#lovearchive

You startled, jerking in place and the hot chocolate went down the wrong pipe. You began to cough, and his hands shot up to your back. He gave you a large thump that almost knocked the remaining air out of your lungs. You stumbled, struggling to regain your balance, and finally brought yourself to look at him.

His wide, bright blue eyes stared back at you with concern. He reached a long arm forward to the counter and pulled out some tissues from the dispenser.

“Gosh,” he began, handing them to you. “I didn’t mean to scare you. Are you okay?”

In that moment you prayed that the ground would open beneath your feet and swallow you whole. You nodded, red in the face, and accepted the tissues. Bringing them up to your mouth, you said, “I-I’m fine. It was just hotter than expected.”

He watched you quietly as you rubbed your sternum in a soothing manner, taking in shaky breaths.

His eyes fell to the name tag hanging down your neck. “You work at Goldstar?”

Why is he still here? You shrieked, in your head. Why is he still talking to me?

You cleared your throat and answered, “Yeah. I am an analyst.”

He held his own name tag up. It read Clark Kent, followed by the word ‘PRESS’ in blue and white.

“I’m Clark.”

The barista called out your name just in time. You leapt forward for your food, snatched it out of her hand, and spun around to rush past him. “See ya!”

****************************************************

You had hoped that running into Clark would be a one-time thing.

It wasn’t. You continued to see him every morning since the day you had choked on your drink after hearing the sound of his voice. It was embarrassing, but perhaps not enough to turn him away.

It started off with him offering a dimpled smile whenever your eyes met across the cafe. Then he started holding the door open for you anytime you entered together. Currently Clark was talking your ear off in the cue.

You had eased up with every interaction. Of course, you still felt your stomach tighten at the sight of him, but at least you weren’t making a fool of yourself in front of him.

You thought back to the weekend when you told your friends about the cute boy from the coffee shop. They passionately stated that you should ask him out. You told them you weren’t insane enough to do that. You liked your small interactions together; they added a little spring in your steps in the morning. Things didn’t need to go beyond that. After all—

“So, um, did you hear what I said?” he asked, tearing you away from your thoughts.

“Sorry, no,” you replied, shaking your head. “I zoned out.”

Clark scratched the back of his head as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “I was saying that a new Italian restaurant had just opened down the street— Luigi’s,” he explained, biting the inside of his cheek, “and it’s got good reviews. I was wondering if you’d like to go check it out with me?”

Oh. Oh.

The back of your neck grew warmer by the second. “Um,” you dragged out, mind racing to formulate a sentence that didn’t seem too enthusiastic. “Yeah, totally. We can do that. Uh, what time?”

Relief spread across his face. “Tonight at seven?”

“Okay,” you said, trying to nonchalant. “I’ll meet you there.”

You turned away to leave the cafe, digging your nails into the smooth paper cup surface. It’s probably just a casual hang, you told yourself, like two buddies meeting up. Except you weren’t even friends. You hardly knew anything about the guy other than that he never cussed, grew up in a small town, and had no siblings. Okay, maybe you knew a bit more than that about Clark.

He was also Superman’s go-to reporter for a post-fight interview, he hated coffee but needed it to stay awake so he could make up for all the times he was late to work, and up close he smelled like a mixture of mint, ice and—

You heard him call your name. You spun around to see him running out of the cafe and towards you. He manoeuvred awkwardly, barely dodging the people rushing to work and stopped right in front of you.

“Um, it’s a date, right?” he asked, breathing hard.

You made a conscious effort to not ogle the way his shirt tightened around him every time he took a breath. You blinked rapidly. Be cool.

“Are you asking or telling me?”

You could almost see the cogs turning behind his eyes. He cleared his throat, rolled his shoulders back and stood a little taller. “I am telling you,” he decided, chest puffing out. “It’s a date.”

****************************************************

To say you were excited would be an understatement.

You had talked your receptionist’s ear off during your lunch break. Sharon had asked why you were even telling her all this, and you told it was the first date jitters.

“I need to get the nervous energy out,” you explained, at the end of the day, “So I can be cool during the date. Did I mention he said the word ‘date’?”

“Several times,” she smiled.

“Just making sure,” you shrugged and pushed yourself off her desk. “I’ll text you tonight and give you a minute-by-minute replay.”

She rolled her eyes but was grinning. “Good luck, darling.”

You skipped out of work. The breeze was gentle, and flowers on the side of the road smelled sweeter. Metropolis around you seemed a little brighter today too.

Above you, on a giant screen, Superman stood surrounded by children hanging off his curled-up biceps. Underneath a headline read: SUPERMAN SAVES THE DAY.

You wondered if Clark had written that himself.

*************************************

You took a nice long bath.

Then shaving seemed like a good idea, so you did that too. It wasn’t like you were expecting Clark to be seeing anything tonight, but your best friends suggested to err on the side of caution, and Sharon had echoed the sentiment. After a small battle with your hair dryer in the washroom and turning your closet upside-down, you were ready to head out. You took the bus heading downtown and reached at Luigi’s before Clark.

You headed inside and walked up to the hostess. “I think my friend has a reservation for two at seven o’clock.”

She leaned down to her screen. “Under what name?”

“Clark Kent.”

She scrolled for a moment and then looked up. “Nothing is coming up under that name.”

That was strange. You offer her your name instead. She checked again and shook her head. “We aren’t too busy at the moment,” she stated. “I can seat you once your party arrives.”

You smile politely and take a seat on a couch by the door. You checked your phone and the time showed: 06:55 PM. You found it strange that Clark hadn’t booked a reservation for dinner. No, you told yourself, walking-in was completely acceptable.

Except that it wasn't. He had asked you out and really seemed eager so shouldn’t he have made arrangements as well? You shrugged the thought out of your head and chalked it up to you being nervous.

Nevertheless, a pit began to form in your stomach, like something bad was about to happen. You watched people arrive from your seat in the corner against the wall. Families poured in laughing with their loved ones, couples walked in hand-in-hand, and even delivery drivers had come and gone by. One by one, the hostess led everyone to their tables and each time you stayed glued in the same place.

The next time you checked your phone, it showed 07:30PM.

Clark Kent was thirty minutes late. Ten more minutes, you told yourself. Ten more minutes and then I leave.

Your eyes began to water yet you couldn’t help but wait a bit longer. You wished you had exchanged numbers so you could text him and ask about his whereabouts. At 08:01 PM you wondered if he was safe. The pit in your stomach grew bigger, and your throat began to tighten. Something bad was indeed helping.

“Excuse me, miss,” the hostess called out, handing you a menu. “The kitchen will be closing in twenty minutes. Would you like to place a take-away order instead?”

You nodded, not trusting your voice. You flipped through the menu and pointed at the first item your eyes landed on. The hostess left and you let your head drop low, allowing the tears to finally flow down your cheeks.

You didn’t know if you were crying because you were hurt, embarrassed, or both. Tomorrow morning, your friends and Sharon will ask you how your dinner went, and you will have to tell them that your date hadn’t even bothered to show up. You felt like an idiot for putting in so much effort.

You wiped the tears off your face just in time for the hostess to return with your order. You reached into your purse for your wallet, but she stopped you. “It’s on the house,” she said, offering you a sympathetic smile.

“Thank you,” you answered in a small voice.

You took the paper bag from her and moved towards the door.

The hostess called out your name and you realized that you must have looked miserable sitting there waiting for him when she said, “Screw him.”

You couldn’t help but laugh.

You left the buzzing restaurant, clutching the bag tightly in your hands. Outside Metropolis was quiet. It was almost like the city was giving you a moment of silence as you trudged through its roads with your heels clacking against the concrete.

From the corner of your eyes, you saw a blur of red and blue land on the street across under a spot light.

You watched the landscape  for a moment before choosing to walk away.

*************************************

Your friends and Sharon agreed that Clark Kent was an asshole.

You felt better by the morning when you walked into the cafe. His not showing up last night said more about him than you. It wasn’t your fault that you believed his words. That made you a good and honest person, and him a lying loser. You beelined to the barista and placed your order: an iced matcha with a blueberry muffin. You swore you were never going to order hot chocolate again.

Fuck you Clark for turning me off my favourite beverage!

Almost as if you had said his name out loud, he appeared beside you.

Clark called out your name, softly. “I’m so sorry for last night,” he blurted out before you could acknowledge his presence. “I got caught up at work.”

Your eye twitch at his explanation. There were a million things he could have done besides ditching you. His workplace was only a ten-minute walk from the restaurant. If he truly had any intention of meeting you, he would have come in person and told you that he couldn’t make it. Or called the restaurant and left a message with the hostess. Yet he chose none of those and instead made you wait for him like a fool.

You forced a smile and walked away to grab your order. When you returned, he was still standing at the same spot, chewing on his lower lip.

“It's all good,” you forced yourself to say through a clenched jaw.

You left the cafe and Clark followed you outside immediately. His large hand wrapped around your elbow and he turned you around.

“I really mean it,” he expressed, earnestly. “I didn’t mean to ditch you. I wanted to be there so bad.”

You found yourself resisting the urge to launch your drink in his face and then curb-stomp him into the ground.

“Okay,” you reply, pulling your arm away from his grasp.

You spun on your heels to leave, but he stepped in your way. “No, it’s not okay. Please, believe me when I say I'm terribly sorry. We can try again tonight if you’re free. Or any other night. Whenever and wherever you'd like.”

You were seeing red. Superman himself would have to show up to save Clark if you had to spend another minute in his presence.

“Clark,” you began, pinching the bridge of your nose, “I’m going to say this only once, so please listen carefully.”

He interlocked his fingers together and nodded solemnly.

“Last night was a huge mistake,” you stated, plainly. “I shouldn’t have agreed to dinner. I didn’t realize you were someone who would treat someone like that.”

His eyes widened at your words. He opened his mouth to speak, but you continued.

“I felt like an idiot,” you choked, blinking away your watering eyes, “waiting for you to show up. I thought something bad had happened to you. Clearly, I was mistaken about that too since you seem perfectly okay."

He had the nerve to look at you like you had just punched him in the gut.

"You know that the staff felt so bad for me that they gave me the food for free?” you let out a bitter laugh. “Honestly, leave me alone. I never want to see you or speak to you again.”

Before he could say anything more, you stormed past him.

*************************************

You stopped going to the cafe after that.

It wasn’t like you were afraid of Clark Kent; you just hated the way he made you feel. You threw yourself into your work, but every now and then, in one of those slow moments between assignments, you’d think back to how it felt waiting for him that night.

At first, you were frustrated. It wasn’t as if you both had been dating to begin with. For heaven’s sake, it was a first date and you barely knew the man! Why were you so bothered by it?

Then came the anger. How dare he make you feel so easily dismissed and forgettable? You were a real person with thoughts and feelings.

That was followed by doubt. He had apologized and offered to make it up. Did saying ‘no’ make you a bad person? Were you just playing hard to get?

Eventually, you remembered that others will respect you when you learn to respect yourself first. Clark made you feel inconsequential, so he would no longer have any access to you.

All of this emotional turmoil over one failed date, you thought. Maybe I need to be institutionalized.

The phone on your desk rang, and you picked up. “Hello?”

“There’s a delivery for you, darling,” Sharon answered.

“What is it?” you asked, confused.

You never ordered anything to the office. Sharon sighed from the other side of line. “You better come see it yourself.”

You hung up and made your way downstairs through the elevator. Sharon sat at the front desk with a frown on her face. You followed her gaze to a bouquet of flowers on top of her keyboard. With furrowed eyebrows, you reached for the beautifully wrapped white tulips.

“Who sent this?”

“No idea. There was no note,” she revealed, clicking her pen. “The deliveryman said they were for you. I can tell you that whoever sent them is saying sorry.”

I frowned. “How do you know that?”

“Google,” she answered, leaning into her computer screen to read out an excerpt. “White lilies apparently symbolize ‘forgiveness and peace, making them a good choice for expressing remorse and a desire for a fresh start’. ”

You scoffed and passed them back to her. “You can keep this as fertilizer for your garden,” you tell her, still frowning. “Or put them though the paper shredder.”

Two days later, Sharon calls you again. You go downstairs and find a bouquet of pink roses. This time, there is a note attached to them.

I’m sorry — Clark.

“ ‘Pink roses convey a message of gentle affection,” Sharon reads out, “making them suitable for expressing sincere apologies and care.’ You ready to forgive him yet, darling?”

“Not even close,” you scowled, dumping them in the trash can behind her desk.

Two days after that, your phone rings and you call for the elevator without bothering to answer. A small crowd had gathered around Sharon’s desk, admiring the gift. This time, the bouquet was made of blue hydrangeas and had doubled in size.

“Let’s hear it,” you sighed, slapping her desk.

“Represents ‘deep remorse and a desire to make amends’,” she verified.

The crowd around you ooh-ed. You pluck the flowers off her desk and read the note accompanying them.

When you forgive me, come back to the cafe. I miss seeing you in the morning— Clark.

Your co-worker reads it over your shoulder. “Wow,” he whistles, “this Clark guy has got it bad for you.”

You snort. “Clearly not enough to respect my time.”

Yet this time you don’t discard the flowers. You clench on to the bouquet tightly as you wait for the elevator to whisk you away.

When your phone rings again the very next day, you are halfway into re-reading your quarterly report for the umpteenth time. You pick up without tearing your eyes away from your computer screen. “Hello?”

“He is here,” Sharon tells you.

“Who?” you yawn, scrolling to the next tab.

“Clark,” she hissed.

“What?” you exclaimed, attracting confused looks from cubicles around you.

“Clark from the Daily Planet is here,” she repeats. “For you. You need to get down here right now.”

“Okay, okay,” you whispered into the receiver, scrambling to your feet. “I'm coming. Don't let him come up here.”

The elevator took too long to reach your floor, so you took the stairs down. You were fuming with anger. Wasn’t it enough that his guilty gifts were the break room talk? Now he had the nerve to show up at your workplace?

You reach the main floor, and Sharon points at the front door. “Told him to wait outside!” she calls out as you stomp past her.

You find Clark pacing outside in the storm passing over Metropolis, utterly soaked.

*************************************

If wrath wasn't rolling off you in waves, maybe you would have found the scene in front of you beautiful.

Clark's black curls were glued against his forehead and his white dress shirt clung close to his skin. The rain had made the fabric almost translucent, and you were able to make out the slopes of his collarbones and the ridges of his abs as clearly as day.

“What are you doing here?” you raised your voice, throwing your hands up in the air.

People passing by swerve around you both to avoid getting caught in middle. “This is my workplace!” you cried out, whipping your wet hair out of your face. “Do you have any idea how inappropriate this is?”

“I know, I know,” he stepped closer, grabbing you by the shoulders. “I had no choice but to come here. You weren’t coming to the cafe anymore and I didn't know if you were getting my messages. And I just— I just had to explain myself in person.”

You shrugged his hands off you, immediately missing the warmth they radiated in contrast to the cold rain thundering down on you. “I told you I didn’t want to see you again,” you reminded him, heaving.

He nodded and stepped even closer. He reached for your small, shivering hands and held them in his. He looked down at the space between both your feet. “The night we were supposed to meet,” he began, rubbing gentle circles on your knuckles, “I got held up at work—”

You rolled your eyes and tried to pull your hands away, but he held you in place.

“—Superman had just finished fighting a monster. You must have seen it on the news the next morning, right?”

Curious to see where this was going, you nodded stiffly.

“He came to the Daily Planet,” he continued, “asking me for some intel I have been gathering on LuthorCorp. He thinks Lex Luthor was behind the attack. I-I-I tried to be fast and wrap everything quickly, but—”

“Wait, wait, wait,” you interrupt. “Lex Luthor was behind the Kaiju attack? You know it ate Sharon’s car? She is still waiting to hear about her insurance claim!”

“What?” he asked, puzzled. “That’s besides the point. I am trying to tell you that I’m not a bad guy. Are you listening?”

“Y-yeah,” you told him.

“Anyways, by the time we were done, it was too late, and I knew I had made a mistake. I went to the restaurant, but the hostess told me you had already left. Well, first she called me a lot of bad names and then she told me you left. I even asked Superman to track you down.”

You think back to the night. “I think I saw him that night,” you said, teeth clattering. “A flash of red and blue. You really sent him for me?”

Clark’s hands moved to cup your face. “I never meant to leave you there hanging. You have got to believe me.”

You searched his eyes for deception. When you didn’t find any, something inside you snapped. You raised your arms up to wrap around his neck as he bent down to crush you against himself. “You made me feel so small,” you sobbed in his neck.

He squeezed you tighter. “I never meant to,” he repeated, burying his face in your hair. “I never meant to.”

He ran a hand over your locks, and for a moment, you both stood there, frozen in time. Sirens blared at a distance, and you felt him go rigid in your embrace. You broke apart, thinking he would leave but he stayed put.

“Take my number,” you commanded, running your hands over your forearms to keep, “so you don’t lose me again.”

He reached into his pant pocket and pulled out his phone. It looked comically small in his large hands. You put your number inside his phone and stepped back.

“I have to get back to work,” you told him, at the same time, he said, “Let’s spend the day together.”

“I can’t.”

“Please.”

“We can’t even do anything with the storm,” you reasoned, walking backwards. “Let's just wait for the weekend.”

“Please.”

“My manager is gonna' kill me for taking time off, Clark.”

“Please.”

You groaned in defeat. “Fuck,” you exhaled. “Okay. Okay. Wait for me here. I’ll go grab my stuff.”

His lips stretched into a wide smile.

“Don’t be smug about it” you called out, jogging backwards. “I’m still mad at you!”

“I’ll fix it!” he called out, still grinning.

You rush past Sharon who had a playful smile decorating her face. You strutted to a stop and glanced back at her. “Were you eavesdropping?”

“You already know I was,” she smirked, typing away. “I’ll tell the boss you were feeling under the weather.”

*************************************

When you came back down, Clark had already hailed a taxi.

He held the door open with a goofy smile. You stepped inside, and he followed at your footsteps. You sat in the back of the cab pressed into each other. His warmth was a shelter from the cold air. It was almost like he stored the sun inside him for you to use as a portable heater.

The driver eyed you through the rear-view mirror. “Aren’t you both adorable,” he commented, with a laugh. “How long have you both been together?”

Clark checked the watch on his wrist and answered. “Five minutes.”

The driver whistled, “Young love.”

You hid your smile behind your hand and told the driver your address. The drive to your apartment is quiet except for the sound of the wipers sliding back and forth against the windshield. Soft music played on the radio, and you leaned further into Clark. He slipped an arm around your shoulder and you nuzzled into him, eyes getting heavier. You were almost asleep when a thought crossed your mind.

Clark Kent is coming to my apartment.

You jolted awake, scaring him. He raised an eyebrow, and you shook your head, commanding yourself to relax. As the scenery out the window started becoming familiar, your nervousness grew. You should have thought things through before telling the taxi driver to take you home.

You prayed that your apartment was clean enough to invite someone over. What were you even going to do? Maybe you’d cook, or watch a movie, or play a board game, or kiss, and then maybe you’d both take your clothes off and—

“We’re here,” the driver announced.

You bounced your knee in anticipation as Clark paid the fare. He slid out first and held out his hand for you. You gingerly put your hand in his and hoisted yourself up and out of the taxi.

You took some deep breaths to ground yourself as you walked up the stairs leading to your home with Clark trailing behind you. You unlocked the door and stepped inside. “Ta-da,” you proclaimed, trying to break the ice. “This is my fortress.”

“Hm,” he mused, scanning the living room. “I think I prefer yours over mine.”

“Really?”

He nodded. “Your home seems well loved. Compared to yours, mine’s like made out of ice.”

You rolled your eyes and arched down to take your shoes off. Clark reached for your arm, stopping you.

“Let me,” he suggested, kneeling in front of you.

You straightened up and watched his hand cascade down the length of your arm and along the side of your thigh. He cupped the back of your knee and lifted it up to slip your shoe off. Then moved to the other leg to do the same while you stood very still.

He looked up at you with a dimpled smile. You couldn’t help but reach for his hair and run your fingers through his moist curls. He was drying up much quicker than you. Must be 'cause all that heat radiating off him, you thought.

You cleared your throat and let your hand fall. “Let me get you a change of clothes,” you said, moving to your room as he unlaced his own shoes in the foyer.

You rummaged through your closet to find the biggest shirt and pyjama pants you could find. You handed them to Clark and showed him where the bathroom was. Once you heard the door lock behind him, you let out a silent scream.

Fuck, fuck, fuck!

You started pacing around in your kitchen. You wanted him. Badly. You had an inkling that he felt the same. I mean, if the flowers and showing up at your work in a rainstorm wasn’t enough evidence, then the moment you both shared at your doorstep was enough to convince a jury.

You didn’t want to just pounce and scare him away. Things were happening too quickly, and you didn’t know how to work with that. In your field, you spent hours researching, studying, and then preparing a strategy to achieve your goal. Except now the goal was in your bathroom, drying himself with your towel. On cue, you heard the door unlock and you leapt to look busy.

When Clark stepped into the kitchen, you were filling up a kettle to heat up some water.

“All good?” you inquired, casually glancing back over your shoulder.

You caught a brief look of how taut the fabric of the shirt appeared against his chest and shoulders. Instead of answering, he moved to stand behind you.

“Go shower and dry off,” he told you, gently.

“But—”

“You’ll catch a cold,” he reasoned, nudging your head with his forehead. “Go get warm. I’ll watch the kettle.”

You let your shoulders drop and nodded. Clark switched spots with you as you made your way to your room. This was good. The universe had just given time to strategize. Rummaging through your closet, you found your nicest pyjamas and hopped into the shower. You scrubbed yourself extra hard, and then shaving seemed like a good idea once again, so you did that too. A warm shower and one small, silent motivational speech later, you found yourself back in your living room.

Clark entered from the kitchen, carefully balancing a mug in each hand. “Made some hot chocolate for us,” he declared. “I remember you enjoying it.”

You smiled widely and took a seat on the sofa as he set the mugs down. You threw the damp towel over your head as he took a seat next to you. You picked up the mug and brought it close to your mouth. You didn’t miss the three marshmallows he had placed in your drink. You took a warm sip and let the beverage soothe you from the inside.

Clark reached for the remote and turned the television on. You both watched the screen in silence. Then you begun shifting on the cushion restlessly. The clock on your living room wall ticked in the background as if it were counting down to something inevitable. You grabbed the towel with both hands and began scrunching your hair aggressively to drown out the sound.

“Here,” you heard Clark say. “Let me.”

He moved into the space between your legs and the coffee table and tugged your hands away. He began drying your hair instead. You sat with your hand in your lap, fingers interlaced, as he patiently worked away. Suddenly he jerked the towel down to completely engulf your face while laughing.

“Oh, no,” he feigned surprise, “where did you go?”

You couldn’t help but giggle and shove him gently, but he didn’t budge an inch.

“I’m right here,” he continued, holding your head and moving it from side to side. “Can you hear me?”

“I’m right here, too!” you played along, shaking with laughter.

“Right here?” he echoed. “Let me see.”

You wrapped your hands around his wrists as he stretched the towel back, past your chin and lips. He paused right under your nose. You waited for him to move, but he didn’t.

“Clark?”

You sensed him shift at the sound of his name. He cupped your face and angled it up. He whispered your name, and his breath fanned against your face. Then you felt the faintest touch of his lips against yours. Your breath hitched. A moment later, Clark’s mouth pressed against yours in a soft, chaste kiss.

He dropped his hands to your shoulders and straightened. He cleared his throat. “I think I need to go,” he croaked.

You tried too see his eyes, but the towel was still hanging low over yours. Before you could ask him what was wrong, he answered, “Nothing is wrong.”

You nodded.

“I’m not leaving you,” he insisted. “You know that, right?”

You nodded again.

“Things are just moving too fast,” he explained. “and I don’t want to mess this up.”

He peeled the towel away from you and met your eyes straight on. Whatever he saw made him let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “I will text you,” he promised. “You'll reply and we will go on a real date.”

“Okay.”

“Baby,” he groaned, tipping his head back. “Don’t look so sad. It’s killing me.”

Then don’t go, you wanted to tell him, but you knew he was correct. All good things took time, and you could feel it in your veins that this thing with Clark would be the greatest of them all.

You smiled up at him. “I’ll see you later, Clark.”

He stepped away and walked backward toward the door. He reached behind him to unlock the door without taking his bright eyes off you. You heard the door unlock, and in the next moment, you were all alone in your apartment.

You sat on the couch, the feeling of his lips on your skin still lingering. The clock still ticked away, but a bit gentler this time around. You stood up with a grunt and locked the door.

Clark Kent was in your apartment. Clark Kent had kissed you. Clark Kent was about to be yours. You didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. You hadn’t felt this much giddiness since you were a young girl.

Your phone pinged in your purse. You grabbed your hot chocolate from the table and sipped on it as you rummaged through your purse. You had received a text from an unknown number.

It read: Open the door.

*************************************

You yanked the door open, and Clark stormed inside.

His hand grabbed your nape, and his lips met yours. Your heart began pounding in your chest so loudly that you wondered if he could hear it. Clark slanted his face over yours, and your lips parted. His tongue dipped past your teeth, deepening the kiss. You clung to the front of his shirt as he moved you further into the apartment. Butterflies exploded in your stomach, and your head became dizzy. If he hadn’t wrapped an arm around your waist to hold you up just in time, you would have landed your ass on the hardwood floor.

You move your hands to the bunched muscles of his biceps. God, how was he so strong?

You couldn’t imagine Clark being someone who would spend hours in the gym, but the hardness of his body was telling you differently. He pulls a part to steal a breath, and you do the same. He shook in your arms, glasses fogging, as he spoke, “I couldn’t wait. I’m so sorry.”

You smooth his wild hair down. “It’s okay—mfp.”

His tongue tasted like your favourite hot chocolate, and it brushed against yours once, twice, and then over and over. He slid his hands down your waist, over the arch of your hips and then hoisted you up. You let out a yelp and wrapped your legs around his torso. Your head felt airy as he sauntered to the sofa and gently sat you both down. He pressed his forehead against yours and mumbled, “Give me five minutes and then I’ll leave.”

“Don’t leave,” you whispered against his mouth. “Please, don’t leave.”

“No?” he inquired, moving his lips to your neck. “Okay, I’ll stay. I’ll stay for as long as you’d like me to, baby.”

He found your sweet spot, and you let out a gasp. He ran his tongue over it and sucked the skin into his lips. You lurched into his arms, and your hand dove to his hair. You pulled his face away from him to expose his neck. You inched forward and inhaled his scent; it made your mouth water. You pressed your mouth to his neck, just as he had done, and then softly bit down. He let out a groan, and his hands shot up to grab onto your hips.

You felt him grow between your legs. You rolled your hips against his just as your tongue swept against his neck to soothe the bite. Clark was heating up in your arms. His hands slid up to your waist, and he manoeuvred you around so that your back was against the couch. He settled between your legs and kissed you again. You sucked on his tongue as he curled his groin into your centre.

“Fuck,” he breathed out.

You begin to kiss his mouth, making him raise his head. “Don’t say that!”

He gave you a puzzled look. Your fingers reached his hair as you explained, “You don’t cuss, remember?”

He pouted. “Of course I do.”

You curled a finger in his curls. “Oh, yeah?” you challenged. “Say a bad word.”

He huffed, pushing his steaming glasses up. “I'll say three,” he stuck his nose up. “Fuck. Shit. Pussy.”

You threw your head back and cackled. “It sounds so weird to hear you say that.”

He shrugged, seemingly pleased with himself. “Use it in a sentence,” you teased.

He pondered for a few seconds, and then a smirk stretched across his face. He looked straight into your eyes and spoke, as clear as day, “Shit, I want to be in your pussy so fucking bad.”

You let out a shriek and smacked his shoulders. His laughter grew louder as you barraged him with playful punches. He caught your wrists in one hand to stop you and moved them above your head.

“I’m glad you gave me a second chance,” he confessed. “You don’t understand how I feel in this moment.”

You had a feeling that you knew exactly what he meant. “I am glad that you came to me today,” you told him. “You don’t understand how I feel right now.”

Clark gave you a smile and let your wrists go. You brought your hands back to his hair. You liked the way they felt between your fingers. You thought you heard him say something along the lines of ‘now it’s time for you to come for me,’ as he kissed his way down your jaw, between the valley of your breast, and along your stomach. His kisses burned through your shirt. He stopped at your waistband and folded up the hem of your shirt until it rested right under your navel.

“Can I?” he asked, chewing on his swollen lower lip.

You gave him a shaky nod. Clark leaned up on his knees and reached for your drawstrings. Carefully, he began to undo them like he was opening a present. Your hands clenched into fists as you watched him tug the strings loose. He slithered the pads of his fingers into your waistband and glided your pyjamas lower. You arched your hips up to help him slip them off completely. He reached behind and pulled his shirt clean off his body in one smooth move.

You stretched your arm out to feel the slopes of his stomach against your hand. He let you run your hands over his stomach, chest, and arms. Once you were satisfied, you lay back on the couch to let him explore you. His large hands spread your legs apart so that one of you hung off the sofa while the other rested on the rail. He lowered back down and got comfortable against the cushion.

His thumb brushed circles in the inside of your thigh, and you could hear the blood rushing into your ears. There was no strategy, no game plan now. You were in it for the long run. You knew this man was moments away from stealing all the air out of your lungs.

“Tell me if you don’t like anything that I do,” he muttered as his nose rubbed against =the thin fabric of your panties.

“Mm-hmm,” you answered, pressing a hand against your chest.

He paused. “I mean it.”

“Mm-hmm,” you voiced more sternly.

The first pass of his tongue over you jolted you. He hadn’t even reached the real thing yet, and you were shaking. His brows twitch in concern, but when you don’t complain, he does it again. You press the back of your hand against your mouth. You didn’t want to scare him, continuing. He looked like the kind to spook easily.

He hooked his index finger on the side of your underwear and peeled the fabric to the right. He must have seen the way your core twitched when the cold hair hit it. He smiled and placed a soft kiss on your pussy. The sensation made you bite down on your hands.

He opened his mouth wider and snuck his pink tongue in between your folds to lick a strip up from your hole to clit. Tears welled in your eyes. He flattened his tongue out and did it all over again. You moaned echoed through the apartment.

He found your clit next. He slid his mouth over it and sucked on it with the right amount of pressure. Your toes curled so hard that you were afraid your foot would begin cramping. He let go of your clit with a plop and looked up. “Good?” he asked, fixing his lopsided frames. “Am I doing good?”

You nodded enthusiastically, not trusting yourself to speak.

He dove back in. He stiffened the tip of his tongue to circle your clit, and your hand clung to the front of your shirt. You were distraught between wanting to press his mouth into your cunt and pulling your own hair out. Tentatively, you reached for his hair and gently grasped it in your clutches. You felt him grin into you as you turned his head toward the spot that made you melt. He obliged, concentrating on the side of your clit that made you squirm.

You realized that whatever technique he had initiated was long forgotten. Clark Kent was messily making out with your pussy with not a thought in his mind. The slurping sounds that his mouth had made were so obscene that you wanted to die. You cried out in pleasure and curled your hips up to meet his mouth again and again and again. His arms wrapped around your thigh to hold you in place as pressure builds up in your spine.

You heard the clock ticking get louder again as if it was counting down to your demise. The pleasure built and built and built until it imploded you from within. You tipped your head back, eyes rolling, curling off the couch at an angle you have never bent in before.

Clark doesn’t stop. He continued to lick and suck and kiss your cunt until he had wrung you out for all you’re worth. When you return to earth, you see him breathless, flushed and resting his forehead against your thigh.

“I have noticed that,” he grinned, licking your moisture off his lips, “anytime I do something with my mouth, you seem to like it a lot.”

Laughter erupted from your chest, stealing whatever air you had left in your lungs with it. He kissed the inside of your thigh, and the metal frame of his glasses dug into your skin. You leaned forward and pulled it off his face.

“Wait—” he calls out, but it's too late.

Fat tears exploded out of your eyes. The man reached for you, but you angled your torso out of his reach, crying harder. Curious eyes began turning towards you both.

“Classic Kent,” one whistled.

You wiped your eyes with the back of your hand, hoping that the ground would open and swallow you up.

“Let me help you,” the man pleaded, interlocking his fingers and shaking them in your face. “The washroom is this way.”

Refusing to look up at the pitiful gazes watching him take you down a hallway, you let him guide you to the bathroom. He waited outside as you yanked cheap paper towel out of the dispenser through sobs.

“Are you okay?” he asked from the other side.

You nodded, and then realized he couldn’t see you through the door.

“Yes!” you hiccuped.

“I didn't see you. That's my fault! I should have been careful,” he called out. “I am so sorry.”

You turned the tap on, but no water flowed out. You stared at it, utterly defeated. First your favourite interview dress gets ruined and now the universe wont even grant you water to attempt to fix the disaster.

“Try the left tap,” he called out. “The middle one doesn’t work.”

You followed, wetting the paper towel and furiously wiping the front of your dress.

“You must be here for an interview, right?” he inquired, nervously. “I haven’t seen you here before.”

The stain only got bigger. You were totally screwed. There was no way in hell you could do the biggest interview of your life in this state. Crying louder, you replied, “Yes!”

You cupped your face into your palms and took in a laboured breath. Maybe you’ll find another job before your savings run out. Maybe you’ll find work online helping students plagiarize by writing their psychology papers. Maybe you’ll live out of an empty refrigerator box under the freeway until a meta-villain throws a car at you.

You turned around and walked to the bathroom door. Cracking it back an inch, you peeked at the dark-haired man and asked meekly. “You work here?”

He nodded animatedly. "Yes!"

“What’s your name?”

“Clark Kent,” he answered, tugging at his hair.

You raised an eyebrow. You recognized that name. “Like Superman’s Clark Kent?”

“Uhhhhhh,” he blinked rapidly. “If by that you mean that I’m the guy who interviews him, then yeah. I am him.”

You bit your lip, looking down at his large shoes. Geez, you thought. How big is this man?

“Does Perry White like you?” you asked, chewing on your lip.

“On most days,” he shrugged. "Whenever I'm not running late or spilling coffee on strangers"

“Can you please tell him that I can’t interview today?” you begged. “Tell him that I cracked my head open on the stairs and had to be rushed to the hospital. He'll believe it if it comes from.”

He scratched the back of his head. “We have cameras at the office. I'm sure he already saw.”

Tears began welling up in your eyes. “Please!” he cried out. “Don’t cry! I will fix this. Here, take this!”

He shrugged his coat off and offered it to you. You eyed it through the sliver of space for a moment and then pulled the door open. Clark's eyes fell to your dress, and he gulped. You inched your head down and noticed that your bra was visible through the wet fabric.

You yanked the coat out of his hand and clutched it to your chest.

“I swear I wasn’t looking! I mean, I was—b-but not intentionally. Although I did intend for my eyes to look down, but not like that. Just please take my coat, miss!”

You put his coat on and offered him your name. It was so huge that it brushed your kneecaps. You felt like a big baby in it. Something was better than nothing. Maybe you could pass it off as an intense fashion choice. Maybe Perry would laugh you out of his office. But you wouldn’t know for sure until you tried.

“Thank you, Clark Kent.”

He offered you a sheepish smile that was followed by two deep dimples. “You got this, Cronkite.”

************************************************************************

Clark Kent still hadn’t gotten over the coffee incident a month into you working at the Daily Planet.

Every morning, like clockwork, he brings you a cup of coffee that is half-full, so there is no way that he could spill it on you. It became a joke around the office. Anytime Jimmy Olsen saw Clark carrying any beverage, he would tell you to watch out. Clark would roll his eyes, and you’d blush in response.

“Hey, Cronkite,” Clark greeted, sitting at the edge of your desk with a cup in hand. “Whatcha’ working on you?”

“Oh, the usual,” you replied, looking up from your computer. “ ‘Superman helps an elderly woman cross a road,’ and ‘Superman flies citizens to work after bus breaks down,’ and the latest, ‘Superman saves squirrel from being runover' .”

“Wow,” he whistled. “That’s some real hard-hitting journalism.”

You scoffed and took the cup from his hand, fingers brushing. “You’re lucky that he likes you enough to give you actual interviews. I have been trying for weeks to get his attention.”

He smiled widely. “Must be my good looks.”

Your face fell. “Are you calling me ugly, Clark Kent?”

He stood erect immediately. “N-no, absolutely not,” he stammered, visibly flustered. “You’re beautiful— I mean, no. No, I mean yes, b-but in a professional way! Not a workplace harassment way.”

You tipped your head back and laughed. “I’m just messing with you,” you giggle, running a hand through your hair. “But seriously, how do you do it?”

His shoulders relaxed, but uneasiness ran through his body. “Just happened to be at the right place at the right time,” he stated. “Superman is more talkative after taking down the meta-villains.”

“Really?”

“Really,” he confirmed, sitting down again. “I think he likes having company after. Helps him decompress.”

“I think Superman likes doing charity,” Jimmy called out from his desk. Kent’s a total charity case.”

“Ha-ha,” Clark deadpanned and .

You rolled your eyes, laughing. “Don’t listen to him,” you told Clark. “You’re a good journalist. Jimmy’s just jealous.”

Jimmy howled loudly at the assumption.

“Thanks, Cronkite,” he replied, with a sweet smile and moved towards his chair. “I’ll see you at lunch.”

You nodded and spoke to yourself as you rearranged some papers on your desk, “In the meantime, I will pray that Superman comes to save me before Perry can ask for new headlines.”

Clark paused behind your desk and looked over his shoulder. “I hope you’re never in a situation where Superman needs to come save you.”

You pause at his tone. He has never sounded so serious about anything. You turn around to reply, but Clark’s already walked away with a frown on his face.

************************************************************************

A month after that, the Hammer of Boravia attacked Metropolis.

You run out of the Daily Planet with a camerawoman in tow. Chaos erupted all around you both as people fled from that ugly trash-can robot wreaking havoc on the city. Sirens blared and concrete rained down from the sky.

The camerawoman raised the camera to her shoulder as you begin speaking with Superman and the Hammer go at each other in the background. You turned just in time to see the tin-foil villain grab Superman by the throat and punch him in the face. Superman went reeling to the side, and then the garbage robot took hold of his cape to yank him back before choking him out. Superman flew away only to have the meta-villain grab his leg. You scream out in surprise as he is spun around in circles and then slammed to the ground.

You curse and begin running towards where he landed. Your camerawoman struggled to keep up as you sprinted down the street where a crowd had gathered in a small circle.

The camerawoman crashed into you from the back and aimed the lens at him.

In the centre lay Superman in a concave hole in the concrete with his hair dishevelled, cheeks flushed, and eyes struggling to focus on the faces staring down at him.

You looked at the hero defeated in front of you, and something shifted inside. You reached for the camera and aimed it down at your feet. She shot you a questioning look, and you shook your head. “The world shouldn’t see him like this.”

You stepped toward him and bent down, hovering over his torso. “Grab on to me,” you said, gently. “Let’s get you out of here, Superman.”

He wheezed out a response, and his arms reached for you. It took all your strength to peel him off the ground. You brought his hefty left arm over your shoulder and moved some of his weight onto yourself. The crowd parted around you as you led him away. The people’s shocked, fearful faces watching you both disappear stay with you for a long time.

The yellow sun set behind the razed city skyline, casting an ominous shadow all around. You felt a pit in your stomach.

Superman was defeated, and Metropolis was no longer safe.

************************************************************************

A few minutes after Superman was defeated for the first time in his life, you brought him to a park at the edge of Metropolis.

His laboured breathing echoed through the empty park as he sat on a wooden bench with his head hanging back. You ran a hand over your bare arms to keep yourself warm. Superman eyed you in silence before raising a shaking arm to offer you his cape. You cocked your head to the side in confusion. Was he really concerned about you being cold after being manhandled by the Hammer of Boravia?

“I think you need that more than me,” you tell him, gently pushing his arm down to the bench.

He started to chuckle and then let out an abrupt wince. “Don’t make me laugh, miss.”

“Sorry,” you grimaced, gingerly taking a seat next to him. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I was just slammed into a building,” he groaned, shifting uncomfortably.

Duh! You scream in your head.

“I shouldn’t have asked,” you pursed your lips, embarrassed. “Um, can I do anything for you? Maybe some medication? Although I’m not sure if Tylenol will help in this case.”

“Human medication won’t do me any good,” he said, shaking his head, sitting up. “I just need a minute to calibrate, and then I can go heal in solitude.”

“Go where?”

Superman turned his bright blue eyes to your face and reached for the Daily Planet name tag hanging around your head. He mouthed your name and then asked, “You interviewing me right now?”

He jerked the card out of his big hand. “I was just being curious,” you defended and then whispered under your breath, “besides, I know I am not Clark Kent.”

Superman’s ears perk up at the comment. He nodded to himself and then quietly said, “He mentions you, you know?”

You watched as the sun disappeared completely behind him. “Really?” you asked, cheeks warming up.

He nodded and leaned forward, interlocking his fingers over his thighs. You noticed that they looked broad, thick, and strong— you shook your head and sneer at him. “He never mentions you, you know?”

Superman laughed and stretched his neck from side to side. He stood up and with a grunt. “Thank you for your help today, Cronkite.”

“Anytime, Superman.”

He stepped away from the bench where you sat and turned to look back at you. “I think I owe you an interview,” he grinned.

Before you could respond, he shot up into the sky, leaving you along with the chirping crickets.

************************************************************************

The week after your encounter with Superman, Clark Kent didn’t come into the Daily Planet.

That sucked for two reasons. First, you missed him and his morning coffee. He was Pavlov, and you were the one waiting for the bell to ring. You were surprised by how much space his absence was occupying in your head. Every time the elevator bell rang, your head would shoot up from behind your computer, only to be disappointed.

Jimmy picked up on it. “You okay, Cronkite?”

You frowned at the nickname. Only Clark called you that. And now Superman. Which reminded you of the second reason. Superman had offered you an interview, and you had no way of reaching him. It also didn’t help when Perry pulled you into the office and told you that, “Kent will be present for your interview with Superman. I can’t have inexperience ruining this opportunity.”

Inexperience. Inexperience? INEXPERIENCE?

You were fuming when Clark walked in on Thursday. You shot up out of your chair and charged at him.

“Hey— oof,” he grunted when you lunged at him with a hug.

“I missed you!” you exclaimed, pulling back but still holding his arms. “Where have you been?”

“Covid,” he answered automatically as if it were rehearsed. “Lost my sense of smell and everything.”

You rubbed his arm sympathetically. “I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

His face reddened, and he smiled back politely. Realizing that you were still holding him, you stepped back abruptly. “You heard the good news?”

“About you getting an interview with Superman?” he asked, fixing his glasses and walking to his desk. “Of course I did. Perry has emailed me seven times since Monday. Jimmy told me to look for another job.”

You waved him off. “It is nothing special,” you shrugged. “I think Superman is just being courteous after I helped him out.”

“Helped him?” he questioned, sitting down in his chair with a soft groan.

“Yeah,” you said, returning to your own. “He just needed a breather after the whole Hammer of Boravia mess.”

You both worked in silence until Clark broke it. “So what’s he like with you?”

“Hot,” you blurted, accidently.

From the corner of your eye, you saw Clark freeze. You closed your eyes in regret. Maybe think before you run your mouth? you tell yourself.

“Objectively, you know,” you continued in hopes of saving face. “And really tall. Like, at least a foot taller than me. He was also funny. I’m sure you already know that, though.”

“Sure.”

************************************************************************

Later that night you discover that Clark Kent was an asshole.

You wished you had known that before you had started crushing on him. He promised you that he would get you in touch with Superman. He had promised that he would go over your game plan for the upcoming. Most of all, he had promised you that he would text you for dinner on Friday night.

Saturday night was coming to an end, and you still hadn’t heard from him. Now you had no game plan, no interview, and no dinner date. Perry White was going to chew you out on Monday morning, but now, before you chew and spit out Clark Kent for breakfast. Jimmy Olsen would never do that to you.

You reached for your phone and read the texts that you had sent to Clark.

You: Hey, just got home. Let me know what time for tonight and I’ll get ready.[05:30PM] You: I’m just gonna hop in the shower. Call me if I don’t answer texts.[06:27PM] You: Are we still on for tonight?[06:43PM] You: Are you ok? Still sick??[11:03PM] You: Hey Clark, can you get in touch with Superman for my interview? Perry is expecting it in his inbox by Wednesday.[04:04AM] You: Its gonna take me a while to get it ready since its my first time.[09:07AM] You: Are you seriously ok??[01:11PM] You: This is a big opportunity for me. Please understand.[03:27PM] You: Let me know if I should be emailing you instead. Thanks.[07:59PM]

“You are a bitch, Kent,” you sang to your phone, hoping he could hear. “Are you being a sore loser because I get to interview Superman too? Are you afraid a girl's gonna' replace you?”

Your eyes welled with tears, and then you got mad for crying over a man. Not a man, but a boy. A mean boy. A boy who did a million sweet things for you. A boy who made you feel safe and taken care of. A boy who you thought was a good person. A boy you thought you could trust.

“Oh, fuck off,” you cursed, throwing your phone away.

It bounced off the bed and landed on the hardwood floor with a thud. That was the final nail in the coffin. You let the tears flow as you crawled across your bed on all fours. You hung your torso over the edge as your hand searched blindly for the phone through the tears. Your hand wrapped around the thick case, and you swung yourself up. A blur of red and blue floating outside your eight-story apartment window caught your attention. You let out a scream and threw the first thing you found at it. Your phone collided with the window and left a crack before dropping down. Behind the fissure stood Superman, offering you an awkward wave.

************************************************************************

Your heart was thundering minutes later when you let Superman into your loft apartment through your cracked window.

You watched in awe as he floated with superhuman agility inside. He picked up your phone off the ground and held it up to you. “Strong phone case,” he remarked, shaking it. “Sorry for scaring you.”

You took the phone for him and slipped it into the back pocket of your shorts. Superman watched you carefully as you shifted your weight from one foot to the other. Suddenly, you were very aware of the hot-and-sour soup stain left behind from the Chinese take-out you had earlier, while you cursed Clark Kent out in every language possible.

“I just wasn’t expecting you,” you told him, curling a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

“I owe you an interview, don’t I?”

Your eyes widened. “Wait— right now?”

He nodded, lips curling into a smile.

“This isn’t professional,” you insisted. “I am in my pyjamas.”

“And I am in my suit,” he shrugged, taking a seat on your sofa. “I guess we are pretty even.”

“What do you normally wear ?” you inquired, rushing to sit across him.

“Has the interview started already?” he commented, playfully. “Am I on the record?”

You held up a finger as you scrolled through your phone to find the voice recorder. You mimed a countdown and then pressed ‘record’.

You cleared your throat. “Ready, Superman?”

“Let’s go, Cronkite,” he answered, crossing one leg over his thigh.

“Recently, you have gotten a lot of heat for your actions in the Boravian-Jarhanpur conflict. To what extent would you say your choices impacted the situation between the two nations?”

“Well, Boravia invaded Jarhanpur,” he began, leaning forward, “and I showed up and told them that wasn’t right.”

“And?”

“And,” he continued, “ . . . smashed some tanks and things and um, a couple of planes and some other stuff. There were no casualties and no significant injuries.”

“Did you interact at all with the president of Boravia?”

“A very small amount,” he answered immediately.

“What’s a very small amount?”

Superman reached and took the phone out of your hands. “What are you trying to get at?”

“The truth,” you replied. “Or as much of it as you’re willing to share.”

He pursed his lips into a thin line. “What made you think that I spoke to their president?” he pressed, coming up on his feet.

“It’s what I would have done,” you responded, standing up too.

“So you think I did the right thing?”

“No,” you shook your head, reaching for the phone. “You illegally entered a country and inserted yourself in the middle of—”

“No, no, no,” he cut you off, holding the phone out of your reach. “Hold on a minute! Hold on a second!”

“Don’t you think foreign interference and supposed well-intention are what caused this conflict in the first place?” you insisted, getting on your tiptoes to inch higher. “Give me my phone back!”

“You are being dishonest,” he rebutted, moving your phone behind his head. “You know, as well as I do, that the Boravian government is not well-intentional.”

You moved into him as his chest flushed against you. “I think that is most certainly the case, but do I think that one individual has the right to make decisions of such calibre on behalf of an entire nation?”

“PEOPLE WERE GOING TO DIE!” he bellowed in your face.

You freeze. You were extremely aware of two contradictory things in that moment. First, you were standing way too close to Superman. Close enough to leap up and feel what his lips felt like against yours. Second, he had just yelled at you, and he hadn’t even done that to Lex Luthor after the man had revealed that he had sold arms to Boravia. Almost like he could read your mind, Superman wrapped an arm around your waist, holding you in place.

He closed his eyes and exhaled. “I am sorry for raising my voice,” he said, much gentler now. “That was disrespectful and impolite.”

“It’s okay,” you told him, moving out of his grasp and to the couch. “I shouldn’t have— this isn’t how it was supposed to be. I was unprepared, and I am dealing with some things right now. It was unfair to have that impact on our interview.. I shouldn't have pushed you like that”

He walked over and sat beside you, his knee touching the side of your thigh. You spoke again before he could inquire further. “I was supposed to have a game plan, you know? I have never done this before. I had a whole list of questions that my partner was supposed to review. This is awful timing, and now I have ruined it—”

He reached out and placed his hand on your knee. “You haven’t ruined anything,” he reassured, patting me gently. “We can redo this when we are both feeling better.”

Your jaw slacked. “Really?” you beamed. “You’ll give me another chance?”

His lips widened into a smile. “As many as you’d like, Cronkite.”

He stood up and walked towards the open window. You followed him as he drifted smoothly out, hovering just outside.

“Wait!” you called out, reaching for his cape.

You tugged him closer through the opening, stuck your torso out, and pressed a soft kiss on his cheek. “See you later, Superman.”

************************************************************************

The next morning, Clark Kent beelined straight to you as you entered the Daily Planet later than usual.

You had a hard time sleeping last night. In fact, you had barely slept at all. You had been up replaying your encounter with Superman and then your interactions with Clark. And then Superman again, and then Clark right after. Superman and Clark. Then Superman. Then Clark. By the time your mind had stopped running, the sun was already out, flooding your apartment with light.

“Hey, Cronk—”

You brushed past him and went straight to your desk. You set your workbag down and turned your laptop on to email Perry about the delay in the exclusive Superman interview. From the corner of your eye, you saw Clark fidgeting by the side of your desk. You looked up from your screen and asked, “Can I help you?”

He awkwardly smiled and held up a cup of coffee. “Got you a cup.”

You stared at him with a black face. “I already had some on the way.”

He set the cup down anyway. You returned to your email and had gotten a full sentence down before he interrupted again. “I wanted to say sorry about Friday . . . and Saturday . . . and Sunday also. Just the whole weekend in general.”

“Okay.”

“I had an emergency,” he continued once he realized that you weren’t going to say anything else. “Had to go back home, my ma’ and pa’ needed some help—”

“Do they not have cell reception in your hometown?” you asked, curtly.

He sighed and looked down at his feet. “They do. I just . . . I just didn’t get the opportunity to reach out. I’m truly sorry.”

“Sure,” you scoffed, pushing his coffee up away to the edge of your desk.

“Maybe we can grab some dinner today?” he tried again, red in the face behind his glasses.

You liked seeing him uncomfortable. “I’m good,” you replied, “ since I don’t need help with the interview anymore. Superman reached out, and I feel confident enough to interview him on my own.”

“Oh.”

Jimmy wheeled his chair across the tiles and bumped into my table, making the coffee slosh around in the cup. “You met Superman again?”

You turned to him with a grin. “Yeah.”

“You know your boy is evil now?” Jimmy asked, raising an eyebrow. “They’re saying he was sent down from Kryptonite to rule over us all like a god. He has a harem and everything.”

You barked out a laugh. “Oh, please,” you scoffed. “He is not some evil Overlord. Plus, even if he has a harem, I would be the first in line to join.”

You didn’t miss the way Clark’s jaw clenched at your words.

************************************************************************

By the time Superman showed up at your apartment again, five days had gone by.

The first thing he had said to you was, “I do not have a harem.”

You held your laugh back and stared at him, devoid of all emotion. “Did I ask?”

His face flushed in response. “No,” he admitted, “you didn’t. I thought I would clarify anyway. For the record, of course.”

“For the record, of course” you smirked. “If you say so.”

You walked further into your apartment, and he followed behind. “And because we are friends,” he added.

You entered your kitchen and opened a cabinet. A half-drunk bottle of tequila awaited you on the top shelf. “We are not friends, though,” you stated, reaching for it.

He moved behind you, picked up the bottle by the base and set it down on the counter beside you. “We aren’t friends?” he asked, his warm breath making the hair at the back of your neck stand up.

You shook your head. “I hardly know you,” you answered, turning around.

You were trapped between his arm and the counter. He licked his lips but didn’t move away. “Fair,” he nodded. “What do you want to know about me?”

You pretended to ponder for a moment. “How big is your harem?”

He groaned and pushed himself away. “I just told you that wasn’t true.”

You picked up the tequila bottle and two glasses and made your way to the sofa where he sat, giggling. “What about the part where you take over Earth and keep us humans as pets?” you inquired, setting everything down. “And before you ask, this is all off-the-record.”

“I have never heard that half of the message before,” he explained as you unscrewed the bottle cap and poured into the glasses evenly. “The recording was damaged in transport. I heard it for the first time, same as everyone else on the news.”

“I believe you,” you expressed, softly bumping my knee to his. “It must have been tough. How are you holding up?”

“I don’t know what to do,” he sighed, slumping down. “All I have ever wanted to be was human. I know that I am not. I am not stupid. But I am not too different. I love and get hurt and feel afraid just the same as everyone else.”

Your chest felt tight. You realized that this man in front of you, this Superman, was, in this moment, terrified. The whole world hated him based on something he had no control over. You couldn't imagine how that felt. You had moved through life being relatively liked by most people. Hell, that was why you were in a profession where you interacted with people every day. You never thought that the man you liked the most in the world, Metropolis's beloved, would be shunned so harshly by the people he had been serving for years.

Superman shouldn’t have to be responsible for the actions of his parents any more than a human should be for their own. You reached out and touched his inky hair. When he didn’t shy away from you, you slipped your fingers in his hair locks and gently began running your fingers through them. He leaned into your touch as you untangled his hair.

“Your actions speak louder than what anyone— least of all Lex Luthor, has to say about you,” you told him, firmly. “He’s a bastard. I know you are a good man, and with time, people will believe that again. But before any of that, you need to believe that. Do you believe that?”

You turned his face towards yourself, and Superman watched you for a long moment with hooded eyes. “I try to,” he croaked, “but it's hard. I thought if I made all the right choices, kept everyone safe, people would love me. Why does it feel so impossible now?”

“Oh,” you cooed, cradling his face. “Everything will be all right. I will help you. Give it time, and give me a laptop with an internet connection. I will launch Lex Luthor straight into hell.”

You pulled him close to you and wrapped your arms around his wide shoulders. Superman buried his face in the crook of your neck. His warm breath made your stomach tighten. His hand reached between where you touched and pulled your caught hair free. He moved his face back into place, only this time his plump lips were pressed right over your thundering pulse. You let out a gasp, and your fingernails dug into the blue of his suit and the red of his cape.

He inched back momentarily and then pressed his lips down again. His mouth opened, and he sucked the skin on his mouth and bit down. Your body seized at the sensation, and he leaned away to search your face. “I got carried away,” he exhaled, breathing just as hard as you. "I didn't mean to . . ."

You shook your head and got up on your knees to waddle to him. His hands found the side of your hips and pulled you into his lap. You hovered above him briefly before he pulled you down on him. He tipped your head back with his nose and slid his lips across the expanse of your throat.

You bit down to prevent the sounds of pleasure from escaping your throat, but his hand moved up to your mouth to tug your lips free. Your chest rose and fell harshly as his lips sucked away at a new place every time he paused to breathe. He moved his mouth and found a spot that made your legs become jelly. If you weren’t already sitting down, you would have collapsed.

You don’t know when things shifted, but one moment you were in his lap and the next your back was being pressed down into the sofa by Superman.

Leaning over you, he gulped. “I-I have been waiting for this for so long.”

You smiled. “Ever since I rescued you?”

“Long before that.”

Before I could ask him what that meant, his mouth was on yours. You crane your head back to meet him again and again. You didn’t even let yourself fantasize about him, didn’t even think it could have been a possibility that he wanted you as much as you wanted him.

You run the pads of your thumb gently across the slopes of his cheeks as his tongue brushes against yours. You smile into his lips. Maybe this is what Icarus felt when he flew too close to the sun, you thought.

It amazed you that his skin was so soft. You thought the years of defending Metropolis would leave behind a hardened, rough man. But here you were, in his embrace, and it was the safest place you’d ever been in.

You cupped his face and brought him impossibly closer. His scent evaded your senses. He smelled like coffee and rain and paper. With his hands buried in your hair, your legs seemed to have a mind of their own with the way they wrapped around his waist. He deepened the kiss, and the movement made you rock against his crotch. You could feel him through the thin fabric of your shorts. You arched away, and an unheard sound escaped your lips.

He pulled away, mouth glistening and slightly agape. He moved his hand away from your hair and to the armrest above you. He held himself up, staring into your eyes with a distraught expression.

“I have to tell you something,” he heaved, licking his lips.

𝚖𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝

Ｃｌａｒｋ Ｋｅｎｔ

𝙲𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚔𝚒𝚝𝚎 - 𝚂𝚞𝚛𝚟𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝙺𝚎𝚗𝚝 - 𝙱𝚒𝚐 𝙱𝚕𝚞𝚎 - 𝙲𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚢 𝙲𝚘𝚔𝚎

Ｍｉｇｕｅｌ Ｏ＇Ｈａｒａ