( SYNOPSIS ) — your pervy college teacher gives you a private tutoring lesson!!
( WARNINGS ) — mdni. no spoilers. but this is a part two!! part one is here. my beloved perverted college teacher mr. grace <3<3 no p in v but fingers yayyy!!!!
“Okay… so when a star runs out of nuclear fuel, its pressure drops, and the entire star starts collapsing in on itself, what’s that called?” Ryland asks gently, his eyes fixed on you while you stare down at your notebook, absently chewing on the end of your glitter pen.
“Remember,” he says softly, lowering his head slightly to catch your gaze. “It has a really pretty name.” His eyebrows lift in encouragement as he gives you a small smile. “You’ve got this.”
“A… supernova?” you murmur, clearly distracted as you finally glance up at him. Ryland nods immediately, leaning back in his chair. “A supernova,” he repeats. “Exactly.”
Which was the first of many questions you’d gotten wrong on yesterday’s test, making it painfully obvious that you needed a little extra help. Ryland couldn’t keep grading your papers the way he had been, giving you easy passes just because he thought you were cute.
The guilt of it had been eating at him for weeks, lingering in the back of his mind every time he handed back assignments with grades you hadn’t fully earned. So when he got your test back, he marked it fairly. And for the first time in Mr. Grace’s class, you had a failing grade.
He knew, deep down, that it was partly his fault. That heavy feeling in his chest only worsened when he placed the paper carefully on your desk that morning.
65%. Please come see me after class.
The words sat at the top of the page in neat red ink. Ryland frowned slightly as he watched your shoulders sink, the pretty smile you usually wore fading almost instantly. Without a word, you flipped the paper facedown against your desk, trying to hide the grade before anyone else could see it.
The rest of the class passed in a blur for you. You barely looked up from your notebook, and Ryland noticed every second of it.
So when the bell rang and the last student finally shuffled out of the classroom, you slowly made your way to his desk, already expecting disappointment. You were a straight A student.. or at least, you thought you were. You figured he was about to lecture you about studying harder or paying more attention.
Instead, Ryland offered you a soft, reassuring smile. He stepped around the desk and stopped in front of you, gently placing his hands on your arms, rubbing them lightly as he tilted his head with practiced concern.
“A failing grade?” he murmured quietly, his voice laced with false pity and confusion despite the fact that he already knew exactly why it happened. “What’s going on with you, hm? Everything alright? You’ve never done badly in here before.”
Your shoulders fell for what felt like the second time that day, embarrassment settling heavily in your chest while you leaned into the comfort of his touch and attention.
“How about this?” Ryland said softly, his thumbs still brushing against your sleeves. “Tomorrow after class, we can go to the library, and I’ll give you some tutoring with extra credit.” He smiled down at you, warm and encouraging. “A private lesson just for you, hm?”
And true to his word, here the two of you were. Half of the worksheet he’d made specifically for you was already finished, pages covered in your handwriting and little notes Ryland had scribbled in the margins to help explain things better.
The longer the session went on, the more comfortable he became. More questions, more encouragement, more lingering touches disguised as reassurance.
At some point, his hand had settled against your thigh beneath the table, his thumb absently brushing against your skin every so often, giving soft squeezes whenever you got an answer right. Silent encouragement.
By now, his chair was pushed so close to yours that your shoulders nearly brushed every time either of you moved. There were only a few questions left on the page when Ryland leaned in beside you, his head close to yours as he read the next question aloud.
“Where do meteors come from?” he asks quietly, tilting his head as he looks over at you. His eyes flick down to the edge of your glitter pen caught between your teeth. Without thinking much about it, he reaches over and gently pulls it from your mouth, setting it on the other side of the table.
“Mr. Grace, I need that,” you complain softly, frowning as you watch him take it away. “It helps me focus.”
Ryland quickly catches your hand before you can reach for it again, guiding it back into your lap. His fingers briefly curl around your wrist before he lets go, his other hand moving to your chin to gently turn your attention back toward the worksheet.
“Answer this one,” he murmurs, voice low and calm, “and you can have it back.”
You huff quietly, shooting him a look before glancing back down at the paper. “Meteors come from…” you mumble to yourself. “Hmm.”
“Think about all the things floating around in space besides stars and planets,” Ryland says softly, though his attention seems less focused on the worksheet and more on you.
“Pretty comets,” you say absentmindedly before your face lights up with realization. “Oh! It’s debris from comets!” You straighten in your seat with a proud smile, clearly pleased with yourself.
“And asteroids. Good job,” Ryland says with an approving grin, finally handing your pen back to you.
As you begin writing down the answer, Ryland quietly glances around the library. The aisles between the shelves were empty. No students sat at the nearby computers, and the tables surrounding yours had long since cleared out.
The only other person he could spot was the half asleep student working the front desk, barely paying attention to anything around them.
He glances over to you, his eyes narrowed as he thinks to himself, “How about we play a game? To get through these last questions a little quicker?”
Before you can fully process what’s happening, your chair is turned toward Ryland’s, your shorts pushed halfway down your thighs as his hand rests between your legs. His touch is slow and agonizing, teasing enough to make it impossible to focus while he keeps his attention on the worksheet in front of him.
“For every question you answer,” he murmurs quietly, leaning closer, “I’ll give you a little more. Don’t worry, I’ll make them easy.” Your pulse jumps at the calmness in his voice, at the way he acts like this is all completely normal.
“First question,” Ryland says softly, finally glancing over at you. “Is Pluto a planet?”
You stare at him for a second, brows furrowing in disbelief at how simple the question is. “It’s a dwarf planet,” you answer quietly. The praise in his expression is immediate, a smug little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
As you open your mouth to speak, your breath suddenly catches, your back arching up off the chair as you feel Ryland slip a rough finger inside of you.
“Good job,” he murmurs softly, his voice low and steady as he watches your reaction carefully. “You’re doing really good. Just stay quiet for me, okay?”
His attention briefly flicks around the library again, making sure no one is paying attention to the secluded corner the two of you had tucked yourselves into.
As the questions continued, the atmosphere between you shifted more and more. Ryland stayed close, one hand resting against the back of your chair while he guided you through the last few questions on the worksheet, his voice calm and fingers constantly moving.
“Mr. Grace…” you whisper quietly, leaning back in your chair as you begin to feel light headed from holding back. Your fingers curl tightly around his wrist, your brows drawn together while you look up at him, already overwhelmed by the intensity of his touch.
Ryland exhales slowly through his nose, clearly trying to keep himself composed despite the tension hanging heavy between the two of you. “Hey,” he says softly, lowering his voice even further. “Focus on me. You’re alright.”
“One last question,” he whispers, his voice low and careful as he leans closer to you. “Answer this one, and we’re done, okay?”
You barely manage to focus on him, your breathing uneven as Ryland watches you over the rim of his glasses, his expression far too calm for the situation the two of you had gotten yourselves into.
“A black hole,” he says softly, tilting his head. “Is it two dimensional or three?”
Your lips part, but no answer comes out. At this point, you can hardly think straight, your thoughts tangled beyond repair while Ryland’s attention stays fixed entirely on you.
The pressure finally becomes too much, you come undone, coating his fingers as you lean back into the chair with a shaky breath, gripping tightly onto his wrist while he watches you carefully, his pupils blown wide behind his glasses.
Ryland lets you recover for a moment before finally pulling away, calm and composed despite the tension written all over his face. He quietly reaches into his pocket for his handkerchief, wiping his hands clean with practiced ease before glancing back over at you.
“It was a trick question,” he says casually, the corner of his mouth tugging upward into the faintest smirk. “Black holes are considered four dimensional.”
You stare at him in disbelief, still trying to catch your breath while he acts as though this were just another tutoring session. Realizing you definitely aren’t the first student he’s been with and you won’t be the last.
Once everything, and everyone, is gathered, Ryland stands first, adjusting his glasses as he looks down at you.
“Same time next week?” he asks quietly. You hesitate only for a second before giving him a small nod, silently confirming that, despite everything, neither of you wanted this to be the last and only time.
Ryland gives a satisfied nod of his own before turning toward the exit of the library.
You watch him leave, noticing the uneven way he walks as he disappears between the aisles, one hand lingering awkwardly near his lap while he tries to regain whatever composure he had left.
( SYNOPSIS ) — your pervy college teacher can’t help himself at the slightest reminder of you after class.
( WARNINGS ) — mdni. no spoilers to the movie lol. perverted college teacher ryland!! all his students are adults!! teacher!ryland. student!reader.
( TAGS ) — @bluestrd @sylvie-singer @orchidocs [to be added]
After a long and demanding week of managing students, whether it’s asking for extensions, helping with papers, or going back and forth with students, Ryland arrives at what he considers the most rewarding part of his day. Grading papers.
It gives him a rare moment of quiet. He can sit undisturbed, focus entirely on his work, and just relax. As he works through a portion of the stack, his attention lands on a familiar name written boldly at the top of a page in unmistakable glittery blue ink. The sight draws a small, involuntary smile from him. It’s become a trademark, one he recognizes instantly.
Over the years, he’s noticed a pattern in himself. With each new class, there’s always one student who captures his attention more than the others. The reasons are always the same. The year before, it was a quiet exchange student who rarely spoke and kept to herself. The one before that was a quiet, loser type student who remained largely to himself. This year, it’s you, and you are so different.
You’re quick witted and confident, usually volunteering in class discussions with ease. You carry yourself with a natural sense of assurance that draws others in. You’re sociable and well liked, with a big circle of friends, and even those outside of it seem to hold you in high regard.
Your personality is just as evident in your writing. Each page reflects a part of your huge personality. Your handwriting is bubbly and expressive, your i’s are dotted with small hearts, and the margins are filled with doodles of puppies or stars. The use of bright, glittery ink adds a touch that makes your work immediately recognizable.
However.. there are noticeable inconsistencies in your academic performance. Your grammar is nowhere to be found, punctuation is sometimes forgotten, and abbreviations appear more than the full words. While your work carries personality and effort, you definitely aren’t a top student.
But, he doesn’t really mind. He skims through your report, barely pausing at the mistakes, and grabs his red pen. He underlines a random sentence and writes a quick ‘Amazing writing!’ beside it. At the top of the page, he marks an A+ and adds a small smiley face.
He knows it isn’t right. He should be grading your work honestly, not letting you fall behind academically. But he can already picture your reaction. The way your face would fall, the way your shoulders would slump if you got the grade you actually earned. It would break his heart, so Ryland lets it slide.
He lets out a quiet sigh, staring down at your paper a little too long. Without even realizing it, he finds himself panting, his hand over his lap rubbing at his growing bulge. Thinking about a student like this makes his stomach twist with guilt, but the guilt doesn’t make the excitement go away. If anything, it only heightens is.
Small visions of you and him together flood his mind. Driving you back to your dorm after class, your hand in his. Catching your eye during lectures and holding it just a knowing second too long while the other students sit oblivious. His thoughts keep building, and he can feel himself getting worked up over it, stuck between knowing it’s wrong and not being able to help himself.
He can’t stop thinking about what it would be like to offer you extra tutoring, because God knows you need it. The idea plays out too clearly in his head.. Sitting across from you in an empty library, the silence heavy around you, his hand slipping into your pants while you try to stay quiet. He doesn’t even notice when he unbuckles his own pants, his hand moving under his boxers almost on its own.
He lets out a sharp huff, frustrated with himself and his own perversions. It feels ridiculous, getting this worked up over something as small as your glitter blue ink resting against the paper. The only thing he can focus on now is getting it over with, forcing his body to stop so he can get back to work.
His head tilts back against the chair, eyes fixed on your usual desk, the small blue glitter pen you accidentally left behind, like a reminder. His breath catches as he hunches forward, a quiet gasp slipping out as he finishes into his own hand. It’s messy and shameful, something he knows he should feel worse about, but in the moment, he doesn’t seem to care.
After he finishes, he glances down at the mess in his hand. Without really thinking, he lifts it and smears a small amount onto the bottom of your paper, watching it soak into the page and leave behind a faint, off white stain along the edge.
He lets out a quiet, almost disbelieving smile, shaking his head at himself. He can’t ignore how wrong it feels, how perverse it is. Marking your paper like that, leaving something behind where you might see it. His own dirty little secret.
He cleans his hands with a few tissues, tossing them into the trash before picking your report back up. With a soft sigh, he places it onto the graded stack. There are still plenty of papers left to get through, but now he feels steadier.. A smile on his face and a small stain on his pants as he gets back to work.
( SYNOPSIS ) — your pervy college teacher can’t help himself at the slightest reminder of you after class.
( WARNINGS ) — mdni. no spoilers to the movie lol. perverted college teacher ryland!! all his students are adults!! teacher!ryland. student!reader.
( TAGS ) — @bluestrd @sylvie-singer @orchidocs [to be added]
After a long and demanding week of managing students, whether it’s asking for extensions, helping with papers, or going back and forth with students, Ryland arrives at what he considers the most rewarding part of his day. Grading papers.
It gives him a rare moment of quiet. He can sit undisturbed, focus entirely on his work, and just relax. As he works through a portion of the stack, his attention lands on a familiar name written boldly at the top of a page in unmistakable glittery blue ink. The sight draws a small, involuntary smile from him. It’s become a trademark, one he recognizes instantly.
Over the years, he’s noticed a pattern in himself. With each new class, there’s always one student who captures his attention more than the others. The reasons are always the same. The year before, it was a quiet exchange student who rarely spoke and kept to herself. The one before that was a quiet, loser type student who remained largely to himself. This year, it’s you, and you are so different.
You’re quick witted and confident, usually volunteering in class discussions with ease. You carry yourself with a natural sense of assurance that draws others in. You’re sociable and well liked, with a big circle of friends, and even those outside of it seem to hold you in high regard.
Your personality is just as evident in your writing. Each page reflects a part of your huge personality. Your handwriting is bubbly and expressive, your i’s are dotted with small hearts, and the margins are filled with doodles of puppies or stars. The use of bright, glittery ink adds a touch that makes your work immediately recognizable.
However.. there are noticeable inconsistencies in your academic performance. Your grammar is nowhere to be found, punctuation is sometimes forgotten, and abbreviations appear more than the full words. While your work carries personality and effort, you definitely aren’t a top student.
But, he doesn’t really mind. He skims through your report, barely pausing at the mistakes, and grabs his red pen. He underlines a random sentence and writes a quick ‘Amazing writing!’ beside it. At the top of the page, he marks an A+ and adds a small smiley face.
He knows it isn’t right. He should be grading your work honestly, not letting you fall behind academically. But he can already picture your reaction. The way your face would fall, the way your shoulders would slump if you got the grade you actually earned. It would break his heart, so Ryland lets it slide.
He lets out a quiet sigh, staring down at your paper a little too long. Without even realizing it, he finds himself panting, his hand over his lap rubbing at his growing bulge. Thinking about a student like this makes his stomach twist with guilt, but the guilt doesn’t make the excitement go away. If anything, it only heightens is.
Small visions of you and him together flood his mind. Driving you back to your dorm after class, your hand in his. Catching your eye during lectures and holding it just a knowing second too long while the other students sit oblivious. His thoughts keep building, and he can feel himself getting worked up over it, stuck between knowing it’s wrong and not being able to help himself.
He can’t stop thinking about what it would be like to offer you extra tutoring, because God knows you need it. The idea plays out too clearly in his head.. Sitting across from you in an empty library, the silence heavy around you, his hand slipping into your pants while you try to stay quiet. He doesn’t even notice when he unbuckles his own pants, his hand moving under his boxers almost on its own.
He lets out a sharp huff, frustrated with himself and his own perversions. It feels ridiculous, getting this worked up over something as small as your glitter blue ink resting against the paper. The only thing he can focus on now is getting it over with, forcing his body to stop so he can get back to work.
His head tilts back against the chair, eyes fixed on your usual desk, the small blue glitter pen you accidentally left behind, like a reminder. His breath catches as he hunches forward, a quiet gasp slipping out as he finishes into his own hand. It’s messy and shameful, something he knows he should feel worse about, but in the moment, he doesn’t seem to care.
After he finishes, he glances down at the mess in his hand. Without really thinking, he lifts it and smears a small amount onto the bottom of your paper, watching it soak into the page and leave behind a faint, off white stain along the edge.
He lets out a quiet, almost disbelieving smile, shaking his head at himself. He can’t ignore how wrong it feels, how perverse it is. Marking your paper like that, leaving something behind where you might see it. His own dirty little secret.
He cleans his hands with a few tissues, tossing them into the trash before picking your report back up. With a soft sigh, he places it onto the graded stack. There are still plenty of papers left to get through, but now he feels steadier.. A smile on his face and a small stain on his pants as he gets back to work.
the pitt fandom kind of sucks because you tell someone you want to actually talk about the show and all they respond with is, “omg look at this age gap ship!! age gap!! this character is younger and this one is older and they should be together!! age gap ship!!”
like talking about anything else would be so super great!!
thoughts on frat!ludwig?? fratboy lud who is suchhhh a himbo! he may have a distaste for labels but everyone knows he wants you like a drug. he is so so so sweet, loves rambling about anything and everything, has a knack for parties, and loves girls in mini-skirts!
u don’t even understand how quickly i foamed at the mouth reading this.. frat!ludwig is the man of my dreams i fear.
AND ITS SO PERFECT THAT YOU SENT THIS because i literally could not for the life of me figure out what to write for him.. thank u rina ❤️❤️❤️
( SYNOPSIS ) ── your college professor keeps you after class to ‘run some tests’ on his current project, but that’s not really all he wants.. right?
( WARNINGS ) ── no spoilers!! no smut, just making out. teacher!reed, student!reader.
( TAGS ) ── @jclolz22 @pittsick @fishinsuits [to be added]
“What am I doing wrong?” Reed mutters to himself, his eyes scanning the scattered sheets across his desk. Equations, graphs, and scribbled notes form a chaotic mess. He stands with his hands braced on his hips, tension etched across his brow.
“Everything is off in one way or another,” he sighs. His eyes drift across the empty classroom until they land on you by the door, your bag slung over one shoulder as you quietly push it shut behind you.
“Mr. Richards,” you say with a warm smile, walking slowly toward him until you’re on the opposite side of his desk.
A spark flickers in his expression as he straightens. “Just the person I was hoping to see,” he replies, gesturing for you to come around the desk. He grabs one of the sheets and holds it out to you.
“I cannot, for the life of me, figure out what I’m missing here,” he says, a frustrated smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “And you’re one of the only students who actually pays attention in my class. I was hoping you might give it a shot.”
You blink up at him, wide eyed. The compliment stirs something nervous in your chest. You glance down at the paper, then back at him. “I can try,” you say cautiously.
The two of you end up working together at his desk long after school ends. Your shoulders are hunched, eyes narrowed in focus as you write, then groan softly and erase what you’ve done. Every mistake, every do over brings another sigh. Reed doesn’t say a word.
He sits with his elbow resting on the desk, chin balanced in his hand, his eyes never leaving you. He watches the way your lips draw in when you’re deep in thought, the little roll of your eyes when a solution slips through your fingers again. His gaze drifts lower, taking in the curve of your posture, the frustrated bounce of your leg, the faint flush growing across your cheeks.
You lean back in your seat, arms folded, clearly stuck. When you glance at him, you catch the way his eyes flick abruptly away. He looks down at a notebook he’s kept to himself this whole time.
“Try this,” he says suddenly, rising from his seat. You follow him to another side of the desk as he sets the notebook down in front of you.
You place your hands on the edge of the desk, peering down at the open page. A second later, Reed steps in behind you. His chest hovers barely an inch from your back as he leans in, his voice low near your ear.
“Why don’t you work through that equation? We’ll test it and see if it holds.”
You turn your head to look up at him. The proximity makes your breath catch, but you nod slowly. “Okay,” you whisper.
After another ten minutes of scribbling and refining, you finally hold up the finished work for his review. He glances over it, barely reading before nodding.
“Yeah. That’ll work.” His tone is casual, almost dismissive, as if he already knew the answer. As if this entire session had nothing to do with the equation at all.
“Let’s test it,” he says.
His hand slips to the small of your back as he guides you toward the teleportation prototype. His body brushes against yours as he leans on the table beside it, watching you immediately start making adjustments. You work quickly, altering the placement of key components, aligning the setup to match your equation.
“Just like that, good job.” he murmurs behind you. His hand remains at your back, thumb tracing slow, deliberate circles into the fabric of your shirt.
When you lean back, seeking his next instruction, he doesn’t speak right away. He stares down at you, his expression unreadable but intense. A few seconds of silence before he speaks.
“I couldn’t care less about this project,” he says quietly.
“I know,” you answer, your voice just above a whisper. “I saw your notebook before you gave it to me. You already knew the right answer.”
He raises a brow, a small smirk forming. “So you’ve been running pointless test equations this whole time?”
You nod, biting your lip. “I don’t know. It just felt like you wanted me to.”
For a beat, he doesn’t move. His hand stays planted against your back, but the motion of his thumb slows to a pause.
“I did,” he admits. His voice is barely audible over the stillness of the room. “Maybe I just like seeing how your mind works when there’s no one else around.”
You stare at him. Your lips part slightly. The way he’s looking at you isn’t how a teacher should look at a student. There’s nothing professional about it.
“That’s not really appropriate, Mr. Richards,” you say softly.
“No,” he agrees, eyes dropping to your mouth. “It’s not.”
Neither of you moves. The classroom remains silent, thick with the weight of what’s been unspoken. Reed’s hand slides further around your waist, guiding you closer. Then, without another word, he closes the distance between you.
Your hands come up to his chest instinctively. His arms wrap around you, his kiss deepening as he backs you toward the desk. He leans into you, his lips still moving against yours, until your thighs hit the edge. Without breaking contact, he lifts you effortlessly to sit atop it.
You gasp as he does, pulling back just slightly.
“Mr. Richards, we shouldn’t be—“
He kisses you again, swallowing the rest of your sentence. Your arms loop around his neck as you give in, allowing yourself to be pulled toward him, his hips pressing into yours.
His mouth leaves yours only to trail along your jaw, down your neck. You tilt your head back, breathless, barely able to hold yourself upright as he leans over you, still cradling your waist.
The moment shatters with the sharp sound of some other professors heels clacking just outside the room. Reed straightens instantly, pulling away and adjusting his shirt. The footsteps pass by without stopping.
You stare up at him, your lips swollen and damp, your fingers brushing across your mouth to wipe away the kiss he left behind.
“So,” he says after a moment, still catching his breath, one hand planted on his hip while the other rakes through his hair, “you ready to run that test one more time?”
( SYNOPSIS ) ── after another one of reed’s infamous power outages, your boyfriend johnny comes with the solution to all your problems.
( WARNINGS ) ── no spoilers!! being scared of the dark. nothing else!
It had happened again.
Another one of Reed Richards’ late night experiments had blown the power grid, leaving your apartment in pitch black silence. Living just a few blocks from the Baxter Building had its perks, proximity to your superhero boyfriend being the main one, but moments like this made you question whether it was all worth it.
The bad part? Losing power twice a week, like clockwork, thanks to Reed tinkering with things the city’s infrastructure was clearly not built to handle. The worse part? You were still, to this day, hopelessly afraid of the dark. A childhood thing. Unresolved, unimportant. At least that’s what you always told yourself.
But the good part? Johnny always came.
The second the lights flickered out, he was already on his way, like muscle memory. Hovering outside your window, flames crackling gently across his body, casting warm light across your bedroom walls.
You were curled up in bed, flashlight wedged under the blankets like some makeshift bunker, when you heard a soft tap at the glass. That familiar quiet hum of fire accompanied it, comforting, warm, familiar.
You peeked your head out from under the comforter, already smiling. And there he was, floating a few feet from your window, his face illuminated by a soft amber glow, brows raised, that charmingly smug smile already in place.
You climbed out of bed and crossed the room, opening the window just enough for him to slip inside. He extinguished the flames across most of his body the second he landed, except for the steady flame burning on his right hand, casting gentle light across your room like a makeshift lantern.
“I heard someone was in desperate need of a hero,” he teased, his voice soft but playful. “Lucky for you, I happen to know one.”
You rolled your eyes as he stepped closer, his hand finding your hip like it always did when you needed grounding. He bent down and kissed your forehead, lingering for just a second longer than usual.
“I came as soon as the lights went out,” he said more gently now, his voice dropping to something quieter, more gentle.
You hummed softly, leaning into him without a word, because you didn’t need to say anything. Johnny already knew what came next.
The two of you made your way back to bed, you already dressed in your favorite pajamas while Johnny stripped down to his boxers, climbing in behind you. He settled in with the back of his head resting against your headboard, one scorching arm stretched out across the nightstand, casting a warm, amber light across the room.
With a quiet laugh, you climbed over him, nestling between his legs. Your hips rested comfortably against his and your head found its place on his bare chest, your arms curling around his waist. You nuzzled your nose against his skin, the heat of him grounding you.
“You’re gonna burn a hole in my nightstand,” you murmured against him with a sleepy smile.
He chuckled, pressing a kiss to your hairline. “I did all the shopping for your apartment, remember? Fireproof nightstand, babe.”
Your laugh was muffled against his chest, eyes already fluttering shut. And just like that, you drifted off in his arms, soft snores slipping from your lips, your face relaxed and peaceful against his warmth.
Johnny brought his free hand to your hair, gently brushing it back from your face. He watched you for a moment, a quiet smile tugging at his lips. Only when he was sure you were completely asleep did he dim his glowing hand, sighing softly as he shifted to get comfortable beneath you.
“I love you,” he whispered, pressing a final kiss to your head. Both arms wrapped around you tightly, like he could anchor you to this exact moment. “’Night.”
It was always like this. He’d come over and stay up just long enough to see you safely asleep before turning off his ‘night light’. And every morning, without fail, you’d wake up in the same place, wrapped in the arms of the boy who swore your nightstand was fireproof… even if the scorch marks told a slightly different story.
( synopsis ) — after dating for a little under a year, clark finally brings you to smallville to meet his parents. request can be found here!
( warnings ) — just playful suggestion at the end, nothing happens.
It was… terrifying at first, the idea of meeting Clark’s parents. The two of you had been seeing each other for just under a year, and while that wasn’t exactly short, it also didn’t feel long enough. Was it too soon? Too late? You weren’t sure. Especially now that the two of you had just moved in together. Things were getting serious.
The moment came quietly, as most important ones do. You were curled up with Clark on the couch, your head resting on his shoulder, his hand comfortably splayed over your thigh. The TV played softly in the background, but neither of you were really paying attention. Clark leaned down and pressed a kiss to the top of your head.
“Hey, baby?” he murmured.
You looked up at him, brows raised. That’s when he said it. “I want to take you to Smallville. Want you to meet my parents.”
And with the way he looked at you.. soft, hopeful, completely in love, there was no possible answer except, “Of course, Clark. That sounds really fun.” You even kissed him after. But inside? Your stomach had dropped.
Because these weren’t just any parents. They weren’t city dwelling socialites or friends of friends you could charm over a glass of wine. They were Kansas parents. Farm people. Real deal, salt of the earth types. You didn’t share the same cues, the same culture, the same pace. And more than that… they raised Superman. The world’s most powerful man. Their opinion mattered a lot. And that made it all the more intimidating.
When you finally pulled up to the Kent family farm, Clark was already dressed in his dirt stained jeans and a soft white t shirt that looked straight out of a Levi’s ad. He leaned across the seat, kissed your temple, and gave your thigh a reassuring pat.
“You ready?”
You thought you were. You were wrong.
The moment you stepped inside, Martha was already wiping her hands on a dishtowel, beaming as she came to greet you. “So you’re the lucky one we’ve been hearing about!” she smiled before pulling you straight into a warm hug. Behind her, Jonathan stood quietly, offering a welcoming nod and a kind smile.
Eventually, you all gathered around the dinner table, Clark beside you, his parents across. The meal was simple, comforting: meatloaf, buttery mashed potatoes, and green beans. The kind of food that made the house smell like memories.
Martha asked questions, not pushy, just curious, warm in that particular way mothers from the Midwest can be.
“How did you two meet?”
“Does he treat you right? He better. You just say the word if he ever gives you trouble.”
“What do you do for work? Any hobbies?”
“You think you’ll stay in the city forever?”
Jonathan didn’t say much, letting Martha lead the conversation. He mostly listened, his eyes occasionally flicking to Clark. And every time he saw how Clark looked at you, with complete, unfiltered affection, Jonathan’s expression would soften. At one point, he interrupted Martha with a quiet, “You must be someone special, if Clark finally brought someone home.”
After dinner, the four of you stepped out onto the porch to watch the sun dip beneath the fields. You and Clark sat on the porch swing, Jonathan in his rocking chair, and Martha brought out slices of cherry pie for everyone. The evening ended with Jonathan sharing old stories, like how Clark used to sneak out of bed to sleep in the barn with the calves, or how he once stole Martha’s whiskey ‘thinking it was apple juice’.
It was lovely. And surprisingly easy.
When the moon rose and the night settled in, Martha and Jonathan stayed in the living room, curled together watching some home renovation show. You and Clark made your way to his childhood bedroom. You looked around with a smile, your eyes catching on the old posters and memorabilia from a life long before Superman.
Clark sat at the edge of the bed, pulling off his boots, then glanced back at you with a small smirk.
“Not what you expected?”
“Not at all,” you laughed. “The Mighty Crabjoys, really?” you teased, pointing to a crinkled band poster on the wall.
“That’s not what I meant, baby.” He stood and walked over to you, brushing a piece of hair from your face, his touch soft. “My parents… What did you think?”
“They’re lovely, Clark,” you whispered. “I can really see where you come from in both of them.”
His face lit up with the kind of smile that made your chest achein the best way. “That means a lot,” he murmured, before kissing you sweetly. Then he grinned, boyish and smug. “You’re getting lucky tonight.”
Your jaw dropped. “Clark! This is your parents’ house—”
He just grinned wider, pulling back the plaid duvet to reveal… Mighty Crabjoys sheets, “You’re blessed just to be sleeping on these.”
You laughed, loud and unfiltered. “You are so corny!”
“Hey, little Clark loved these sheets!”
And later that night, when the house was still and Clark was asleep beside you, you laid there in his arms, fingers gently combing through his hair. That’s when it truly hit you.
They weren’t just Clark’s parents. They were the quiet, steady foundation of everything he is. Meeting them didn’t just bring you closer to Clark, it helped you understand him. His gentleness. His patience. His strength.
( synopsis ) — you and clark had just had one of the worst fights, leaving you to question whether there’s still room for your relationship, and clark to juggle the weight of being both superman and himself.
( warnings ) — arguing, not feeling good enough, crying clark, relationship problems blahhh
“Damn it,” he whispers, voice low and weary as he sits perched atop some random rooftop in Metropolis. His elbows rest on his knees, head cradled in his hands as he sighs deeply, shaking his head in frustration, at himself, at everything.
The two of you had just gone through one of the worst fights in the history of your relationship. It was intense, emotional, raw, and painful. Until finally, you walked into the bedroom and slammed the door, locking it behind you. You both needed space. Any longer and you might’ve said things you couldn’t take back.
You hadn’t yelled when you said it. You weren’t angry, you were tired. Worn down from weeks, maybe months, of feeling like an afterthought. Like you didn’t matter as much anymore.
Not in a dramatic, unreasonable way. You understood what it meant to be with Superman. You knew what it meant for the people of Metropolis to depend on him, and you were proud of him for it, your selfless, devoted Clark.
But something had changed. He’d been missing dinners. The spontaneous calls to check in had stopped. He’d show up in the dead of night, bruised and exhausted, long past when he said he’d be home, never with an explanation. And even when he was physically there, he wasn’t really present. He’d barely stay an hour before vanishing again.
He didn’t lean on you anymore. He stopped confiding in you, stopped turning to you for comfort. You didn’t need saving. You just wanted to be seen.
He always told you he was doing his best. That he was trying to protect the city and the love of his life. And you had looked at him, hollow, and said:
“I didn’t fall in love with Superman. I fell in love with Clark.”
The fight had spiraled. What started as a plea to get your Clark back somehow became a painful question.. Were you just a place he returned to between missions? A temporary stop, not a home?
And for Clark, that question hit deeper than you realized. Not just because you’d said it, but because a part of him feared it was true.
So when the tears welled in your eyes and you locked the door behind you, he didn’t stay. He didn’t change into the suit. He just flew out the window, bare faced and lost, not because duty called, but because he didn’t know what else to do.
You spent the rest of the night curled up in your room, crying to friends over the phone. You kept checking for a text, a call, some sign from him. But it never came. Not until nearly 10 PM.
The sun was long gone, replaced by a silver moon, when the sound of shattering glass jolted you from your thoughts. You rushed out of the bedroom to find him, Clark, sitting on the couch, tears in his eyes, as shards of your window glittered across the carpet like fallen stars.
“Clark, what the hell?” you exclaimed, gaze flicking from the broken glass to his face. But the anger faded as quickly as it came. Your expression softened when you saw the way his tears fell freely, unhidden.
“I could fly anywhere in the world,” he murmured, voice trembling. “Anywhere. But I still come home to you every night. I might be late… might be out of it… but I always come home to you. That has to mean something, right?”
You exhaled slowly, heart aching at his words. You stepped closer, reaching out with your sleeve to gently wipe the tears from his cheeks.
“It means you find your way back here,” you whispered. “But it doesn’t mean you stay, Clark.”
He inhaled sharply, then let out a heavy sigh, tilting his head up to look at you. His hand lifted hesitantly, resting on your hip as if waiting for permission. And when you leaned into his touch, he pulled you closer, quietly grateful to be allowed near again.
“I don’t know how to do this,” he admitted, barely above a whisper. “I’ve always been Superman. I’ve never really.. been someone’s person. Metropolis always needs me, they depend on me. I guess sometimes I forget you do too.”
Your frown was gentle as you cupped his face in both hands, leaning down to meet his eyes.
“You don’t have to be Superman here,” you said softly. “Not with me. But you do have to be present. You have to show up. Not just physically, Clark.”
He nodded slowly, eyes fixed on yours with a quiet determination beginning to bloom behind the sadness. “I know,” he said. “It’s just… sometimes I think if I stop holding the world up, even for a second, it’ll all collapse. Like I’m not strong enough. And then I come home, and I feel you slipping away too and it terrifies me.”
You leaned forward until your forehead touched his, your hands still cradling his face, grounding him.
“I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered. “I just don’t want to be the last thing on your list. You understand that, don’t you?”
He nodded again, sniffling as your thumbs brushed the tears from his cheeks. He didn’t argue. Didn’t deflect. But in his eyes, you saw it. The love, the remorse, the longing. The desire to try. To stay.
( synopsis ) — after coming home from one of bruce wayne’s over the top gala’s, a drunk clark gets pouty n jealous that you didnt give him the attention he thought he deserved!
( warnings ) — drunk jealous clark, bruce wayne mention
“Mm.” Clark hums softly from where he’s stretched out across your lap, the back of his head resting against your thighs. His glossy, adoring eyes are locked on your face, as though you personally strung each star in the sky just for him.
“What’s on your mind, baby?” you ask without glancing away from your laptop. You’re making final edits on your latest article, one hand typing steadily while the other absentmindedly runs through Clark’s hair in slow, comforting strokes.
“I love you,” he slurs, his voice thick with affection. His cheeks are flushed, his eyes dazed but focused entirely on you, utterly sincere in his lovesick haze.
You finally glance down, your brows lifting slightly in surprise. You lean in to press a quick kiss to his lips, your thumb gently brushing a bit of your lip balm from the corner of his mouth. “I love you too, Clark,” you whisper.
“No, you don’t,” he murmurs, shaking his head slowly. “You don’t love me like I love you. I love you so, so, so much more.”
“Clark, you’re drunk,” you laugh, unable to hide your amusement as you look down at him.
And he is, without a doubt. After clocking out from your shifts at the Daily Planet, the two of you had been dragged to one of Bruce Wayne’s extravagant galas. Clark had overindulged, far beyond what was advisable, even for a Kryptonian. Honestly, it’s impressive he’s still conscious.
You were both “strongly encouraged” to attend by Perry White, who insisted networking was vital for the paper’s exposure. Something about connections, public relations, mutual benefit… the usual spiel.
“I’m not drunk,” Clark mumbles, half heartedly burying his face in your stomach as he groans. “I’m Kryptonian. Takes a lot more than champagne and caviar to get me drunk.”
You shake your head with a fond smile, continuing to comb your fingers through his hair.
“You didn’t even look at me tonight,” he says, his voice thick with misplaced betrayal. His pupils are wide, his expression pouty and dramatic. “I was doing all these cool things to get your attention. But nope. You kept talking to Bruce. The whole time.”
“Baby,” you grin, holding back a laugh, “you were mixing condiments into your drinks and daring people to guess what was in the cup.”
“I was doing it for you,” he insists with a whine, utterly devoid of shame. “I just wanted your attention. But nooo, you were too busy chatting it up with millionaire playboy Bruce Wayne.”
“Clark,” you sigh.
“I’d catch the moon for you if you asked,” he rambles dramatically. “I’d split the planet in half if it meant finding the rarest gem to make you the prettiest ring. But you don’t care, do you?”
“Clark,” you giggle, finally setting your laptop aside and focusing fully on him, “of course I care, sweetheart.”
“You probably think Bruce Wayne is cooler than me,” he sulks, sitting upright and crossing his arms like a petulant teenager, though the dizziness from the motion immediately hits him.
Your laughter spills out freely this time. You gently pull him back down into your lap, letting him melt against you as your half written article is momentarily forgotten. He’s still pouting.
“What’s this obsession with Bruce Wayne, hmm?” you tease. “Is there something you know that I don’t?”
His eyes widen just a touch, clearly remembering that you don’t know Bruce’s secret identity. But Clark, of course, does.
“It’s nothing,” he mutters. “You were just… really focused on him all night.”
You cup his face and gently tilt it back toward yours. “I’m sorry, baby,” you say with a soft smile. “Next time, I promise all my attention is on you. Only you.”
“Say it.”
“Say what?”
“Tell me you think I’m cooler than Bruce Wayne.”
With a playful roll of your eyes, you pull him in again, pressing a lingering kiss to his lips. Clark eagerly kisses you back, arms wrapping securely around your waist while your fingers tangle in his soft curls. When you pull away, your voice is quiet but certain.
“I think you’re galaxies cooler than Bruce Wayne.”
He drunkenly smiles, instantly leaning back down to press another kiss to your lips, “I know.”
( synopsis ) — clark becomes upset and a little insecure about the fact that you and jimmy have been so close recently, but thankfully you’re there to reassure him that he still has his chance with you! requested here.
( warnings ) — insecure, sorta jealous, clark! also a quick thank u for 400 followers i love u all!
“You look upset.” Lois chuckles lightly as she approaches Clark’s desk, resting one hand casually on the back of his chair, the other occupied with a coffee that tastes more like sugar than coffee.
Clark jolts slightly, immediately glancing away from where you’re standing with Jimmy. He pulls off his glasses, rubbing his eyes with a sigh. “No, I don’t. I’m fine,” he mutters.
But it was painfully clear he wasn’t.
He’d been watching you all morning.. not with those usual soft, dreamy looks he gave you when you were buried in research, the kind that made it seem like he was daydreaming about your future together. No, this time his expression was distant. Cold. Somber. And of course, there was a reason.
Lately, you’d been spending a lot more time at Jimmy’s desk than usual. Sure, you and Jimmy were friends, always had been, but the closeness had become… noticeable.
And Clark would know. He spends, frankly, about 75% of his workday glancing over at your desk. But that’s not the point.
He lets out another sigh under Lois’s inquisitive gaze, eventually nodding in Jimmy’s direction. When she follows his line of sight, nothing initially seems out of the ordinary. Jimmy’s seated at his desk, looking up at you as you lean casually against the edge. The two of you are talking, until you reach out and gently brush Jimmy’s hair out of his face.
Lois’s eyebrows shoot up. “Oh,” she murmurs.
“They just seem… closer than usual today,” Clark says with a furrowed brow, eyes narrowing as Jimmy stands and pulls you into a hug. You return it, one arm wrapping around him while your other hand rests gently on the back of his head.
Lois frowns thoughtfully, releasing her grip on Clark’s chair and stepping away, clearly turning over thoughts in her head, mostly, why her best friend hadn’t mentioned anything about starting something with Jimmy.
But the truth? There wasn’t anything going on between you and Jimmy. Not romantically, anyway. He’d come to you, needing a shoulder after making the difficult decision to finally break things off with Eve for good. He felt awful, and you, being who you are, were there for him.
Which made it all the more heartbreaking when Clark finally approached your desk later that day. It was near the end of your shift when you heard him softly clear his throat behind you. You turned to find him standing there, nervously running a hand through his curls, offering a half smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Um… hey. Hi,” he said, voice quiet.
You turned in your chair fully, smiling as your eyes met his. “Hi, you. Thought you were never gonna walk over here,” you teased, giving him a gentle nudge.
He chuckled, but it sounded strained. “Yeah, I, uh… saw you talking to Jimmy. Didn’t want to interrupt anything… whatever you two had going on.”
Your smile faded slightly as you caught the edge in his tone. There was something else there.. Confusion? Jealousy? Hurt?
“Yeah…” you said slowly, watching the way his fingers fidgeted in front of him. “What was that supposed to mean?”
“What was what?” he replied, a small frown forming.
“Why are you acting weird about me talking to Jimmy?”
“I’m not.”
“Clark, you are.”
“I am not.”
“Clark.” You stared at him, brows raised, until he finally sighed in defeat and slid down to sit on the floor beside your desk, leaning his head back against the side as he looked up at you.
“Are you guys like… I don’t know. Dating or something?” he asked quietly, dropping his gaze to his lap. “You two looked really comfortable earlier.”
A soft smile flickered across your face before quickly fading. You looked down at Clark, sulking like a kicked puppy, if he had a tail, it would’ve been tucked between his legs.
“What’s it to you?” you asked gently.
He gave a small shrug, his thumbs nervously circling each other in his lap.
“I just… I thought we had something going on. For a while now, actually.” You sat in silence for a moment, watching him, his nervous posture, his flushed ears, the unspoken fear in his voice.
Reaching down, you lifted his chin with your fingers, guiding his eyes back to yours.
“There’s nothing going on between Jimmy and me, Clark,” you said softly. “Not like that.”
Clark blinked, his eyes searching yours.
“So… I can still ask you out on a date?” he asked, a shy, teasing smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
You rolled your eyes playfully, leaning down to press a quick kiss to the tip of his nose, grinning as his entire face flushed.
“Yeah,” you whispered, brushing your fingers through his hair. “You can ask me on a date, Clark.”
( synopsis ) — a badly injured clark comes to you after a losing fight against the kaiju. not only does he need to be patched up, but his ego needs a little fixing to. and luckily for you, your praise does just the trick.
( warnings ) — none. suuuuuper fluffy n cute. i love sensitive crybaby puppyboy clark!
“Shit,” you whisper from where you sit on your bed, a deep frown tugging at your mouth as your teeth press down on your index knuckle. Your eyes are locked on the screen in front of you, anxiety etched into every part of your face.
The TV plays live coverage of the chaos downtown. The setting sun casts a warm hue through your window, an almost cruel contrast to what you’re watching unfold. Superman soars across the sky, moving fast and focused, his fist connecting with the kaiju’s eye and forcing a roar of pain from its throat. The blow stuns it, but only for a second.
The monster recovers quickly, lashing out with a powerful arm. Its massive claws grip Superman’s cape, yanking him out of the sky and slamming him through a high rise. You flinch as glass explodes outward, his body crumpling against the steel frame inside before disappearing into the shadow of the building’s interior.
You can’t watch anymore. Your hand reaches for the remote and shuts the screen off just as the Justice Gang steps in, finally giving Superman a chance to catch his breath.
Silence fills the room like smoke. You sit there, frozen, your hands still clutching the fabric of your blanket as your mind races through everything you just saw. You know Superman is stronger than anyone. Practically invincible. But that kind of impact would break bones on anyone. And he’s still human in some ways. He still feels pain. That has to mean something.
Before you can sink too deep into your thoughts, the sound of glass crunching in the distance makes your head snap up. The noise barely registers before your bedroom door creaks open and Clark steps through.
He looks wrecked.
There’s blood on his lip, slowly trailing down to his chin. His suit is in pieces, torn in too many places to count, revealing scrapes and bruises along his torso and arms. His eyes are red, glossy with unshed tears, and for a second he just stands there, chest heaving from exhaustion. Then he moves.
He crosses the room and collapses onto the bed on top of you without a word, his arms wrapping tight around your middle. His face presses into your chest, the heat of him soaking into your skin. You hear him sniffle before everything else goes still.
“Clark..?” you whisper, hesitant, your hand slowly lifting to rest in his hair. Your fingers begin to move without thinking, brushing gently through the tangled strands. He lets out a shaky breath, his shoulders starting to fall, the tension draining from his body with every slow movement of your hand.
“No,” he mumbles into your chest. His voice is rough, strained. “Don’t wanna talk. Just hold me.”
“I can do that,” you whisper, your fingers continuing to move gently through his hair, the quiet rhythm comforting for both of you.
You sit together like that in silence for a while. The room is dim now, lit only by the last slivers of sunlight filtering through your window. The sounds of the city outside feel distant, like they belong to another world. All you hear are the soft groans of pain Clark tries to muffle against your chest.
Eventually, your other hand lifts to tilt his face up. His cheek is warm against your palm. You press a soft kiss to his forehead, barely there but enough to make him look at you. His eyes are glassy and tired, and your heart breaks all over again.
“Let me clean you up,” you whisper. “Just some ointment. A few bandages. We’ll get you home to heal tomorrow. The sun’s already down.”
Clark nods. The motion is small, slow. Tears slip from his eyes again, rolling down his cheeks and soaking into your shirt as he whispers, “Alright… yeah.”
You help him out of what’s left of his suit, easing him into a clean pair of sweatpants. His skin is warm and bruised under your touch, but he doesn’t flinch. He just sits on the edge of the bed, breathing slowly, his hands moving under your shirt to rest against your sides. He keeps his touch gentle, steady, like he needs the connection to ground him.
You press the last bandage over the cut on his forehead, then place the ointment tube aside. Your hands come to his face again, thumbs resting on either cheek as you look at him closely.
“How’s the pain medicine feeling?” you ask quietly.
“Hasn’t kicked in yet,” he mutters. His tone is flat, but you can tell it’s more than the pain. It’s everything else. The failure he thinks he’s shouldering alone.
“You did a good job out there,” you murmur, brushing one of the bandages flat softly. “That was more than anyone should’ve been expected to handle.”
“I lost,” he says, barely above a whisper. His hand moves from your waist to wipe at his eyes. “I didn’t do anything good.”
“You did everything you could, Clark. That’s what matters,” you say softly, tilting his chin up again to keep his eyes on yours. “You might be a metahuman, but you’re still only one man. And you saved people. A lot of people. That thing would’ve crushed half the city if you hadn’t slowed it down. You gave others time to escape. You gave the Justice Gang time to arrive. You did that.”
He doesn’t respond right away. You can see the war behind his eyes, the stubborn pride he’s trying to hold onto, clashing with how much he wants to believe you.
“I’m really proud of you,” you whisper, and the change in him is immediate. His eyes lift to meet yours again, wider now, a new kind of emotion breaking through.
“You are?” he asks, voice cracking slightly. His pupils dilate by ten sizes at the simple fact that you’re proud. He made you proud, that’s all he’s ever wanted. “You’re proud of me? You mean that?”
“Of course I do, baby,” you reply, brushing your thumbs along his cheeks. “Everyone’s proud of you. You’re Superman. The one people count on. The one kids pretend to be when they play heroes. You’re more than just strong. You give people hope. And you’re loved for it.”
“And what about you?” he asks after a second. His hands slide up your waist, pulling you closer between his legs.
“And I also love you, Clark,” you whisper with a chuckle, leaning in until your forehead rests against his.
He presses a soft kiss to your lips. There’s no urgency behind it. No need for anything more. It’s slow, full of gratitude, and when he pulls back, your hand rises to nudge his chin playfully.
( synopsis ) — after insecurely taking advice from jimmy and spending hours online, clark distances himself from you. scared he might’ve overwhelmed you with his clinginess. all for a crying clark to come back home to you.
( warnings ) — none! just an insecure, clingy clark.
( tags ) — @jordiemeow [to be added]
“Just leave them alone for a second, Clark!” Lois laughs, watching as Clark’s arms stay locked around your waist, his face practically buried in your shoulder like a big, needy golden retriever.
“Yeah, dude. Clinginess isn’t cute. I should know. I’m probably the best guy in the room when it comes to women,” Jimmy adds from beside Lois, nudging her playfully before he’s met with a sharp glare.
“Oh, shut up,” you say to Jimmy, leaning back into Clark’s hold. “Just give me a few minutes, baby. Lois and I are talking about the article.” You give his arm a quick pat before slipping out of his grip.
When you and Lois walk off toward the printing room, Clark stays behind. He frowns, glancing at Jimmy and leaning against the edge of the desk, his arms crossed.
“Do you think that’s true?” he mutters. “Do you think they get annoyed when I’m too… affectionate?”
Jimmy barely looks up. “Most definitely,” he says flatly. “I mean, come on, man. You’re like a big dog. Always all over them.. hugging, touching, laying your head on them. If I were dating you, I’d lose my mind.”
And that conversation sticks in Clark’s head longer than it should. Later that night, he’s alone in his cold, quiet room. The only light in the room comes from his computer screen. He’s slouched in front of it, arms crossed tightly over his chest as he stares at the headline on the screen:
“Are Clingy Boyfriends a Turn-Off?”
His eyes scan every word. Each line feels like a hit to the gut. And the comment section? Even worse.
voidsuites: “I dated someone like this once. It was suffocating. I couldn’t even stand next to them without their hands on me.”
jordiemeow: “Clingy partners are exhausting. So glad I got out of that relationship.”
hrtfilm: “Clingy usually means controlling. Red flag behavior, honestly. Be careful, guys.”
jclolz22: “It’s not bad at first.. but after a while, it gets annoying.”
Clark checks every box.
He was always touching you, his hands under your shirt, his chin on your shoulder, his arms around your waist, even in public. He’d pull you into his lap in front of anyone. You were a constant source of peace for him. A calm he never wanted to be without. But maybe that wasn’t how it felt to you. So he thought. So he stopped.
Over the next few weeks, he pulled back. He stopped bugging you at your desk. Stopped waiting outside the bathroom for you. Stopped finding excuses to pass by your apartment after work. No more arms slipping around your waist. No more hands brushing against yours. No more sudden, warm weight of him behind you while you were reading.
And of course, you noticed.
Clark might’ve thought he was giving you space, but you felt the shift immediately. He was always the one who made you feel grounded just when you got too lost in your own head, he’d appear out of nowhere and wrap you up in that warmth like a big blanket. Now, it felt like something important had been quietly taken away.
But being you, you didn’t say anything right away. You just kept thinking. Replaying things over and over.
Did you do something? Say something? Had you pushed him away without realizing? Why didn’t he want to hold you anymore? When was the last time he stayed over? It was driving you crazy. So you decided to fix it.
On your walk home one night, you nodded to yourself, already planning it out. You’d invite him over. Cook for him. Make his favorite, rhubarb pie, using Ma Kent’s recipe (which you were absolutely going to call her for).
But while you were lost in your head, something strange happened. A shadow passed over you. The sun was still high, the sky clear. No tall buildings around you. No trees. No reason for a shadow. So you looked up.
And there he was. Clark, flying overhead in full Superman gear, clearly trying to look casual. A blur in the sky, pretending he wasn’t watching you from above like some lovesick satellite.
You just smiled. Because you couldn’t exactly call him out in public. Superman was supposed to be busy saving people, not floating above his partner on their walk home like a weird, adorable stalker.
But the next day? That was different.
You had the day off. You were in your apartment, music playing quietly from the radio. You leaned against the counter, sliding a tray into the oven. Ma’s rhubarb pie. You were trying your absolute best to get it right before inviting Clark over for dinner.
And as you stood back and wiped your hands on your apron, your eyes drifted to the window. There it was again. That familiar blur of red and blue just outside.
You sighed, walked over to the window, and pushed it open.
“Clark,” you said dryly. “Get inside.”
He tried to pretend he hadn’t heard you at first, looking away dramatically. But eventually, he floated in, landing softly on your floor. He didn’t say much, just sat down on the couch, eyes glossy, face tight with emotion.
You stepped between his legs, placing your hands on his shoulders as he instinctively held your hips, his touch cautious.
“What happened?” you asked, gently.
“What do you mean?” he tried.
You raised your brows. Really?
“I just…” he started, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. “Jimmy said I was being too clingy. And then I read this article online. And all these comments. And I thought… maybe I was making you uncomfortable. I thought giving you space was the right thing.”
You lowered yourself into his lap, taking his hand from his face and wiping his wet cheeks with your thumbs.
“And you listened to Jimmy Olsen?” you teased softly, trying not to smile too hard.
He sniffled, nodding. “He said girls hate guys like that. And everyone online agreed. I just wanted to do right by you, baby.”
Your hands moved to cradle his face, your thumbs brushing his cheekbones as he looked up at you, big eyes full of guilt.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
“It’s okay, Clark,” you said, leaning in to press a kiss to his lips.
He kissed you back, slow and soft, holding onto you like he was afraid you’d disappear. When you pulled away, you stayed close, your foreheads pressed together, your breath mingling.
“I’m sorry,” he repeated, barely loud enough to hear.
“I told you it’s okay,” you murmured. “I’m not mad. I just wish you would’ve talked to me first before disappearing like that, alright?”
He nodded, still holding you close. Then suddenly, his eyes widened, nose scrunching.
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