Who would’ve guessed Clark Kent—the big, broad, boy scout of Metropolis—was basically whipped? Maybe “devoted” sounded nicer, but let’s not sugarcoat it. Around you, he wasn’t Superman, he was just… your guy. Your very tall, very obedient, borderline-scared guy.

At work, Clark was sharp, polite, reliable. Always on time with his articles, always providing something interesting for the city to read. But the second you walked in? He unraveled like a mutt waiting for table scraps. Couldn’t stand still, couldn’t keep his hands to himself, couldn’t do anything but orbit you like his whole day depended on your approval. And, honestly, it kinda did.

And you had him… shall we say, trained. Forgetting his lunch again? Amateur mistake. The minute you showed up at the Planet with that glare, Clark looked like a teenager caught sneaking in after curfew. He didn’t even try to save face in front of the staff. Just straight into damage control—“I’m sorry, baby. I’m a complete idiot for forgetting the lunch you made. I’ll never be this incompetent again, I promise. Please, baby… please don’t be mad.”

Everyone else in the office stared like they were watching a giant get housebroken. Six-foot-four, broad as a truck, and there he was practically shrinking under your stare. Jimmy didn’t even crack a joke—too stunned watching Clark beg for forgiveness. And Clark? He meant every word. To him, if you were mad, then yeah—it was his fault. Always was. Always would be. And don’t no one save him—he don’t want to be saved.