Superman didn’t do interviews with anyone other than Clark Kent. Somehow, that stuck the entire time he’d been that symbol of hope, and nobody ever questioned it. So when you threw out the idea of interviewing Clark— who you’d been going steady with for a few months now— as Superman while you two were walking to your apartment from The Daily Planet, it was like god damn Christmas morning.

Clark had never seen you run as fast as you did the moment he said yes, you nearly knocked down a few people who were walking in the opposite direction, racing to start the interview as soon as possible. It was adorable, really. And after you two got situated, you both sat across from each other at the small dining room table with two cups of cocoa in front of you, Clark wearing that hunky smile on his lips that made you fall for him in the first place and a white button-up that he just looked way too good in, while you were staring back with a burning passion in your eyes. You hit the red button on your tape recorder, and immediately got to work.

The interview, for the most part, was going well. You began by asking him simple questions like “why did you choose to become a superhero?”, and, “Where did you grow up?” The basic stuff. Then you moved on to more controversial questions, questioning the hero on why he didn’t kill the monsters that terrorized Metropolis, even though they caused so much destruction and casualties in their path, for example.

But like you were, you both were getting lost in each other. Things got heated fast.

You asked him about his physique, how he was so muscular and how he maintained it. Clark grinned while thinking of a response, that mischievous look he always gave when he was about to do something stupid. “Wouldn’t you like to know, pretty boy?” His voice dropped, deep and baritone, the table practically vibrating with every word he spoke. You were completely knocked off your game, it was hard not to when you had 235 pounds of muscle looking at you like he was gonna pounce from across the table and tear you apart.

Meanwhile, he was rubbing the sole of his foot against your ankle from under the table in the most torturous, teasing way possible. That simple action made you melt in your seat, eyes darting across the room as you struggled to hold eye contact, your fingers nervously tapping against the wood, and you swiftly slammed you finger on the stop button of the tape recorder. Clark knew what he did to you, he knew it all too well.