Archive of Our Own

When it came to interactions with real guys, you always struggled to find ways to navigate the course. There were so many unpredictable, and often disappointing, factors to consider. Nobody appeared to be clear-cut or honest in the way girls were. It seemed the best men around were the ones between the pages of your books. 

In there, things made sense. Guys had reasons for bad behavior and made up for it, and they had good motives and honorable intentions. They had real feelings and pure hearts. You wished real guys could be as easy to identify with and understand as fictional ones. 

As you came to college, though, it got better. That was because you developed, and boys did not. All of a sudden, without you even noticing, you were lightyears more mature. You saw people for who they were, took first impressions to be subliminal indications. You began to scrutinize the world in a young, cynical form known to so many young women. Guys were no longer mysteries but losers and liars who fabricated parts of their personalities to suit yours and other women’s tastes. And you found, in fact, that the examples of men in your novels worked quite well when reading a man’s cover and judging it accordingly, thank you very much. All you had to do was think of the archetypes you encountered in novels and use that knowledge to your advantage. When a real guy came along, you could now quickly categorize him and send him on his merry way after discerning his identifiable traits– after figuring him out. For all intents and purposes you decided to write this process down, so it might be used in the future, if need be. It was foolproof. 

Or so you thought.

A Girl’s Guide to Real, Non-Fictional, and Interested Guys

1. Hypothesize his format. 
1. Is he a specific type? Dark & brooding, bright & bouncy, smart & sarcastic? Is he a Darcy or a Laurie? 
2. Compare his positive and negative traits. 
1. Is he quick to judge, or quick to tease? Does he forgive easily, or is he stubborn? Does he communicate, or keep secrets? Does he have a legitimate reason for the aforementioned behavioral choice?
3. Identify his redeeming qualities. 
1. Does he apologize? Make room for your feelings? Listen, understand, adore? Does he prioritize you? Does he make you feel butterflies and/or make your foot pop when you kiss?
4. Act accordingly.  

˚₊‧꒰ა❤︎໒꒱ ‧₊

You categorized Clark first as a Peter Kavinsky. 

It made the most sense upon your first discussion. The both of you were juniors at the time– he was a four-year student while you transferred in from CKA&M. The other librarians knew him to venture to the MetU Library every Thursday to swap out books– usually sports magazines and some one-off novels, always philosophy or science or something equally pretentious. You figured he either wanted people to think him a reader, or he was taking some kind of class. Guys didn’t just read philosophy, and if they did, they wouldn’t be going to MetU. They’d be at Harvard. Clark was always in his Sharks letterman jacket and sporting a crooked smile, fangs pinching the skin of his mouth when he directed it at you over the counter. Quite the picture. That first day, he’d caught you reading. 

“Don’t tell me you're into that stuff.”

You lifted your head slowly, already aggravated with the snarky voice that would surely accompany a snarky face. When you saw him, though, you were pleasantly surprised. He was cute. Extremely cute, in fact, although starting off on a bad foot. “What stuff would that be?” You rebutted.

Clark leaned on his elbows against the counter and cocked his head, narrowing his eyes playfully. “Cheesy books. I can just tell from the cover.”

You narrowed your eyes back, struggling to decide if you liked or hated him. You couldn’t know just yet. You needed more data. Instead, you shut the novel and crossed your arms, leaning back in your chair. “Can I help you with something?”

The quarterback sniggered and slid his magazines across the countertop, along with a copy of Great Expectations. “Yeah. Dropping these off.”

“You know we have a box for these out front,” you offered, “so you don’t have to bother me.”

Clark’s smile widened. “That takes all the fun out of it, doesn’t it?”

You felt a tiny smile tugging at your lips. “Whatever. Do you have your ID?”

As he fished the little card out of his pocket, you studied his annoyingly good school photo and typed in his number. His account popped up. No late fees, good sign. Frequent flyer, also a good sign. Journalism major… eh. You marked his returns off and clicked out of the window. “‘Kay. Here’s your ID, Mr.… Clark Kent.”

Clark sucked his teeth, taking the strip of plastic gingerly and smirking. “I thought librarians were supposed to be nice.”

“I am nice,” you grinned, eyes flickering with something fiery. “Anything else?”

“Nope. Enjoy that sappy mush,” he offered, tapping the cover of your book. 

You snatched it away, cheeks flushing a bit, waving him off. “Yeah, yeah. Bye.”

As he sauntered away, you calculated his height to be about 6’1, maybe 6’2. Thick, firm build. Broad shoulders. Hair that was a shade just above black and shiny as a shelltop, and bright blue eyes that mirrored the flavor of Gatorade he no doubt drank, spending all the energy he’d have to in order to realistically achieve that physique. He was a teaser, but he didn’t feel threatening; he was clearly well–spoken, but didn’t seem to give two shits about you beyond returning his books. So, jock plus cocky plus calm equaled the soft yet arrogant demeanor of one Peter Kavinsky type. There were worse men to mirror, you figured. Peter ended up sweet and lovable somewhere down the line there. You held relatively moderate hopes for this Clark Kent, journalism major. 

You cracked the book open again– Paper Towns– and promptly put him out of your mind.

˚₊‧꒰ა❤︎໒꒱ ‧₊

The second time around, you had another character to connect: when Clark was sweet, he was very much a Jay Gatbsy.

You made the realization over the smallest, stupidest thing. You’d seen him a few times in passing since you met him, walking across campus or in the coffee shop or when he dropped books off with minimal conversation, but always a jab or two at your reading habits. Not enough time had elapsed overall to give you a solid second impression. But one day, it rained on your walk to work. That was how you encountered this second man. 

“Oh, jeez,” Clark rushed up to you, laughing at the tragic sight on the sidewalk. You were sopping wet and slugging along as if you’d already given up, holding a wet and torn campus newspaper over your head like a failed umbrella. Your mascara clumped beneath your frustrated eyes, and you felt his warm hand on the small of your back like a lick of flame. He nudged you forward into a brisk walk. “Come on, you’re getting wet!”

You stumbled on an uneven block of sidewalk and he stabilized you by the elbow, ducking through the doors of the library lobby. “What do you care? I’m already soaked!”

“No reason to give yourself pneumonia!” He snickered, shaking out his hair.

“I’m pretty sure it doesn’t work that way,” you grumbled, lifting your arms in defense against the flinging hairdrops. 

Clark smiled at your measures and shrugged his raincoat off, revealing a nicely dry shirt beneath. You sighed and pushed the doors open, feeling the warmth of the library hit you like a brick, making you even colder. As you trudged toward the desk, Clark followed close behind.

“You need new clothes.”

“I’ll dry off in no time.”

“You’ll make yourself sick,” he countered. 

You tossed your wet backpack onto the floor behind the countertop. “I’ll be fine.”

“Here,” he interrupted, tugging his t-shirt right off his back. 

You looked up in shock and simply stared. The image of him before you, holding his shirt in an outstretched hand, was enough to make anyone’s brain spin out. His chest was huge– that was your first thought. Then came the second, and verbally: “Are you crazy?”

Clark cocked his head knowingly and flashed a sweet smile. “I have more shirts. You don’t.”That leaves you with just a raincoat,” you reasoned, words a bit stunted. 

Clark shrugged again and shoved the shirt at you. “I have everything in abundance, how about that? Take the shirt. You’ll be glad you did. Please?”

You couldn’t believe it. All of it. His generosity, his stupidity, his sheer breathtaking skin, all tan and freckled… it felt like a scene you’d read before. Over and over again. As your palm closed around the shirt, you felt a slight pang of disappointment when he pulled his coat back on and zipped it up. Surely the display of public nudity wasn’t that indecent.

“You act like no one’s ever given you the shirt off their back before,” he grinned. 

“They… haven’t?”

“Well, clearly nobody has cared about you properly.”

You felt glued to the spot as he tapped rhythmically at the counter, watching you with something indescribable behind his eyes. After a while, all you could muster was, “Did you come to return something?”

Clark stared for just a moment longer before letting out a laugh that felt heavy, almost exasperated, and turning to wander off towards the left aisles. “Something like that.”

Maybe that was the definitive Gatsby in him. The mystery.

˚₊‧꒰ა❤︎໒꒱ ‧₊

Clark’s most surprising reveal yet was his dark side. You would be remiss if you did not acquaint it to one silent, dark, and miserable Edward Cullen.

The semester was coming to a close, and he had read nearly half the library, or so it seemed. You’d talked with him many times, laughed over his bad jokes and returned his cleaned and dried t-shirt all those months ago. You considered him a friend, and you looked forward to Thursdays. Those were his drop-off days without question. He had almost trained you, Pavloved you into showing up each time, just to be sure you were the one to check his returns in. And you didn’t mind. You liked him. But as the sun came out and the semester wrapped, you realized that you still didn’t know him very well. That much was clear when you experienced an angry Clark Kent for the very first time.

“Hey,” you hummed, not lifting your gaze from the computer before you. You knew it was Clark because of a predictable series of events– he always wiped his shoes twice on the mats by the door, making a distinctive scraping sound, and when he reached the countertop, he always patted the surface in a little three-count ditty. But he usually said hello back. There was no hello. When you did finally look up, Clark was boring a hole into your head with his eyes. “...What’s up?”

After an egregious eyeroll, Clark dropped last week’s checkout onto the counter. “All done.”

You quirked an eyebrow and leaned back in the chair, crossing your arms. Something inside your chest twinged. “I'm sorry, come again?”

The quarterback, as you once called him in a playful moment, shifted on his feet. He must not have expected your willing rebuttal. “I’m returning these.”

You narrowed your gaze, trying to cool the quick-to-rise temper you kept buried. Clark had never solicited it before. “Try again.”

You watched his jaw clench. “I would like to return these books, please.”

Leaning forward, you dragged the volumes toward you and pursed your lips. “Better.” Then, quietly, you asked, “Who shoved a stick up your ass?”

Clark scoffed. “Like you don’t know.”

Your eyes flicked up as heat curled in your gut. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know what you did!”

Something struck you dumb, although you couldn't quite pinpoint it. Maybe it was your shock at his sheer audacity, or the confusion about his sudden turnaround, but you blinked at him like you’d lost your mind– and you felt as if you had, too. You must have lost it, because it didn’t occur to you that a world could exist in which Clark was capable of anger, especially toward you.

“Whatever,” he snapped, pushing off the counter. “It’s fine.”

“No, no!” You barked, standing from the chair as he began to storm away. “Come back here! You can’t be withholding like that, you can’t just blow up on people for no reason! What the fuck is your problem, Clark? What did I do?”

Clark paused, and you felt a slight churn in your chest as he glanced over his shoulder. There was something distinctly grey about his eyes, as if the blue had drained away. It made your skin cold. Something else, too. Something slightly… forlorn, was that it? “Nothing,” he answered. “You did nothing.”

As he left you there with a stack of abandoned books, you weren’t sure if your inaction was the cause or the effect. The secret and the unpredictability were, although you were ashamed to admit it, as enticing as the rest of him.

˚₊‧꒰ა❤︎໒꒱ ‧₊

You would have never pinned Clark down as an Augustus Waters type until you saw him in a state of vulnerability, but the similarities were undeniable. 

With the start of the new semester, you were a nervous wreck at the thought of returning to work study. You’d see him again, surely you would, and it would be a nightmare. The two of you never made up before summer break, and you went home to Granville with a broken heart, wondering what it was you’d done to upset him. You thought back to every moment you shared in that library, the few coffees you’d drank, the one movie you’d seen; he was so sweet, so funny, so willing to put up with you then. You thought back to the last time you’d hung out, how you punched his arm when he dropped you at your dorm… you had laughed to yourself when you shut the door, mortified by your awkwardness but buzzing with love. It was a good moment, you thought. It started to seem like maybe, just this once, you’d lucked into a real guy who was worthwhile. Someone you could be with someday, if you ever got lucky. Suddenly you were depending on him being there, and then he wasn’t anymore. It was the worst you had ever felt in your life. 

You didn’t count on his eagerness. In fact, you figured he’d never come back. But there he was, on the first day of the semester, waiting at the counter. He was there before you even got in. 

As you walked to the counter, slow and cautious, you took in the sight of him. His skin glowed with smooches from the sun, his hair a touch lighter than you remember, and just as big and strong and borderline perfect. Your heart ached with the weight of longing. You came close enough to speak and wrung your hands around your bag straps. “Oh. Clark,” was the best you could do. 

The quarterback shifted on his feet, eyes trained on the ground, before saying, “How was your summer?”

You swallowed thickly. “It was okay… um, I–”

“I miss you,” he blurted, cutting you off. “And I’m sorry.”

You startled, gut clenching. Clark’s soft eyes washed over you like rain. 

“I was a jerk,” he continued, “about how I left things. I was upset because I thought you rejected me, but I thought about it and I don’t know if you even knew I was trying to hit on you, so I should’ve just told you straight how I felt instead of expecting you to know. It was mean, and I hurt your feelings, and I’m really sorry,” he explained. “I’ve missed you all summer.”

You didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know what to think. All those words strung together in one sentence… it was one thing to read a confession on a page, but to be the subject of one… 

“Are… you did hear me, didn’t you?” He asked after a while. 

You nodded. 

˚₊‧꒰ა❤︎໒꒱ ‧₊

Ultimately, there were plenty of guys you could attach to parts of Clark to try and make sense of him. There were moments when he teased you that sounded utterly Darcy-like, and sometimes when he got cynical he could’ve been mistaken for a grown-up Holden Caulfield; but if you were being honest, there was no one character you could honestly say explained him to a T. Clark Kent was so much more than one man. He was every good man, and every good thing, in one body. 

As winter slowly creeped past the clutches of fall, you were tucked inside the heated library, flipping through pages of some old fantasy novel you found in the returns box. It was a romance, of course, and definitely something you worried about people catching glimpses of over your shoulder. As you trained your eyes on the obscene words on the page, a throat cleared, and you nearly jumped out of your seat. 

“You still read that crap?”

You flushed down your neck and shoved the book under the desk. “It’s not crap!”

“It’s smut,” Clark grinned, leaning across the counter. He smelled like cologne, like cinnamon. You two were friends. After all this time, still friends. He said he’d step back after that day in September. Give you space. 

You began to hate space. Who needed it?

You felt your neck burning, but you leaned in, too. “It’s creative.”

Clark’s pupils doubled in size. That took some of the sting from your prospective fear. “I’ll never understand why you like those books,” he prodded, “they’re completely unrealistic.”

“You think?”

“I do think.”

As the air stilled around you, something became very clear in the moment. This was it. You were in the right position, with the right frame of mind and sense of understanding, to make a judgement call. The guy of your dreams was before you once again, after a dramatic volta to the plotline, as if the author of the world was rewarding your development. You knew his components now, and so you could complete the method you had prepared. What was that again? 

Oh, right… first, hypothesize his format. Well, Clark was many men in one. He was soft and light most days, but dark and brooding on others. Sarcastic to his own detriment and charming as anything. Kind, generous, selfish, needy. To say he was best embodied by one archetype would be to disservice his many beautiful traits. That was one step down.

Then you had to compare his positive and negative traits, didn’t you? Well, that was easy. They came and went like tides, each one more valuable to you than the next, because they revealed sides of him that were new and fresh and desperate to be understood, to be loved. His anger was a thunderstorm, but it brought him right back to you, because his maturity was enough to complement it. He kept himself in check just as much as he allowed himself to be arrogant. He made stupid promises and then followed through. Most importantly, Clark had never been more or less than he pretended to be. He simply was. So… these were good marks. These also fulfilled the next bit– identifying his redeeming qualities. They all were such, without a shadow of a doubt.

What was left? Ah, right. Act accordingly. Act accordingly, you thought to yourself, and found that the list was pointless. It was based in fiction, on fallacy, on mannequins. Not real men. Not real ones like Clark, anyway. He put that list to shame. Yet you had an obligation to see the experiment through. After all this time, all this trial and error, you owed it to yourself. 

You felt your heart hammering, but you ignored it. The girls in the books did, and things usually worked out for them. “Do you want to go on a date with me?”

Clark blinked like a deaf man, and intelligently asked, “Huh?”

You felt your stomach drop. Shit. Too soon? Wrong impression? Bad idea? “Um… do you want to go on a date, I said. With me.”

The quarterback visibly swallowed a lump, and he suddenly nodded. Hard. Fast. “Yes. I do.”

You felt the world lift. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Clark croaked. “Maybe… maybe I can show you what it’s really like. Y’know, like… not just in books. It’s not all just in books.”

Smartass, you thought. A smartass like no one else. Only Clark Kent. Maybe you should write your own book with him as the main character. He’d make a great hero.