say something—anything—but all I’ve ever wanted was for you to want me out loud.”
He looks down at your lips then your eyes and suddenly he starts leaning into your like gravity, hands finding your waist, your hips, hauling you into him like he needs to feel every word he can’t say. It’s clumsy, frantic, desperate.
You stumble backwards hitting the copy machine. He palms blindly resting his hands on it, never breaking the kiss, never loosening his grip.
“You drive me crazy,” he breathes against your mouth.
“Ditto” you gasp, already tugging at his tie, his shirt, anything to get closer.
He lifts you with a groan, setting you down on the copy machine like you belong there, like he’s dreamed of this a thousand times. His kisses trail down your neck, hot and open-mouthed, like he’s memorizing you with lips and tongue.
“This is reckless,” he mutters, voice hoarse.
You curl your fingers into his hair. “You started it.”
He huffs a shaky laugh, then bites back a moan when you tug him in tighter. “I want you.”
“Then take me.”
His lips press against yours tongue begging to be let in, and there’s no more talking. Just moaning. Gasping. Your skirt is hiked up bunched at your thighs. You hastily unbutton his pants desperate to feel him. Desperate friction. You stroke his cock hungrily. His hand comes down moving your panties to the side. His name gasped against his shoulder as he moves inside you, forehead pressed to yours like prayer, like apology, like finally.
There’s nothing gentle about it just months of buried tension erupting into something real and raw and undeniable. His hands move your hips holding you tightly as he relentlessly thrusts into you. You lean back against the copy machine unable to keep yourself up anymore. He takes the chance and lets his hands explore every part of you.
And when it’s over when you’re clinging to him, lips swollen, heartbeat skittering against his chest. He presses a kiss to your temple.
“No more pretending” he whispers against your forehead
You smile, “No more.” You whisper back breathlessly
—
The next morning the morning air is crisp. City traffic hums in the background. You round the corner, distractedly tugging your scarf tighter, and nearly walk past him.
Clark. Leaning casually against the brick column like he’s in a cologne ad. Two coffees in hand. Hair a little windswept. Tie crooked in a way that makes your stomach flutter.
You stop short. He lifts your coffee and gives you that smile. The private one. The I didn’t sleep much thinking about you one.
“Good Morning,” he says, voice soft. “Brought reinforcements.”
You take the cup and stare at him for a beat. “You waited for me?”
He shrugs like it’s nothing. “Didn’t want to walk in alone.”
You glance at the Planet’s doors, then back at him. “You okay?”
“I’m great.” He bumps your shoulder. “Last night was… clarifying.”
You laugh under your breath, cheeks warm. “You mean wildly overdue?”
He grins. “That too.”
You sip your coffee, then glance sideways at him. “You sure about this?”
Clark’s eyes drop to your mouth, then back to your eyes. “More sure than I’ve been about anything in a long time.”
He opens the door for you, lets you step inside first, hand gently pressed to your lower back like it’s second nature. It sends a chill up your spine, but not in a bad way.
You walk toward your desk side by side, your steps synced, conversation light. And then, right there, in full view of Kat, Perry, Jimmy, and every nosy intern with a crush, Clark does something unthinkable. He leans in.
Not dramatic. Not flashy. Just casual, confident, and real. He presses a soft, slow kiss to your lips like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“I’ll see you at lunch,” he murmurs, like it’s been your routine for years.
Then he walks off. Calm. Collected. Definitely smirking.
You’re frozen.
The bullpen? Silent.
Kat’s jaw is on the floor. The intern drops her pen. Perry mutters something about “finally.”
You sit down slowly, heart hammering in your chest, still holding your coffee like it’s the only solid thing in the world.
Kat leans in, eyes wide. “What the actual hell just happened.”
You take a breath. Smile.
“Clark Kent just hard-launched me to the entire newsroom.”
thinking about virgin!reader being in a relationship with clark kent that’s still relatively new, so you’re not quite ready to have sex with him yet, but you can tell that he’s desperate for more. he won’t tell you; he’s insanely good at self control, and he’s nothing if not a gentleman, but seeing him using so much restraint to make you comfortable makes you want to give him something. even if he won’t initiate anything that he thinks could even come close to making you uncomfortable.
so, you decide to take matters into your own hands.
you’re at his apartment and have just finished eating dinner when you lead him over to the couch. one thing leads to another and you’re straddling him, kissing him eagerly while you grind your hips against his growing bulge, your dress already almost up to your hips even though you just started. at first he’s happy to just kiss you, but when you start pushing your hips down harder against him, his strong hands are trying to still your movements.
“sweetheart, what are you doing?” he asks softly, looking at you with furrowed brows. he’s loving every minute of it, obviously, but he doesn’t want you to feel pressured into doing anything you’re not ready for.
“just wanna do something for you,” you say, trying to move your hips in his grip, but it’s difficult with his super strength.
“you don’t have to do anything for me. i’ll wait as long as you need me to.” his words are endearing, but it only makes you want to continue grinding against him even more. he’s such a good man, and he doesn’t even realize how bad you want this too.
“i want to,” is all you say before you’re picking up your pace again. his grip finally falters, instead switching to helping you move against his leaking cock, and you hum happily, then lean in to kiss him.
clark moans into your mouth, and his hands move down to your thick thighs and squeeze, desperate to feel your soft flesh in his grip. you feel that pit in your belly growing, and his eagerness makes your head spin. you can feel him hard under you, and you push your hips down, just to hear him groan into your mouth.
“fuck, baby. keep doing that and i won’t last much longer,” he murmurs, reaching back up to grab your hips, beginning to move you at his own pace. and you let him, too, happy to let him use you as he pleases. you move along with how he wants you to, the feeling of his pants rubbing at your clit through your panties getting needy moans out of you.
“i want you to cum, clark,” you whisper in his ear as he buries his face in the crook of your neck, and he lets out a throaty moan, feeling his dick twitch in his pants.
“oh my- oh, god, baby. fuck, don’t- ah, don’t say things like that,” he says through pathetic moans, his grip tightening on your hips as he gets closer and closer to the edge.
“please, clark?” you say, looking at him with big, pleading eyes, moving your hands down from his shoulders to his chest.
“i’m gonna- sweetheart, i’m gon-” is all he can get out before he’s cumming hard in his pants, not caring about the giant wet patch forming on the crotch of his slacks as you continue to move slowly against him with a proud smile. you didn’t think you could get him there that quick, and the way his head falls back against the couch and his eyes squeeze shut has your pussy throbbing.
you run your fingers through his hair as he leans his head forward and gives your neck open-mouthed kisses. he feels drunk on you, and he needs to be as close to you as possible right now.
“was that okay?” you ask quietly after a few moments. you think it was, but he won’t look at you, his face stays firmly pressed into the crook of your neck.
“okay? that was more than okay, sweetheart,” he says incredulously, finally pulling away from your neck and looking at you with furrowed brows. the smile returns to your face at his words, and you feel your cheeks heat up.
“did you…?” he asks. you tilt your head to the side slightly, raising a brow.
“did i what?” you ask softly, making clark’s heart clench in his chest.
“i’ll take that as a no,” he says, suddenly frustrated with himself. how could he be so focused on his own pleasure that he didn’t even think of yours? then, it clicks in your head, and you smile wider at his thoughtfulness. all you needed was to see him like this because of you; it makes you feel sexy.
“oh, that’s okay. i just wanted you to-” you say, but he shakes his head, shushing you quickly.
“no, it’s not okay. i want you to feel good too,” he says, then in one swift movement, flips you over on the couch. the force of your back hitting the couch punches a sharp laugh from your throat, and you giggle when clark makes himself at home between your legs.
“let me makes you feel good, baby,” he murmurs against your skin as his lips begin to move down your neck to your chest, “please?”
as soon as the soft “okay” leaves your lips, he’s smirking to himself, then moving down to press eager kisses to the insides of your thighs, slowly moving up to where he’s been dreaming of going for months.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
♡ summary ... you’ve been invited to celebrate easter dinner with the kent family. i think this is how it would go <3
— this could just be a nice holiday dinner in general. it doesn’t have to be easter, but since it’s easter today i thought it was only fitting! enjoy! :)
i imagine the kent family being one of those families that celebrates everything. whether they’re religious or not, martha makes one-heck-of-a meal for every holiday. christmas, thanksgiving, easter, the fourth of july. everything. it’s tradition!
some years, everyone in the family will come to the farm to celebrate. it might be a week long affair for holidays like christmas or thanksgiving, and those are the two holidays that warrant a mini family reunion.
for easter? it’s usually just martha, jonathan, and clark. maybe a set of cousins if they’re lucky. this year is different. this year, clark has you.
you and clark arrived on the farm friday afternoon. it’s sunday, obviously, and you would be staying in kansas for the weekend.
i imagine the kent’s probably do go to church on sunday, simply for the sake of being there, and then martha cooks up a nice brunch before nap time. jonathan probably has a bazillion things to do before dinner, and clark would probably help out, but nap time for you and martha. i love a nice nap before dinner.
dinner in general would be fabulous. martha probably makes a ham and her homemade rolls. there’s mac and cheese and potato salad, and you helped make some lemonade.
over dinner, you all talk—as if you’ve been sitting here for dinner for years. like this isn’t one of your first times meeting clark’s parents. conversation flows easily and they both seem so invested in your life in metropolis.
after dinner is said and done, martha would probably refuse your help with cleaning up and insist that you stay sat at the table. maybe she made her famous apple pie, and maybe it’s as good as clark said it would be.
no matter what, you are never made out to feel like a stranger at their home. they welcomed you with open arms and the treated you like their own. the weekend was an amazing time away from the city.
Ok but imagine young Clark coming into his super-hypnotism powers as a young kid and Martha Kent is not having it because you can only argue with your two-year-old so much if they can sweet talk you into anything they want.
She figures out really fast that it's all in the inhuman eyes - and really, she should've known that gorgeous shade of blue was too good to be true - so when Clark gets in a fit and she just knows he's going to make a demand, she avoids direct eye contact with her sweet little angel. She knows he's not doing it on purpose, he's just a little kid, after all.
But then, he has to go to school, and Martha knows Clark won't do it on purpose, but her little baby is a charmspeaker and is accidentally going to manipulate the entire world around him into whatever he thinks he wants and that's just not going to fly!
So, Martha experiments a little. The next time they go into town for the day, Martha hands Clark a tiny pair of sunglasses to wear all day to see if lenses even make a difference. It's not that he's never worn them before, but she needs to know if he can influence anyone if he's not looking directly into their eyes. After a day of errands and several pleading looks and what are certainly puppy eyes from Clark from behind tinted lenses to no avail, Martha has her answer.
Their last stop of the day is an antique shop on Main. Martha greets the man at the counter like you only can in a small town and asks if he has any supplies of old glasses they can rifle through for Clark, just in the meantime until they can get his eyes checked. Just to limp along. It's a lie, Clark doesn't need a prescription. But in a box of used glasses, there's always the chance Martha will find what she needs.
Gary (that's his name) points her toward a dresser down the room and tells her there's a drawer filled with costume glasses and the like. They find a tiny pair of glasses for Clark and he complains at first that the world "looks funny" but then he blinks twice and looks around again and, with a grin, says "Never mind - I like them, can I keep them?"
And that's how Clark Kent starts wearing glasses.
As he gets older, continuing to grow up and especially while he's still shorter than his ma he'll occasionally glare up at her from over his lenses petulantly as he tries to get his way and it brings a whole new weight to the phrase "Don't give me that look, now, son," because Clark knows that she means not to use his Kryptonian eyes on her to get his way. It's not a secret any more than Clark being an alien is a secret that Clark can get people to do what he wants. But the few times he's done it have resulted in the biggest groundings of his entire life and more chores than he's ever wanted to do. And not just manual labor chores, but the kind of chores ma knows he doesn't like, because a ma always knows how to make a chore a chore.
In high school, for all that Clark is not very popular and has that whole quiet nerd persona going for him, he has that cute kid with the glasses Kryptonian Gaze™ down to a seductive art and he's not even trying. Because. Hello? B-i-o-l-o-g-y. So, yeah. That over-the-glasses glance from across the room? It's a whole thing and lots of girls (and guys?) are super confused by why they suddenly think Clark Kent might be super hot. Then when they look again but it's just Clark sitting there with his normal glasses again? They're not so sure...
He doesn't like to use his super-hypnotism because it feels like cheating, but depending on the circumstance he will. It's not that different than using his other abilities after all, right? If it's for the right reasons, is it?
While he's working at the Daily Planet, he'll use it on occasion to push his advantage for a story for that one extra detail, to get access to a room he might not have otherwise, to sneak into places he might not have, to make people forget his face, his name, their conversation if it was a particularly sketchy place... it's all a simple tilt down of the chin so he can look people straight in the eyes over the rim of his glasses and ask a pointed question or say something or suggest something and then....
As Superman it's different. As Superman, he never wears his glasses. He's all heat vision and x-ray vision, micro and macro vision. As Superman, he does what he needs to to save people. Sometimes that's telling someone to get to safety or go home, call 9-1-1, run, stay here, be quiet.. it's a hundred things as Superman. Sometimes it's asking guards for passcodes or entrance, sometimes it's to turn off surveillance altogether. Superman does what he has to do.
