Tw!: Blood, Yandere, a lot of manipulation, this is more horror than romance
70s!Vampire Elvis who's so sick and tired of how drugged the blood is becoming with the rise of its use, it makes its way to his dead blood system as if he himself was using them.
Until he found you, a person with clean blood, and my God he became obsessed immediately.
Leave? Who do you think you are? But Elvis is so kind, he'd never yell at you, but he'll lie to convince you.
You think he's so mean to keep you? Well, have you considered he knows more than you do? Now that you're tangled with him, you better believe they are coming for you. Who's they? The one's that came for his girls before you! He's trying to hard to protect you, to love without worrying that they might get you!
Now, you'll stay in the RCA archive room. In the basement, where people barely go. Behind a locked room, where he only has the keys. He's so kind, renovating the whole room to be your little house! Isn't he so nice? So loving? If he was you, he'd never leave!
Your own bathroom, your own bed, your own couch, your own TV, your own music player and more! Now, come dance with your husband. Slow, gentle, like the oh sweet love you two share.
Just.. A little nibble, he'll catch you when your legs suddenly feel wobbly. Don't worry about it, he's just teasing you. Just a husband being ever so playful with his wife. You don't remember the wedding? Oh how silly of you. Did you forget you agreed to have a small wedding at a chapel? Just you and him, small and sweet, no press or friends to ruin the so romantic moment. He recites your wedding as he licks your neck of.. Something.
Sleepy? Oh baby, let him carry you to your bed. Don't think about anything too silly now, like running away or your family. Everyone has abandoned you, oh they were so, so jealous you married him and not them!
But Elvis saved you, he always did... Now sleep. Don't think about tomorrow, because he will do the thinking for you.
How about you two go for a vacation? A little one, just the two of you relaxing. Maybe he should buy you clothes, a few bikinis, oh he loves buying lingerie, and of course jewelry-
Awww.. Ain't you the sweetest angel? Looking so adorable while sleeping.
Goodnight, he loves you very much. But you should really cover that bruise on your neck with make up. Don't think about it now, just let him enjoy looking at what's his.
Vampire 50s!Elvis who's literally the worst at his only job because he's too shy to even look at you, let alone drink your energy.
It was hard enough for him to realize that down the line in his family tree, there was a vampire somewhere. Though it did explain things like how when he was a kid, his eyes used to creepily glow, his sleep walking, the way he got 95% hotter all of the sudden, girls obsessing with him too hard and too fast, and most importantly his sudden hate for the sun. He was a very late bloomer, but the signs were there.
He gets his energy from the worship on stage, the more girls were obsessed, the more it gave him an euphoric amount of energy. It made him realize, thankfully, he's an energy vampire.
But it didn't give him confidence, in fact, it made him have triple the guilt.
If you thought his religious guilt was bad, oh boy imagine how it is now. It's eating him alive, making him not even able to talk to you anymore.
And to his dismay, you assumed he hated you. It's not that at all! He's trying to protect you! He doesn't want to drain you the way girls tend to feel after a concert, he loves you too much, his mama adores you too! He wants nothing more than to move you to Audubon Drive and put a ring on your finger.
But the guilt is killing him. What if he accidentally gets addicted to you? Lord knows he was before this weird vampire thing happened, but now it could get far worse and out of hand.
His addiction to the stage was too much, he can't be addicted to you too. He might actually abandon the stage, maybe even abandon his whole life and rely on only you. His possessiveness has gotten so much worse than before, he could control it before and act like the Southern gentleman he is, but now it's too much to bear.
Especially with how men who hate him wants to get to you, to take the biggest name of their years girl to prove they are better than him. Even if you pay then no mind, the fact they try to exit in your circle is enough to send him raging. But the moment you pull away, he comes back begging. But when you get too close, he pulls away.
summary : thats literally just porn. i just finished EPiC for the 1615627261th time and it got me feeling some kinda way so.... enjoy ? i guess lol.
tw : smut, dry humping, reader humping elvis in her sleep, (soft) dirty talk, elvis is so sexy i could die yes bye
The night was quiet. Crickets chirped low outside, and the wind creaked against the windows. elvis lay still in bed, one arm slung across your waist, the slow rhythm of your breathing brushing over his bare chest. You were warm, curled up next to him, dead asleep… or so he thought.
Until he felt it.
A tiny shift at first. Then again. The slide of your hips against his thigh.
His eyes shot open.
“...angel?”
He whispered it low, voice still thick with sleep. He felt your body shudder faintly in his arms, your breathing shaky now, your forehead pressed into his shoulder, your fingers gripping at his side.
He blinked a few times, brain struggling to register what the hell was going on.
And then it hit him.
You were riding his thigh. In your sleep. Little, slow, desperate rolls of your hips, your panties damp against his bare skin. Fuck. His whole body tensed, but not in shock. He had to grit his teeth to keep himself still, watching your face crumple into the softest pout.
You were whimpering. Not sad. Needy.
His poor girl, dreaming about him and chasing it in your sleep.
elvis' hand trailed slowly up your back, petting gently, his lips brushing your temple as he murmured, “Sweetheart… that what y'need, huh?”
You didn’t wake. Just kept going, a little faster now, your thighs trembling from the effort. He could feel the heat soaking through his thigh and it made his cock twitch in his boxers.
He couldn’t help it, he lifted his leg just a little, angling it right where you needed, guiding your hips with one hand.
“There ya go… that better?” he whispered, pressing kisses into your hair. “Get y'self off, darlin’.”
You whimpered again, one broken little sob of need, and your fingers clawed into his chest.
Then you gasped.
Eyes fluttered open, wide and glossy..and you froze. Cheeks burning. You were mortified.
“Elvis—wait, I-I didn’t mean to-” You were panting, dazed and shaky, but too close now to stop. “I-”
elvis cut you off with a soft hush, cupping your cheek.
“I know, angel. S’okay. Y'ain’t gotta stop now.” He sat up just enough to hold you better, dragging your hips forward. “Lemme help ya finish, yeah?”
You whined at the contact, body jerking forward as his hands gripped your hips and started rocking you against his thigh again, this time rougher, deeper.
“Elvis- please,” you choked, tears welling in your eyes from how fucking close you were again already.
“C’mon, pretty girl. Rub that needy lil' pussy all over me,” he muttered, nose buried in your neck. “Take what y'need.”
That was it.
You shattered.
Your whole body locked up, back arching as the orgasm hit, soaking through your panties, your cries muffled into his shoulder while your thighs shook around him.
“There ya go, baby,” he praised, holding you through it. “Such a good girl… just like that…”
You sobbed softly, overwhelmed, heart racing.
elvis held you close, gently easing your spent body down into the sheets. He kissed your face, your cheeks, your lips, every tear. His fingers brushed your hair back.
“Y'okay?” he asked, voice low.
You nodded, sniffling. “Mhm… sorry…”
“Nah,” he whispered. “Don’t be..”
He tucked you into his chest, thigh still slick where you’d ridden it, and hummed against your forehead.
Within seconds, you were already asleep again.
And elvis just smiled.
“Goodnight,” he muttered, pulling the blanket up around you both.
┊ ♡ ﹒ byi : accidental creampie. pregnancy scare. inexperienced established couple. unsafe sex. peeing in front of your man. j*e jackson appearance.
Your legs were wrapped tightly around his waist, pulling him deeper with each thrust. The pleasure was all consuming for both of you, making it hard to think about anything else. Your body was completely focused on the sensations he was causing you—how could you be expected to think clearly when he was hitting that spot inside of you that made your legs shake and toes curl? You were drunk off his cock, plain and simple. Who knew getting fucked raw would be so good?
“Mikey.. Mikey~!” You whined, your arms hugging his neck real close to you as Michael’s breathing grew heavier. His movements are becoming less rhythmic and more desperate as he ruts into you, the headboard knocking gently against the wall with each thrust, a soft sound that seemed to fit rhythmically with the repeated slapping noises.
“Baby.. feels good..” Michael whimpered softly, “Wanna be in it—forever.” A high pitched sound that betrayed his desperation leaves his lips. “And ever..”
His hips angled upward instinctively, trying to push even deeper into you despite the physical limitations of the position. It was clear he was chasing an impossible depth, driven by primal urges in his boy brain. He loved the feeling of your pussy, he’s never known a feeling that gives him this much of a fucking high.
You start fucking him back, your orgasm building rapidly as your walls start to pulsate and swallow even more of his length. Your inner muscles tighten around him and you throw your head back, covering your mouth with a hand as waves of pleasure crashed over you. You were completely focused on your own release, your hips rolling upwards in perfect rhythm with his desperate thrusts.
“Nggh.. hah..” Michael’s hips are still against you.
The realization struck so suddenly that for a moment neither of you understood it. Michael had barely lifted his head from your shoulder when the color drained from his face. His entire body went rigid beneath your hands, the warmth between you evaporating as confusion gave way to horror. You watched the exact moment the math happened behind his eyes. One second he was smiling, breathless and dazed he always was after making you cum, and the next.. he was staring past you at absolutely nothing, his expression.. stricken.
The curtains billowed gently in the evening breeze.
“What is it, Mikey?” You asked quietly, sensing something was wrong despite coming down from your fucky headspace.
Michael swallowed as his gaze dropped to where he was sheathed inside of you, the tangled sheets gathered around your legs before lifting back to your face. The look in his eyes made your stomach sink—then you felt it pooling inside of you. For a few seconds he seemed unable to form words, before suddenly pulling out of you. His cock slipping free with a wet pop, a thin line of his cum and your juices stretched between his tip and your pussy, connecting the two with a delicate, glistening thread before it broke and dripped down onto the sheets below.
He dragged a hand down his face and let out a breath that sounded almost pained. “I..” His voice cracked so tried again. “I messed up..”
The silence that followed felt endless.
You sat upright and Michael moved too, retreating to the edge of the bed as though distance might somehow help him think. The sunset spilling through the window painted everything gold, casting long shadows across the room and turning the dust floating in the air into flecks of amber. Under different circumstances it would have been a perfect evening. Instead it felt absurdly cruel. The world outside was winding down into a peaceful sunset while the two of you sat here frozen in the middle of what felt like a disaster.
As you sat up, your gaze drifted downward and your breath hitched in your throat at the sight. Michael’s cum slowly dribbled out of your slit as the sunlight streaming through the window caught the liquid, making it glisten against your lips.
“Oh..” You say, still processing what you’re seeing.
Michael lowered his elbows to his knees and pressed both hands against his face. He looked impossibly young like this. Not a performer or a star. But a nervous twenty year old sitting in his childhood bedroom with absolutely no idea what to do. All he accidentally came inside his girlfriend.
“I thought I had more time,” He admitted into his palms. “Honestly, I really thought I did..” The confession was so sincere with no carelessness in his voice, only bewilderment. He genuinely could not understand how his confidence had failed him so spectacularly.
The truth of it wasn’t complicated, even if they both tried to dress it up. Neither of them were remotely sexually experienced in any real sense that would have given them confidence in what they were doing, nothing beyond fragments of hearsay and guesswork and the overconfidence you develop when you’re young and in love and convinced that wanting something badly enough counts as understanding it.
They had only recently become each other’s firsts, which made everything feel.. intensified? and urgent in a way neither of them really knew how to regulate yet; it had gone from tentative curiosity to something extremely addictive overnight the first time they decided it was time to have sex. It’s truly the closeness and euphoria of it all that makes you forget there are supposed to be rules, risks and consequences to sex because all you can think about is how good it feels to fuck.
So when you two rely on something like timing or instinct or the idea of “knowing when to stop,” it wasn’t because you actually knew how any of it worked. It was the fact that you were two people who had decided so foolishly that they were already grown enough to handle it. But in reality, you two were just learning each other too fast, caught in that blur where affection and desire all stack on top of each other neither of you are making smart decisions.
The problem was that neither of you actually knew anything. You knew fragments, half formed ideas passed along that no one bothered to verify with fact. Things told in bathrooms at parties, whispered in bedrooms at slumber parties, repeated by people who were only slightly less lost than you were. Friends. Cousins. Older girls who always sounded like they had access to some hidden manual everyone else missed. It all came packaged and wrapped with a pretty bow like it was the truth but none of it came with proof.
So now, when it matters and the stakes suddenly felt very real, all you actually had was hearsay dressed up as knowledge.
At Hayvenhurst, that realization settles into tension because when you visit, you’re constantly aware that you’re not alone even when nobody is in the room. It’s Sunday, which means the place isn’t so super busy, just dispersed because it’s a day of rest for the Jacksons and people move through their own little corners throughout the day. Somewhere deeper in the house there’s the low sound of a television on, probably one of his siblings watching something. A door opens and closes somewhere down the hall, followed by the soft rhythm of footsteps that don’t belong to either of you.
That’s why you’re both moving like this, a little careful about it as Michael leads you down the hallway in sweats and a wrinkled t shirt he pulled on too fast. His hair is a little messy as you follow a step behind him in an oversized shirt that hangs off your shoulders and cotton panties underneath, barefoot against the polished floor.
When you two reach the bathroom at the end of the hall, Michael pushes open the door to let you in first, his eyes flicking toward the hallway checking whether anyone is close enough to hear or see. There’s a faint sound of a drawer shutting maybe, or someone shifting in a chair—but nothing that suggests someone’s coming.
Inside, the bathroom is lit by the soft spill of light from the small bathroom window. He closes the door gently, careful not to let it click too loud.
You pull down your panties, the fabric sticky with the combined evidence of both your arousal and Michael’s release as you sat on the toilet seat. You can see the large wet spot clearly from here and you shift by spreading your thighs a bit, feeling a slow and steady leak.
Michael is sitting near the sink cabinet back against the door, elbows resting on his knees.
“’s supposed to work..” She says softly.
“Mhm?” He tilts his head a little. “You really think so?”
“Mhm.. well, I hope so..” She nods, chewing on her lip. “Your dad would kill me if I got pregnant..”
“I wouldn’t even let him near you, Tinker..” He huffs
After a couple seconds, you feel something warm in your bladder.
“Oh, Mikey.” She closes her thighs a bit. “Have to pee..”
“Go ahead,” he says immediately, soft about it like it’s not something she needs permission for—oh, he’s in love.
“Close your ears,” she whines. “’s embarrassing.”
He lets out a small, easy breath and turns his head away, obliging without hesitation. “I don’t mind, really.” He adds quieter this time.
He stays turned anyway, giving her space.
A few minutes pass in silence. She’s still sitting there, knees drawn together, staring at the floor while Michael remains nearby, quietly keeping her company.
Then she suddenly looks up. “What if I sneeze?”
Michael glances over. “Pardon?”
“What if I sneeze really hard?”
He frowns slightly. “Sneeze?”
“So your stuff comes out.” The answer is delivered with the complete sincerity of someone desperately trying to solve a problem. “My cousin told me about that!”
For a moment, he just looks at her. “You think you can sneeze it out?”
“I don’t know,” She admits. “Maybe, feels like there’s still some in there..”
The idea sounds strange, but neither of them knows enough to explain why. At this point they’re willing to consider almost anything.
Then she perks up slightly. “Black pepper.”
“What about black pepper, Tinkerbell?”
“It makes people sneeze.”
Michael thinks about it for all of two seconds. “Okay. I’ll go get some.” And before she can say another word, he’s already getting to his feet.
The house feels almost unnervingly normal compared to the panic upstairs. A television murmurs somewhere in the den. Somebody laughs from another room. A faint jingle of keys at the door.
He finds the little glass pepper shaker beside the stove and grabs it without hesitation, but the moment he turns toward the stairs, a voice stops him.
“What’re you doing, son?”
Michael nearly drops the shaker, slowly looking up to find Joe standing in the hallway, watching him with mild curiosity.
Michael just stares back then he looks at the pepper in his hand.
“(Name) needs it for her sinuses..”
Joe's eyes flick down to the shaker. “Black pepper.”
Michael swallows and nods, doing his best to appear casual. Unfortunately, casual has never been one of his stronger skills when it came to interacting with his father
“For her sinuses,” Joe repeats.
“That’s what she wanted..” Another pause.
Joe studies him for a moment longer, clearly aware that something about this interaction makes absolutely no sense.
But eventually he just shrugs.
“If you say so.”
Michael nods once then immediately heads for the stairs before another question can be asked.
His grip tightens around the pepper shaker as he takes the steps two at a time, relieved to have escaped the conversation. Explaining that he needed the pepper because his girlfriend was attempting to sneeze away a pregnancy scare would have been a considerably more difficult discussion.
After Jolyne have moved out, Jotaro was finally able to move to a beach house without risking his daughter's needs.
You, his spouse, came with him. At first, you thought it would be sweet and cute, maybe even sexy. Nothing hotter than seeing your husband coming out of the water in the tightest swimming suit.
That until you entered his hole office and found a massive fish tank. At first, you just assumed he's finally keeping pets. For years, he refused to get one in fear of hurting Jolyne, even if you promised that Jolyne is smarter than sticking her hand in.
But once you got closer, you noticed there is someone already there, and they are staring at you. It seems that it didn't like your face very much, as it immediately marched forward to try and.. Punch you?
"Don't." Your husband's voice surprised you from behind, he didn't even look up from his microscope, let alone turn around to actually see you. "She's injured."
"How and when?" You asked, baffled. You've been married for long, yet it's no less of a surprise how quiet this man can be. Bringing a literal tank and whatever is this without you knowing.
"I had the tank for a while," He finally turned around, walking towards you. "I filled it yesterday and brought her in."
"How do you know it's a she?" You questioned, leaning forward again to try and figure it out yourself. Summoning everything that you learned from him, you still didn't come to a conclusion. "Wait, wait! I think I got it."
He waited on you, genuinely wanting you to get it. Even if he's standing behind you, looking like he wants to do anything but be here. Living with him taught you to not see his face, but take his words and actions. You told him to wait, and he waited. If he didn't want to, he would have told you to get out.
"Is she.. Bigger?" You wondered. That thing seemed to be the case for most animals, especially sea animals, the female is always larger than the male.
He shock his head, but he didn't scoff. He didn't think your question is dumb, he basically said good guess.
"Is the male more colorful?" You asked, noting how her colors are a bit dull. Another thing you learned from studying with Jotaro is that males are more colorful to attract females.
He nodded, yet still didn't conform it's the only reason. There more to it, what else has he taught you. It was one of your most intimate ways of showing interests, you always ask him about his studies, genuinely listening and enjoying learning from him.
"Oh, is it the reproductive organs too?" Your voice raised in hope, maybe it's what you can't see. Jotaro, a professional, would be able to tell just looking at the creatures body. Something you found so fascinating.
He nodded again, moving forward to the tank. "This is a female Mantis Shrimp."
"Oh! I remember those!" Joy filled your body when he said something you recognized. "The ones who hit hard? Fast as a bullet?"
He looked back at you, pleased. Or as pleased as he can look, anyone who would see his face would call you delusional for thinking so. "Yes, those." His arm reached up for something, a powder you don't know its use yet. "I found her on my last dive."
"Awh," You cooed dramatically, a hand on your chest rested gently. "and you so sweetly thought you can bring a creature that can break the tank to our home, how nice."
"She won't." You can't see him, as he poured the power in turning the water even more blue, but you can hear his eye roll. "The tank is strong."
You sighed hopelessly, of course you trust him to know what he's doing, but you can't help but worry at times. He can be too sure of himself sometimes, making him overlook somethings, even if he's smart enough to come up with a plan on spot, you'd prefer that no water would soak the carpet.
"I'll leave you and your mistress alone," You gently pat his shoulder, a signal for him to turn around. He did, without a thought, and you kissed his cheek. He didn't comment on the joke, but you felt his jaw tensed. He didn't like when you make those jokes, even if you don't believe he'll ever betray you, he still prefers if you didn't even joke about it. "dinner is on the table."
You left the office, hoping you won't hear the sound of breaking any time soon. Maybe after the lady leaves, a new one will arrive.
Actually, you should go back to try and convince him on getting Jellyfishs. His excuse of Jolyne getting hurt is not valid anymore.
I just wrote it on a whim, trying to come back to writing fanfics publicly, so I'll just publish it without over thinking it. I haven't publish anything since I was 15, 6 years ago bro..
“exactly,” he said, lifting the camcorder. “do that again.”
“you want me to cut a strawberry again?”
“baby, you’re smiling.”
and to everyone else, it makes no sense. he’s filming things that seem ordinary.
you pushing your glasses up your nose in one of his oversized shirts, you curled up asleep on the couch with a book slipping from your lap, the way you laugh with your whole body when you find something funny, in the mirror; the way you fix his collar before he leaves, you doing a little spin while doing a try-on haul for him, the little wrinkle in your nose when you’re concentrating.
because to michael, that’s you. that’s the woman the song is about. meanwhile, you start getting embarrassed.
“you have actual cameras for this video, baby.”
“mm-hm.”
“then why are you following me around with that thing?”
he lowered the camcorder just enough to grin at you. “because they don’t see you the way i do, doll.”
and maybe you think he’s joking until you catch him one night in the studio, editing.
hours of footage.
no choreography, no special effects.
just you.
laughing. talking with your hands. falling asleep against his shoulder. looking out the window during road trips on tour. looking up at him with that expression you don’t even realize you make.
he notices you standing in the doorway. “michael…” he paused the tape.
“i know it isn’t exciting?” he cheesed.
“you’ve been filming me for weeks.”
“…i wanted to remember,” he admitted quietly. “the way you are right now.”
“what do you mean?”
“people change. time changes.” he glanced back at the frozen frame of you laughing at something off-camera. “i know i’ll always love you. i just…” he swallowed. “i don’t ever want to forget this version of you. the way you laugh, the way you look at me, the little things nobody else notices.”
and you just completely break because you finally understand that the music video isn’t really a music video.
it’s a love letter, a time capsule if you must. proof that you were loved in the ordinary moments, too.
now, he has the finished video playing privately in your living room before it’s ever released.
the final shot isn’t glamorous at all.
the camcorder shakes a little as michael turns it toward himself.
“you filming yourself now?” you teased.
“i need evidence,” he said.
“of what?”
he looked into the lens before turning it back to you, smiling softly from where you sat beside him.
“that i found the lady in my life.”
and the screen cuts to black right before your laughter fills the tape.
"fuck!" you cry, throwing your head back and letting your jaw go slack. clark is pistoning his hips against yours relentlessly, the only sounds in the room being the lewd skin slapping and the heavy panting and moans emitting from both of you.
"i know, honey" he coos, trying his best to be sweet verbally despite how rough he's being with you physically. "m'sorry babygirl" he tries.
the stretch was borderline excruciating. he was just too big. the funny part is he doesn't even know he's that big! or atleast he didn't know it until you started screaming complaining about it.
"s'too big, clark!" you mewl, squirming under him, but you can't help but arch into him. it's almost instinctive.
"just breathe, baby... breathe" maybe he should take his own advice, because he's barely able to take in a full breath with just how tight your gummy walls are squeezing and fluttering around him.
"i- can't-" the pleasure becomes overwhelming when clark reaches in between the both of you to aimlessly rub at your clit, anything to get you to stop whining. he immediately notices your eyes roll back and your breath hitch. "s'that better honey?" he asks, "that feel a little better?" you nod frantically, barely able to compute his sweet words as you feel yourself growing closer and closer to coming undone. the sniveling and the cries coming from you morph into delighted moans as the stretch becomes euphoric, his praises egging you on impossibly.
"there she is" he purrs, a small, knowing smirk playing on his face. "there's my girl" he litters your face with small kisses in an effort to calm you down as he continues his thrusts, growing closer to the edge himself.
"g-gosh- baby," he groans, his big fingers still working at your clit. "feels s'good clark!" you moan, right at the edge. "yeah?" he moans right back at you. "that feels good, huh?" he speeds up his thrusts, making you squeal. "feel me so deep, yeah?" he looks down and sees himself poking through your lower belly. he reaches down and presses on the bulge, making you wince at the tightness. the bulge is disappearing and reappearing with every thrust. "shi- shoot, honey" he mutters.
you feel the white hot band in your tummy snap, pleasure shooting through your body as you cry out his name. that alone is enough to push him over the edge as well. he cums deep inside you, fucking into you a few last times. you both lay there, panting. he's heavy on top of you, all 6'3, 235lbs of him laying sweaty on top of you (not that you mind). and of course, clark is quick to comfort you.
he pushes some of the hair out of your face, off of your damp, flushed skin. "you did so good, baby... m'sorry i was so rough" he speaks gently, kissing your forehead.
CLARK KENT’S sexual awakening never happened. His ma did enough to hide him from the more carnal parts of life, so imagine his surprise and borderline nose-wrinkle in sex-ed junior year when he found out what adults did behind closed doors.
Even when he grew up, got a job in the Planet, made his alter-ego known, he still didn’t feel the need to… have coitus. He was too scared he’d snap some poor girl in half if he tried.
The first time he ever tried, he’d barely got the tip in before he came, embarrassingly quick. Maybe it was the nerves of it all, maybe his body was eager to get it over with. Safe to say, that girl — as lovely as she was — broke up with him a week later because she felt like he was just in pursuit of his own pleasure. Not true, by the way, his ma always told him to think of the lady first.
Like every Monday, he was pushing his way through the Metropolis work crowd, against the tides of people. Not really looking where he was going, trying not to drop an iced tea — Lois forced him to try it, just to be clear — on any unsuspecting people by holding it high above possible shoulders.
That failed.
In the pursuit of not splashing anyone with peach iced tea, he forgot to look straight and collided straight into someone, sending a drink flying into a silk dress.
Oh, no.
He watched in horror as the material dampened, clung to your body, and became slightly more sheer by the second. “Golly, I’m so sorry—”
The subsequent scoff nearly tore into his self-esteem battery for the day. “Hey, watch where you’re…”
Your eyes locked. All anger faded away, replaced by the dread that you hurt this sexy behemoth of a man’s feelings and he now hated you forever. “… you know what? No worries, don’t— don’t think about it too much.”
He instantly shrugged off his blazer and held it out to you. “But your dress— great dress, by the way,” it was a… really pretty dress, golly, “it’s ruined. I ruined it. I can pay for the dry cleaning.”
You waved your hand noncommittally, but you took the blazer anyway to cover up, it was massive on you. Lord— wait, he shouldn’t take his name in vain. “Seriously, I’m fine. I was on my way to a bachelorette party, one of my friends there will definitely have a spare, she has one for everyone.”
He blinked. “Everyone?”
“Yeah.” You grinned, gosh, it was a pretty smile. “She’s like that. Weird, I know. And— don’t worry about the dry cleaning, I’ve got it. I’m sorry about your drink.”
“No, you saved me.” He laughed nervously. “My coworker forced me to try it, to tell y’the truth, I did not want to.”
“So I saved you.”
“Yeah.” He rubbed the back of his curls, messing them up even more. “And please. Please bill me for the dry cleaning, I’ll feel bad if you don’t.”
“Fine. Fine.” You laughed, rolling your eyes. “I’ll bill you.” Locking eyes with him once more took the words from his lungs. Good Lord, those eyes were sexy. All of him was sexy, in a cute way, bumbling gait, pushing his glasses up his nose, the rosiness of his cheeks. You checked your watch. Fuck. “Well, I’m in a rush, so—”
“Yeah, you gotta—”
“See you.” You began walking off at a fast pace. Something jolted in his navel. He felt hot from embarrassment. His relaxed-fit trousers felt… not so relaxed anymore.
He looked down. That looked like a sexual awakening.
“Clark!” He yelled loudly, head snapping up to stare at you like a dishevelled deer in headlights. What the hay? Why did he do that? Why did he yell that? He covered his crotch with his messenger bag.
Your smile told him you noticed. With an uptick in your heart rate and an increase in your breathing’s heaviness, a sweet smell tickled his nose. It wasn’t the bakery next to him, that’s for sure. You smiled, and shouted back your name at the same volume.
He hurried to the nearest bathroom to yell at his body.
Cat slid onto his desk, setting core in front of him. Not for him, clearly. “I was at a bachelorette last week.” She started, tapping her nail on his desk to get him to look at her. Deadlines needed to be crunched, so he barely did. She accepted that.
Clark’s fingers kept flying. “Cat, you’re gonna have to be more specific.”
She laughed. “I have a friend. She asked me about a dorky guy named Clark Kent who still writes his name on the tags of his clothes.” She dropped a sugar cube into her coffee, stirring it. “A habit I thought we left back in our sophomore year of high school.”
His neck turned red. His foot covered the name tag on his bag’s handle. But she laughed and dropped another sugar cube into. He sent a furtive glance of concern for her health. “Whatever.” She sighed, taking a long sip. “I told her you were single.”
He almost spluttered over no liquid. “What?”
“I told her you were single.” She repeated simply.
“Why?”
“She asked.” This time he almost choked on a gulp of straight, bitter black coffee. “I gave her your number. To bill you for the dry cleaning.” Pause for an effectively captivating sip of over-sweetened coffee. “Among other things.” She muttered under her breath, but he caught it. She smiled widely. “Toodles!” She got up and walked off.
He threw his hands up, tripping over his words. “Cat— you can’t—” But she was in her own world, singing Freak by Doja Cat.
His phone buzzed. With shaking hands, he opened it, unknown number.
Didn’t know they made clothes in your size. Underneath: Wanna come round to get it this weekend? To talk to bit.
He saved your contact first. Before typing out a clumsy agreement, which he didn’t know was possible over text. Judging by how you didn’t immediately get put off, you were into it.
He was on time, on the dot of the agreed time, which was two o’clock. After lunch, before it got too dark, but still enough time to talk.
He’d cleaned up a little more than usual. Tried to use a hair pomade to ensure his curls weren’t as wild as they usually were. Wear a slightly tighter fitting shirt than before. Brush his teeth. Pop a few breath mints. Avoid the morning coffee, put on copious amounts of hand lotion and lip balm. Everything had to be perfect. He even trimmed his happy trail for this.
You laid the plan. Took a shower so your skin was dewy. Prepped your hair. Kept the makeup minimal, because a full beat would give the plan away. You chose your best, flowiest robe.
You wanted him to unwrap you like a present.
When your doorbell rang, you dabbed on a final bit of lipstick before you chucked it onto a side table and opened the door.
You felt your thighs rub together on instinct the moment you saw him. He felt his breath leave his body when he saw you, checking his watch. “Maybe I’m early—”
“You’re on time.” It came out more breathless than expected. Nodding back into your apartment. “I… I have your jacket. I put it in the wash, the inside got stained with a little iced tea.”
“You can bill me for that too.”
“Seriously? No.” You waved your hand. “No. You’re fine.” You ushered him inside. “It was a thank you, for paying for my dry cleaning and lending me your jacket.” You waved him towards the couch. “Can I get you anything? Water?”
You.
“Um, I’m fine.” He sat on the couch, you sat opposite, picking up a glass of wine that was there before he came. You looked… stunning. He felt his collar get hot. He tugged at it. “You invited me to watch a movie.”
“Yeah.”
“Do you still want to watch a movie?”
“No.”
“Oh. Oh. I was under the impression that we’d be…” He gestured in between you two. So he had the same assumption you did.
Your lips curled up. “I was under that impression too.”
He nodded. You could see a bulge slowly growing in his trousers. “I mean, I— I have to warn you, I’m not that… experienced.”
You blinked, slightly amused. A little interested. “Oh? How so?”
“I…” He made a weird motion, he didn’t even know what it was supposed to mean. It’s likely get interpreted as something like flying a plane, “finish too quickly. Women find it off putting.”
The way you were looking at him, it seemed like you found it off putting as well. Just frozen in time, sat there, staring at him. “That’s…” You let out a whoosh of air. Then your hand gripped his jaw, “really fucking hot—”
Oh. You were into it.
Huh. You were kissing him.
Golly. He was kissing back.
His hand covered the one holding his jaw, pressing into your lips and your body instinctively like there was a magnet from him to you. You pushed back, swinging a leg over both of his till your knees knocked into his hips. This was new.
You smiled when you saw his other hand hovering awkwardly. Not knowing whether he had the right to touch beyond what was respectful. So you guided it to your thigh, fabric moving and bunching under his fingers. Allowing him to touch bare skin.
Oh, boy.
The soft whine from the bottom of his throat was a boost to your ego, a deep moan following when you pressed open mouthed kisses to his neck, rolling your hips forward. “Ohhhhh, gosh,” He breathed out slowly.
Oh, fuck. He was massive. Though you didn’t know what to expect, he was six-five.
Both his hands flew to your hips, pads of his fingers pressing into your skin, head tipping back against the sofa cushions, breathing in sharply. He could feel you gently sucking on his skin, he knew it wouldn’t leave a mark, but he whimpered quietly anyway, dragging your hips forward, so he could feel your pussy drag over his dick yet again. His head spinning as your tongue traced over his Adam’s apple.
Your hands slipped off his tie like you’d had practice, popping the buttons of his shirt slowly. You felt his warm palms burning up your waist, stopping at where your robe was tied at your front. His eyes were wide, blinking up at you through his lashes. “Can I…?”
Fuck, he was hot.
You undid the tie yourself but let him gently move the fabric off your shoulders, undoing his belt and letting you take off his trousers. His cheeks flushed as he dragged his boxers down, cock painfully hard. It was pretty, flushed at the tip, pre smeared just a little.
Oh, that was a lot bigger than you manifested.
“Oh, shit.” You grinned at the sight of him, watching his whole face turn red.
He adjusted his foggy glasses, stumbling over his syllables. “Will it…” He gulped, wondering how to say it, “fit?”
The look in your eye almost made his heart stop. Like you didn’t care. “Oh, honey.” You laughed a little. “We’ll make it.” You positioning yourself above him, ready to sink down onto his throbbing cock was not something he expected to see. He let out a strangled sound, placing a hand on your arm. “Don’t you want me to… prepare you?”
“I’ve quite literally been prepared since the first time we met.” You grabbed a condom from — wait where did you get that from? — and tore it open delicately, giving it to him to roll on. He did, safety was key, and when you finally did lower yourself onto him— holy shit.
His forehead pressed to your shoulder, before he started pressing sloppy, whining kisses, almost making out with it as he felt your pussy grip him deliciously. So this was what he’d never felt drawn to. Until now.
He was stretching you out. A lot. For a guy so shy about his own abilities his endowment was something women only experienced in their wildest dreams. The more you learned, the more turned on you were.
Huh. That usually didn’t happen with men.
You let out a deep sigh as you sank down further, feeling his size fill you in the best way. His tip nestled against your cervix, pretty vein brushing your g-spot, fuck, maybe moving would feel too good.
But you did it anyway, small, cut-short gasps and moans jumping from your throat as he kissed his way back up to your lips so he could feed his own noises of encouragement into your mouth. Holding your hips just tight enough so he wouldn’t bruise them, still guiding you firmly, still holding your hips just close to him as he clouded your brain over with every push and pull of his hands and each wet smack of his lips and yours (and skin on skin, but we don’t mention that).
His head was fuzzy. Mumbling shit he couldn’t make out himself in between every collision of your lips, tangling one hand in your hair while the other slipped down to press his thumb onto your clit.
You clenched hard; he almost came right there.
His eyes rolled back for half a second and he willed himself not to finish too early but he couldn’t stop it once you clamped down with the second roll of his thumb, your name leaving his mouth, the highest you’d heard his voice be, cracks in between syllables feeding your ego. But he kept circling your clit like he was born to do it, mumbling encouragement, his forehead glistening as his head fell back.
“C’mon, sweetie, gotta make you feel good too,” He panted, gripping your hip so he could encourage you to grind forward into his thumb. “Please, please give it to me—”
It all felt too much. The onslaught of his thumb, his tip still prodding at your cervix, seeing him fucked out from one round (that made you more horny than you’d care to admit) had you coming too, him swallowing that moan by meeting your lips in the middle, stroking your hair back from your face and rolling his hips up a little so the high wouldn’t be harsh on you. His kisses turned slower, more languid, to the corner of your mouth, your jaw, your neck, finally lifting your hand so he could kiss your palm and the back of your hand.
“You’re stunning.” He breathed, kissing your knuckles. “So beautiful, honey.”
How the fuck was he respectful after the best sex you’ve ever had? There had to be a catch.
“So… that was hot.” You smiled, brushing his curls back from his forehead. “You were being pretty modest.”
“I’m pretty sure I didn’t last past two minutes.”
Your tongue traced your canine as you smiled. “Well, I wanna see it again.”
summary// you ended up realizing that making clark your lab rat would simultaneously be the best and worst decision of your relationship.
content warning// conditioning, mating press, doggy style, nasty filthy sex, creampie, clark is feral, clark has an alien dick, clark swears, improper use of x-ray vision, kryptonian breeding kink, squirting, clark is pathetic
2k words whew
with clark kent fucking you like that, you don’t think you’re making it out alive.
well, your fault for trying to experiment on a poor, farm-grown kryptonian.
.
on monday, on the evening, you decided that you could begin your sick little experiment of conditioning on clark. after reading an article about it online, you wanted your alien boyfriend to be your lab-rat for it, and saw no apparent downsides to the experiment, so you went on with it.
starting with the trigger, you decided for it to be a duck emoji. weird enough for clark to be confused, not too weird for it to have him worrying like the sweetheart he is. ten minutes before you arrived home after work, you had sent him a singular duck emoji with no context or follow-up to it, which, as expected, had your poor clarkie as confused as ever. you smiled when he immediately texted back with ‘???’—success. as soon as you arrived home, you barely let him finish his questioning before pouncing on him, interrupting his sentence with a kiss he welcomed with open arms.
that night, you rode the man to the moon and back—gave him such mind-numbing pleasure that he couldn’t even bother to remember his previous confusion about the duck emoji.
and so, with the first day being a success, you repeated the process.
every day following that one, you would do the same thing—no texts or news all day, a duck emoji ten minutes before coming home, mind-blowing sex.
after a few days of repeating the process, you began to space out these encounters, opting to send the duck emoji every two to three days—a great way to keep the man on his toes, anticipating, waiting for the next time you'd send him that emoji.
then came the most awaited experiment—your greatest mistake.
it was on a friday night that you had decided tonight was the night. you had sent clark the usual duck emoji, smirking as he had immediately seen the text. however, when you arrived home, it wasn't like usual. usually, upon sending the emoji, you'd pounce on him and drag him to the bedroom. tonight, however? radio silence. well, not quite, but that's it felt to clark. you didn't give him those bedroom eyes you usually did on nights you were feeling particularly needy, you insisted on taking a shower all by yourself (he almost crumbled at that) and after dinner, you lounged on the couch to watch a tv show without even asking him to follow you! you just did!
the thing about clark kent is, he's a gentleman through and through. his ma had raised him to be one, and for christ's sake, he was superman! how could he not be a gentleman? but, he sympathizes with himself, you can't spell gentlemna without man, and clark was a man before he was anything else. a very aroused and hopelssly in love man, at that.
he stands awkwardly in the doorway of the living room, staring at you. you noticed, of course, but this wasn't unusual. clark has always had sort of weird quirks—you had always found them endearing. "is something the matter, honey?" your sirupy voice cut through his stream of thought, and suddenly his eyes focus again, gaze meeting yours.
clark has his phone in hand, and he brings it up to look back at the duck emoji you had sent. duck meant sex. you wanted this. he can indulge. you want this.
he knows you do. you sent the text, and he feels like he can almost smell your arousal and it's driving him fucking insane because he just wants to dive in it and taste it and fuck you everywhere so the entire place smells like you and-
in the blink of an eye, his phone is abandonned and he's on you, lips smashed against yours. you barely have the time to react but you do, arms now hanging around his thick neck. his hand latches itself onto your cheeks, fingers pressing into both of them, urging you to open your mouth. as soon as you do, his tongue, which was inhumanely long, snaked into your cavern, exploring its depths. he moaned at the taste of your saliva, almost melting into you as if the flavor of you was his ultimate salvation.
noticing the lack of air filling your lungs, he pulled away, his eyes softening at the sight of you catching your breath. "c-clark... what's... whta's gotten into you?" you licked your lips, face flushed. he looks at you like a puppy begging for its treat. "the emoji... you sent the emoji but you didn't... i thought..." his mind is a rush, moving at a thousand miles per hour as his entire body is begging him to rip your clothes off and take you.
he gives up, his head falling into the crook of your neck. "i just... i really need to fuck you, sweetheart." and as he's confessing this, his hand is gliding towards the waistband of your bottoms, sliding swiftly underneath it.
you think you could ascend.
you bite your lip, rendered mute at the sheer tension of the moment. "i know you want it, baby..." he scoffs, eyes closed. "can smell it."
curse him for being such a dangerously hot and multi-abled alien.
his hand makes its way underneath your panties, finger running through your slit, collecting the slick you've been trying to keep to yourself for the past hour. "ah..." you let out a low sound, almost imperceptible but clark was so hyper-focused on you that the little moan made him shudder.
he uses his forearm to push himself upwards, his hand escaping your bottoms to rush up to his mouth, and when you look at him, you gasp, feeling your walls clench.
because clark has never looked this feral.
his eyes were half-lidded and impossibly dark, his adam's apple bobbing as he swallows your juices, eyes nearly rolling back at the taste. he moans, his cock twitching and growing inside his sweatpants.
"you're gonna give it t'me, right sweetie?" he asks in that low, sultry voice that he only allows himself to use when he'd rather die than not touch you.
the eager nod you gave him marked the moment you knew you were done for.
.
how long has it been? you don't know. you don't know anything, actually. your brain is fogged with how clark was pounding you into the fuzzy carpet, your eyes crossing when the buds running along his dick grazed against the ridges of your walls, the added sensation making you spasm. "f-ffuck-! clark- oh my god, ohmygod—" you can barely form a sentence, let alone link two words together when he knocks at your cervix, your tits bouncing in rhythm with every thrust.
and clark isn't even listening to you, his eyes laser-focused on the sight of his cock splitting you open repeatedly, a vein bulging on his forehead at his intense use of his x-ray vision. "look at that, b-baby... look..." and you don't even bother, too lost in the ecstasy. he sees it all though, the strings of your arousal clinging to his tip every time he pulls away, the ridged of your pussy hooking onto his buds, the contractions of your muscles.
he finally manages to pull his eyes away from the sight, only to be met with the even prettier, albeit messier sight of your fucked out face. tears and drool glossed your skin, your eyes rolled back nearly to the back of your skull, throwing your head back when clark's hips stutter against yours, a white-hot wave washing over him over the sight.
he stilled when his buds hardened and hooked onto your walls, pulling him impossibly deep as he shoots buckets worth of cum deep into your womb. "a-ah! holy sh- hmm, fffuck, baby- i- fuck!" he sobs, jerking down towards you and you moan at the feeling of him filling you up once more, droplets of his sweat dripping onto your buzzing skin.
despite his orgasm, he doesn't stop, "n-need m-moree- needa fill you up-! ah, fuck!" his voice jumps up an octave when his buds finally relax again, allowing him to keep pistoning into you. "d-don't stop, clark! please dont- oh-!" he suddenly grabs your thighs, throwing them over his shoulders before beeending down, succesfully folding you in half. his face is now slotted right in front of yours, and the eye contact is so intense you almost feel shy under his gaze.
a mating press. clark kent had you in a fucking mating press.
you get lost in his ocean blue eyes, barely able to keep the eye conatct when he fucks you almost like he hated you, digging in your pussy. "you're... you're so beautiful, honey... so fucking pretty- all f'me, yeah? all f'me?" you nod, hands pressing against the back of his head to bring him impossiby closer to you, "all for you, clarkie," you confirmed being hastily pressing his against you, imprisoning him in a feverish kiss. clark moans into your mouth, eyes closing. you jolt slightly when you feel a tear drip down on your cheek, peeling your eyes open to see clark crying.
he pulls away, gasping for air as his throat restricts. "i l-love you, love you s'much— need you so, ngh, so bad... wanna breed ya'..." he sobs, whimpering for you. seeing clark become such a slave to his love for you had an inescapable effect on you, and your orgasm was almost immediate. you came with a gasp, the pleasure being so heavy that your eyes had given up on their function, unfocusing and leaving you with the blurry image of clark's flushed expression. your back arched as cream dribbled out of your hole, creating a white ring around clark's base.
in the midst of your orgasm, he pulls out, making you whine for the few seconds your face isn't smushed against the carpet because in a matter of moments, your world tilted before you found yourself face down ass up for your boyfriend. he pressed a hand on your back, urging a deeper arch. "m'sorry baby, m'so sorry..." he apologizes for the his unceremonial behavior but his apologies fall on deaf ears as you couldn't be happier.
your hands clutch the fluff of the carpet when he slams back into you, kneading the flesh of your ass. "just... just need this. s'your fault for making me wait... so long.. to have you- ngh, gosh..." he's hypnotized by the rippling of your ass, and the way your back bends impossibly for a second each time he rams back inside you, pressing you further into the carpet.
with clark kent fucking you like that, you really don’t think you’re making it out alive.
well, your fault for trying to experiment on a poor, farm-grown kryptonian.
your moans are rhythmic, matching the pace of his hips. leaning in, he wraps an arm around you to squeeze your tits, massaging them and rubbing your hardened nipples. "so obedient..." his comment makes your walls flutter around his fat cock. he begins to roll his hips, not quite thrusting. he presses against you, making you drool. "nghhh... fffuuuck... love you... so much.. c-clark-!" you slurred, going crazy at the sensation of his buds hardening slowly again, hooking onto your insides.
"w-want your cum-! want you to b-breed me!" you egged him on, "yeah? y'want it, baby? oh gosh, i'm cumming, m'cummingm'cumming-" he gritted, spilling into you once more. "oh my god! oh god, sweetheart!" he whined, your name escaping him as his hips bucked again, releasing rope upon rope inside you. his orgasm triggered yours, drops of your release trickled down onto the carpet before his hand snaked down to your clit, rubbing furiously and suddenly an intense stream released itself onto the now soaked carpet, the intensity of both of your orgasms making the two of you collaspe in a heap.
he layed on top of you, both of you catching your breaths. "i feel so... sticky." he remarked, "shit... i ruined the carpet." you groaned, knitting your eyebrows together.
a silence settled in, before you broke it. "i'm glad my experiment worked." a beat passes before he reacts, "experiment?"
"i tried conditioning you into associating sex with the duck emoji. it worked."
clarks hums, choosing not to react any further.
a few days later, minutes after the end of your shift, you receive a text from clark.
ㅤㅤ ㅤ⭑ pairing. coworker!clark kent x journalist!reader
ㅤㅤ ㅤ⭑ about.
there was one thing you knew for sure, absolutely certain : clark kent didn’t like you. not in an angry or rude way, he was still polite, still himself. but you could feel it. his body language and attitude gave everything away. your coworkers kept insisting you were wrong, but then why did he keep avoiding you? (wc: 12.690)
ㅤㅤ ㅤ.ᐟ warnings.
smut. unprotected sex. coworkers to lovers. idiots in love. insecurities. height difference. chubby reader.
ㅤㅤ ㅤᯓ masterlist.
⭑ more about them. and here.
It was no secret at the Daily Planet that Clark Kent was a gentleman. His coworkers liked to joke that his mama raised him right—but if only they knew, it was actually his pa who was the emotional one.
Still, the truth stood : Clark Kent had been raised right.
He brought coffee to his colleagues in the morning, at least when he wasn’t running late. If someone forgot their wallet, he’d quietly pick up the lunch tab, never expecting to be paid back. He always volunteered for the articles no one else wanted to write, the stories everyone avoided.
That’s just Clark. A pleaser, through and through.
It did wonders for the office. You hadn’t met a single person who didn’t like Clark, he made it so easy to appreciate him. A gentle, big man with a heart of gold, who could hate that? You certainly didn’t. But still, you couldn’t shake the feeling that he didn’t like you.
Every time he walked past your desk, he avoided your gaze, eyes low and fixed on the floor, hiding his face from you. Sure, he never left you out of his little acts of kindness, bringing your favorite vanilla latte to your cubicle next to Jimmy’s with that soft, polite smile, but he never lingered. Not the way he did at other people’s desks.
At first, you chalked it up to being the new hire. But as the months slipped by, you started to realize, he just didn’t like you all that much. Which was a shame, really, considering the rather enormous crush you’d developed on the man.
You had done a marvellous job of hiding it. You were always polite with Clark, but you never stared too long, never asked your coworkers about him, never lingered by his desk longer than necessary. Still, every time he was near, your heart would pound like crazy, ready to burst right out of your chest. It was ridiculous.
Almost 26, and you still had crushes like you were in high school. You’d thought you were past all that, especially after enduring so many terrible dates. Maybe the problem wasn’t you, maybe it was the men of Metropolis. Because you seemed to have no trouble falling for a man from a small town lost somewhere in Kansas.
“Hello!” snapped you out of your daydream, along with fingers flicking in front of your face. “Have you even been listening to me?” Jimmy asked, exasperation written all over his face.
Obviously not. You hadn’t heard a word.
“Of course, Jimmy,” you said quickly, looking him in the eye.
You’d been staring at the empty coffee cup on the corner of your desk, the very one Clark had brought you that morning. You grabbed it hastily and tossed it into the trash. It had been sitting there like a quiet taunt, mocking you with the reminder that you could never have the one man you actually wanted.
Jimmy frowned at your abrupt action but quickly moved on, picking up where he'd left off with his story about his latest date. You loved him—really, you did—he was one of your favourite coworkers. But god, did he talk a lot. And since your desks were practically conjoined, you were the default audience for all of his dating escapades.
It had been a long day.
You’d spent it covering yet another political scandal, this time in Gotham City. Something about the Mayor being killed. The details were murky, grim, and far too much for a Wednesday. You couldn’t help but wish the day would just end already.
Dropping your head onto your arm, you let out a groan as you remembered the errands still waiting for you. If you didn’t get to the store soon, you’d be dining on water and regret. If Jimmy noticed you disinterest in the conversation, he didn't act on it as he kept yapping about the girl he had seen the night before.
And to top it all off, you needed a new perfume, your old one was currently sitting in the bottom of your trash can, shattered into a hundred glassy pieces. Just one more little tragedy in a day full of them.
From the moment you woke up, it had been that kind of day. And you couldn’t wait for it to be over.
“Care for a drink tonight?” Lois’s voice cut through the room like a whip, barging in out of nowhere, and mercifully putting an end to Jimmy’s endless rambling.
Normally, grabbing a drink with coworkers would’ve sounded nice. Fun, even. But not tonight.
Your head was pounding, a dull, throbbing ache that had been building for hours. That’s when you realized, you hadn’t had any water today. Just coffee. So much coffee. And now exhaustion clung to you like the plague, dragging you down like a ball and chain around your ankle.
“Not for me…” you mumbled, face buried in your arms. “My head’s killing me, so… no drinks tonight.”
After a few worried words from Jimmy, which you quickly brushed off, he went right back to talking about his date. This time, to Lois. Which, unfortunately, meant he started the entire story over again from the beginning.
You sat up with a quiet groan, realising you still had about two hours left at work. Deciding to make good use of the time, you started preparing questions for your next interview, then moved on to editing your article about the Gotham City scandal, scheduled to run the next day.
Once you were fully immersed in your work, the background noise faded. Jimmy’s voice, Lois’s witty remarks, none of it registered anymore. It was peaceful, being tucked away inside your own head, fingers dancing across the keyboard with purpose.
Unfortunately, that peace did nothing for your pounding headache, especially since your glasses were currently sitting on your coffee table at home, forgotten yet again.
The voices around you quieted when a bottle of water appeared on your desk, followed by a single aspirin. They had been placed gently on the wood, carefully set down so as not to disturb your focus. It was a quiet, thoughtful gesture, tender in a way that caught you off guard.
Looking up, you found yourself met with soft blue eyes, warm and filled with concern.
“For your head,” Clark said simply, before turning back to his own desk under the watchful gaze of three stunned coworkers.
How had he known?
He’d been at his desk the whole time. When you mentioned the headache, your voice had been muffled into your arms, barely audible even to Jimmy and Lois, who were sitting right beside you.
But Clark? Clark had heard you all the way across the room?
You couldn’t begin to figure out the logistics of it, but your heart didn’t care. It tumbled over in your chest, stuttering at the unexpected sweetness of it all.
What you didn’t see, because his back was turned, was the small, knowing smirk tugging at the corner of Clark’s mouth as he sat back down.
When you turned your eyes back to your coworkers, both Jimmy and Lois were looking at you with raised eyebrows and matching, knowing smiles.
Jimmy had been teasing you about Clark ever since he caught you blushing the first time Clark brought you coffee. And Lois? She never missed a chance to mention the "energy" she claimed she could feel between the two of you, whatever that meant.
“Oh, fuck off,” you muttered, ducking your head and returning to your article as you twisted open the bottle of water. You popped the aspirin and took a long sip, trying to drown the heat rising in your cheeks.
For someone who didn’t seem to like you very much… Clark was oddly caring.
But that was just Clark. He cared about people, that’s who he was. Thoughtful, selfless, kind to a fault. You were part of his daily life, part of the Daily Planet team, and even if he didn’t like you that way, he would still care.
That’s just how he was. Clark Kent had been raised right. There was no denying that.
A few days later, it was your turn to be late to the Daily Planet. It was rare for you, almost unheard of, but some alien had decided to crash-land on Earth the night before, and the resulting battle with Superman had wrecked part of your subway line.
You’d ended up walking twenty minutes to the office, arriving late, sweaty, and just in time to miss the morning meeting. Your punishment? Covering sports for the day. Fantastic.
You hated sports. Ironic, really, considering some of your old dates used to joke about how unathletic your body looked. Those assholes.
When you finally made it to your desk, your usual iced vanilla latte was already waiting for you, right next to a fresh bottle of water. God. Did he have to be this thoughtful?
It made everything worse. Or better. You weren’t sure anymore. All you knew was that you liked him even more now, which was exactly the problem.
“Thought you were dead,” Jimmy said the second you dropped into your chair. “Was gonna swing by your place tonight and steal your vinyl collection.”
You shot him a flat look. “Yeah, well, if Superman hadn’t turned half the N line into a pile of concrete, I wouldn’t have had to walk twenty minutes to get here.” You groaned and took a sip of your coffee.
Sweet, cold, just how you liked it. The smallest part of you hated how good it tasted, because it meant he remembered exactly what you liked. Again. And of course, he’d made sure it was iced, the summer heat had already started hitting Metropolis like a brick wall.
Jimmy giggled beside you like a child. You glanced over to see him diving into his assignment, politics, the lucky bastard. He had a long day of work ahead, while you were stuck with nothing interesting. Groaning under your breath, you reached into your bag and pulled out your glasses, resigning yourself to a long, boring day. You already knew you were going to hate it.
“Hey.” A soft voice called from behind you.
You turned, half-expecting it to be someone asking for a stapler or sticky notes. But it was Clark. You offered him a polite smile, assuming, like usual, he was there to talk to Jimmy. You were already halfway turned back toward your screen when you noticed something strange : his eyes were still on you.
You raised a brow, unsure. “Hello,” you replied, voice cautious, heart beating fast. He looked like he was fighting back a smile.
God. That little almost-smile. Your heart tripped over itself. How could someone that big be so ridiculously cute? It made no sense. None at all.
“I know you’re not a fan of sports,” Clark began, his tone gentle, “and I got stuck with local news today… which I also know you like.”
Your heart stuttered. You didn’t even need to look, Jimmy was absolutely staring at the two of you, probably wearing that smug told-you-so smirk he always pulled when it came to Clark. He’d insisted for months that you were wrong, that Clark did like you.
“He’s just polite,” you used to argue.
“He’s polite to everyone,” Jimmy would say. “But with you? He’s thoughtful.”
And damn it, now it was starting to look like Jimmy might’ve been right.
“I asked Perry, and he said as long as we’re both okay with it, he doesn’t see any problem with us switching—” Clark stopped mid-sentence.
He’d stepped a little closer to your desk, his expression soft and earnest… but then something shifted. His brow furrowed slightly, as if catching something out of place. “You changed your perfume?”
Oh.
You had. The other night, when you finally made it to the store, they’d been out of your usual scent. You’d spent a good hour testing every bottle on the shelf until you found one you liked, something softer, quieter. No one else had noticed the difference.
But of course Clark did.
You blinked, caught off guard. He wasn’t even that close. You weren’t wearing much of it. How did he notice? You felt your heart knock hard against your ribs. There it was again, that strange awareness. Like he saw and heard and felt things other people didn’t.
“Yeah,” you said, keeping your voice casual even as your pulse betrayed you. “Just trying something new.”
Clark didn’t say anything right away. His gaze lingered a little longer, thoughtful, before that small, secret smile tugged at the corner of his lips again. You didn’t know what that smile meant. But you were starting to want to.
“Anyway,” he said quickly, as if realising how odd his comment about your perfume might’ve sounded. “I figured you might want local news. I really don’t mind sports.”
He offered a soft smile as he handed you the annex documents.
“Oh, thank you so much, Clark,” you said, relieved and maybe a little too enthusiastic, swapping him the sports documents in return.
Your fingers brushed, just barely, and it sent a shiver down your spine. He was warm. Of course he was. He looked like he gave the best hugs. The kind you could melt into and forget the world existed for a little while.
You shook your head subtly, trying to knock the thought loose.
Now was not the time to imagine Clark Kent curled around you in bed during the dead of winter, holding you close while snow fell outside. Not the time to picture flannel sheets and his soft breath against your neck. Those kinds of thoughts were supposed to stay in your bedroom, late at night, when the lights were out and your imagination ran free.
Not in the middle of the office. Not in the middle of the day. And definitely not while standing in front of the actual man who starred in every single one of those fantasies.
You cleared your throat, eyes darting anywhere but his. “You’re a lifesaver.”
Clark gave you a look you couldn’t quite read, something quiet, maybe a little amused, but he didn’t press. Just nodded gently and stepped back toward his desk. And damn it, there went your brain again. Right back to flannel sheets and the curve of his smile.
“Girl, you are down bad,” Jimmy snorted from behind you, pulling you right out of your spiral.
Without even looking, you grabbed the first thing within reach, a ruler, and threw it at his head. It hit him square on. “Worth it,” he laughed, rubbing the spot before turning back to his screen.
You huffed and tried to do the same, shaking off the embarrassment and diving into your article. What you didn’t catch, too flustered and too focused on pretending not to care, was the quiet laugh Clark let slip from his own desk.
Soft. Low. Amused. Like he’d heard the whole thing…
You’d never been particularly fond of walking home.
The streets of Metropolis were always crowded, day and night, and ever since Superman had wrecked part of the N line, your commute had grown by twenty exhausting minutes each way.
Why was it so easy to smash half the city every month, but fixing it always took forever?
So you walked. Again. Winding your way toward the still-functioning stretch of the N line, where you could finally hop on a train for the last ten minutes of your journey. You were just passing a little corner restaurant when you heard your name.
Your full name. Spoken in a voice you’d come to recognize far too easily.
Clark.
Your heart jumped. Turning around, you caught sight of him instantly.
He looked the same as he had in the office, same button-up shirt with his sleeves now rolled up to the elbows, but somehow, he also looked softer. His hair had loosened in the summer humidity, and a single curl had fallen down across his forehead.
He looked good. Too good.
“Oh, hi, Clark,” you said, inwardly cringing at how small and soft your voice came out.
He smiled, warm and easy, walking toward you. “Didn’t expect to see you here. Never caught you around this part of town before.”
You shrugged, trying to keep things casual despite the way your stomach flipped.
“Oh, yeah, no, um…” You stumbled over your words, eyes flicking to the restaurant window behind him like it might save you. “Superman destroyed the N line near the office, so I have to walk all the way to the library station to catch the part that wasn’t damaged.”
Clark winced sympathetically. “Right. The whole N line mess.”
He’d been different with you lately.
Not dramatically, not enough to confirm anything, but just enough to keep your brain in a constant, swirling fog. He talked to you more. Not just about assignments, but about music, coffee, the weather, small things, personal things. His eyes stayed on you when you spoke, warm and focused. He lingered at your desk a little longer than he used to. Not like he did at Lois’s desk, all easy banter and playful grins, but still. It was something.
A start.
And right now, with his sleeves pushed up and that single rogue curl falling onto his forehead, it was definitely doing something to your heartbeat.
There was a pause, not uncomfortable, but charged, and you scrambled to keep the moment going.
“What about you?” you asked, voice softer. “You grabbing dinner?”
Clark nodded, smile easy. “Yeah. I like this place. It’s quiet, kind of tucked away. Close to home. Good food. I come here sometimes after work. Helps me think.”
His voice was slower now, more casual than at the office. The city buzzed around you, horns in the distance, the hum of summer heat, but this little moment between you felt strangely still.
“Have you eaten?” “Well, have a good night.”
You both spoke at the same time, the words overlapping, catching you off guard.
Laughter bubbled out from both of you, soft and awkward, as you stood there on the sidewalk, caught in that strange, fluttery space between goodbye and something more.
You were so drawn in by him, his eyes, his voice, the quiet warmth he carried, that you didn’t hear the teenager barreling toward you on a skateboard until it was too late. But Clark did.
Before the kid could slam into you, his hand wrapped around your forearm, firm, steady, warm, and in one smooth, instinctive motion, he pulled you into him.
The strength of it startled you. You knew Clark was strong, he was tall, broad-shouldered, always lifting stacks of paper like they weighed nothing, but this was different. He’d pulled you so quickly, so easily, it knocked the breath out of you. You stumbled forward, colliding with his chest, hands instinctively pressing against him to keep balance.
Solid. Warm. Safe.
Before you could even register how close you were, before you could say something awkward to ruin the moment, Clark gently let go of your arm, only after making sure you had your balance again.
“Want to grab some dinner with me?” he asked, like it was the most natural thing in the world. And really, how could you say no to that?
What you expected to be a quick dinner between coworkers turned into something else entirely, something easy. You shared the food you ordered, Clark was right: the place was good. Casual, quiet, with a back booth tucked away from the crowd where it was just the two of you and the low hum of the city outside.
You talked. About your lives. Childhood memories. Favorite music. Silly stories from high school. Your mutual hatred for Metropolis sports coverage when he told you he actually didn't like covering sports.
It wasn’t forced. It wasn’t awkward. There were no strained silences, no moments where you felt like you had to fill the space. The conversation simply flowed.
And for the first time in forever around him, your heart was quiet. Not because the feelings were gone. But because they finally felt safe.
Of course, Clark being Clark, he insisted on paying and walking you home, or at least to your subway station. He argued it was late, that the streets weren’t safe, as if you lived in Gotham City. That made you laugh. Ever the gentleman, he made sure to walk on the side closest to the road and even offered to carry your bag.
You had refused, obviously. Walking next to him felt strange. For one, he was so much taller than you, fitter, broader. Beside him, you almost looked like a child in comparison. You’d put on your nice skirt that morning, the one that made your ass look great, but it came with downsides, especially after meals.
Your stomach stuck out, bloated from the food, and with the heat, you hadn’t brought a jumper to hide it. That’s why you insisted on keeping your tote bag, slinging it on the side he was walking on, using it to shield your stomach from his view.
What you didn’t know was how Clark couldn’t help his eyes from drifting downward every time he fell a step behind you on the street, not on purpose, of course. But he couldn’t look away from the bounce of your ass, the way your thighs moved with each step. It was mesmerizing to him.
Finally, you reached the subway station. A bit too soon for your liking, it almost felt like you’d just been on the best date of your life. But it wasn’t a date, and Clark was still that coworker who, as far as you knew, didn’t like you all that much. Even if it didn’t truly feel that way anymore.
Maybe Jimmy was right?
“Well, you get home safe, alright?” Clark said, a small, knowing smirk playing at his lips. Knowing of what, you couldn’t quite figure out.
“Yeah, hopefully Superman took the night off,” you joked.
The smirk faded from his face, just a little, but enough. Maybe you shouldn’t have said that. You knew he and Superman were... friends, sort of. Clark was, after all, the only reporter in the city who ever got interviews with him.
Your subway ride was filled with secondhand embarrassment as you replayed everything you’d said tonight. You’d been awkward, not really that funny, and, overall, it felt like you’d talked way too much. But Clark had brought up topics you were passionate about, and once that happened, well... you yapped.
You shook your head, trying to shake off the uncomfortable weight of cringe. You’d apologize tomorrow morning, just to be safe. No need to give Clark another reason to like you even less.
Once you arrived home, you looked up at the sky, drawn by strange noises echoing above the rooftops. There he was, Superman, fighting off another threat from outer space. The battle was so close to your building you could see the entire scene unfold with startling clarity. That gave you an idea.
You made your way up to the rooftop, sat down, and pulled out your little notebook. You started writing it all out like a novel : vivid descriptions of the fight, the way Superman moved with precision, doing everything he could to avoid causing damage to the city. You noted how he kept trying to push the alien threat higher into the sky, away from civilians, careful not to hurt the beast more than necessary.
Perry would love these notes. Maybe he’d even let you cover the attack for the paper tomorrow. You kept writing, capturing everything, even the moment the Justice Gang showed up to help contain the creature, working together to finally subdue it.
The air up on the roof was lighter, breezier than the stifling heat you’d endured all day, and it made you want to stay. So you fetched your laptop, opened a blank document, and started shaping your article. Even if you hadn't officially covered the attack, yet, Perry would greenlight it, he always did when your writing spoke for itself.
You lost track of time, deep in your work, until a soft cough interrupted your flow… from the sky?
You looked up quickly, startled, and there he was. Superman himself. You’d never met him in person, but then again, who hadn’t seen him? Everyone knew that face. You knew him even better than most, thanks to Clark, who was always going on about him, especially after those exclusive interviews.
“Well, hello, Miss,” he spoke first.
You snorted softly, eyes still on your laptop screen. Not exactly ignoring him, but definitely unimpressed. Typing away, you mumbled a half-hearted, “Hey.” Maybe you were still a little petty about the N line being down.
“You shouldn’t have stayed outside during the fight,” he continued, landing gently on the rooftop and staying a respectful distance away. “It got a bit too close to your building.”
“Hm?” you murmured, barely looking up. “Oh, yeah. I’ll be alright.” You waved off the concern, trying not to sound as dismissive as you felt.
But you could feel his confused gaze on you, lingering, slightly thrown off. Clearly, he wasn’t used to being ignored. That might do him some good. Might help deflate that ego a bit. You kept typing, your fingers flying across the keyboard, but a small part of you couldn’t resist. He was standing right there. And, honestly, he could be useful.
“So, would you say you were a little in over your head before the Justice Gang showed up?” you asked, voice casual, laced with dry sarcasm. “Because it kinda looked like it from here. The alien was clearly kicking your ass for a minute.”
You didn't mean it cruelly, just honest observation. He had looked a little overwhelmed at first.
Superman blinked, clearly not expecting that kind of feedback. His brow arched, just slightly.
“Is that your professional opinion?” he asked, his voice smooth but amused. “From the rooftop press box?”
You shrugged, not looking up from your screen. “Hey, I had the best seat in the house. Front-row view.”
He chuckled softly, the sound low and surprisingly human. Almost familiar. “I’ll admit, he had a few unexpected tricks. But I had it under control.”
“Oh, sure, no doubts,” you said, finally glancing up. “Right up until the part where you got slammed into a billboard. Very graceful.”
He smiled, wry, almost humble. “That was... tactical repositioning.”
You snorted. “Is that what you call getting launched like a ragdoll now? Tactical.”
“Well,” he said, folding his arms, cape fluttering just slightly in the breeze, “you’re welcome for the save.”
“You didn't exactly save me,” you teased, then added with a touch more bite, “Though I will say, I’m glad you didn’t take out the rest of the N line this time.” Your fingers hovered above the keys as you shot him a pointed look. “I wouldn’t have been nearly as nice in the article otherwise.”
Superman’s lips twitched, like he was fighting back a laugh, or a wince. “I see. So your forgiveness is tied directly to public transport?”
“Absolutely,” you replied. “I can forgive a lot, but making me walk fourty minutes everyday? That’s borderline villain behavior.”
He laughed, shaking his head. “Noted. I’ll add subway lines to the list of things to protect at all costs.”
“Good,” you said, returning to your typing. “Now if you don’t mind, I’ve got an article to write. Since I know you only give your interviews to Mr. Kent.”
You didn’t even try to hide the edge in your voice. Petty? Maybe. Deserved? Also maybe.
There was a pause. Then, with a teasing voice, Superman spoke again. “Jealous of Clark?”
You scoffed without looking up. “Please. I’m just saying, he gets exclusives, I get the N line destruction and a rooftop cameo.”
Another pause. A longer one this time.
“You know,” he said thoughtfully, “I’ve read your articles.”
That made your fingers freeze for just a second. You had written about Superman before, here and there. Not often, mostly because your beat was international politics. But he’d made waves recently with the Boravian government, and you couldn’t not cover it.
Unfortunately, you hadn’t exactly been... gentle.
“I don’t think you like me very much,” he said, laughing softly. Not defensive. Not wounded. Just amused.
“It’s not you,” you said quickly. “It’s your actions. You act like you’re above the law, above international conflict and diplomacy. It was just an objective piece, you know? Freedom of the press.”
You tried to keep it light. You really weren’t in the mood to argue with the most powerful metahuman on Earth.
“I’ve never doubted your objectivity,” he replied, his tone teasing. “You’re with the Daily Planet, after all. Home of the most brutally honest reporters in Metropolis.”
That earned a small, reluctant smile from you. But still, something nagged at you. The way he looked at you. The way he spoke, gently, like he already knew how you thought. The rhythm of his voice. That soft smile.
It felt like you knew him.
Not just in the he's a global figure kind of way. But personally. Intimately.
Your brows furrowed slightly as you stared at him. It was so familiar, and yet your brain couldn’t quite latch on to the why. You blinked and shook the feeling off, typing again. Maybe you were just tired. Or maybe Clark had spent too much time talking about this guy.
But the thought lingered.
“Anyway,” you said, stretching your arms with a dramatic sigh, “I’d better get back to my flat. Long day tomorrow, got to write about all the money your heroics cost the city. Call a few insurance companies… you know, the fun stuff.”
You flashed him a teasing grin as you gathered your things.
Superman chuckled. “Sounds thrilling.”
You headed toward the rooftop door, hand on the handle, but paused to glance back one last time. “Goodnight, Superman,” you said, softer this time. Genuine.
“Goodnight,” he replied, already turning slightly as if ready to take off, then paused. “Oh, and… I’m sorry about the N line. I’ll keep an eye on the tracks next time. Promise it won’t get destroyed again ma'am.”
There was a grin on his face as he said it, wide, smug, just a little too pleased with himself. A shit-eating grin. Then he was gone, vanishing into the sky with a gust of wind and a blur of red and blue. You stood there for a second, squinting up at the empty sky.
That grin. You knew it. You’d seen it before, up close, maybe even across the office.
But where?
After that night, Clark started acting... different.
Not in a dramatic way, he was still the same with everyone else. Polite, calm, a little awkward in the way only Clark could be. But with you, something had changed. He was more open, more playful. The teasing started subtly, soft jokes at your expense, quick little comebacks. Nothing cruel. Just familiar. Comfortable.
He stopped watching his feet every time you walked into the room. Stopped leaving the break room the moment you stepped in. And he actually talked to you now, full eye contact, even smiling sometimes like he meant it.
It was whiplash, honestly. Not that you didn’t like it, you did. You just couldn’t figure out why he’d changed his opinion of you so suddenly.
You hadn’t even had time to apologize for being a little too awkward during dinner that night, before he’d smiled and told you he’d had a great time. Then he suggested doing it again, once a week, until the N line was repaired.
Like a standing dinner appointment. A kind of compensation, he’d said. As if he had been the one who destroyed it.
Of course you’d agreed, on one condition: you got to pay next time.
He’d agreed, smiling that soft, unreadable Clark Kent smile. But it had been three weeks now. And somehow, you still hadn’t paid for a single meal. He never let you.
It was a weird dynamic.
Every dinner with Clark felt like a date. The kind Jimmy wouldn’t shut up about, candlelit, good food, long conversations full of smiles and eye contact. You didn’t really talk about them at work. You mentioned them here and there, but you stayed discreet.
Mostly because you were convinced you were overthinking them.
Clark was one of the kindest, most genuine men you knew. Gentle, respectful, always listening, he asked about your opinions, remembered little details you'd said in passing. And he looked at you like what you were saying mattered. Like you mattered.
But you couldn’t help but feel it was just friendliness. Nothing more.
Lois and Cat, of course, completely disagreed. They kept telling you you were letting your insecurities cloud the obvious. “He likes you. Like, actual likes you, likes you.” But no matter how many times they said it, the thoughts wouldn’t leave you alone.
Clark was beautiful, annoyingly so. Funny, in that dry, awkward way. Clumsy, in a way that made him human. And strong in a way that made your brain short-circuit if you thought too hard about it. He could have anyone in Metropolis. Girl, boy, model, athlete—you name it.
And still, your coworkers were convinced he wanted to date you. It didn’t make sense.
You weren’t ugly, at least, you didn’t think so. You just weren’t remarkable either. Mundane, maybe. And yeah, you were overweight. You knew it, even if you tried to act like it didn’t matter. But somehow, when Clark looked at you during those dinners, smiling like you were the best part of his evening, it truly felt like it didn’t matter.
And with every passing week, the dinners lasted longer.
Shaking your head, you looked down at your watch.
Right now, you were sitting in City Hall, waiting for your interview with the Mayor. You were investigating LuthorCorp and its suspicious investments in political campaigns and city projects as well as foreign politics. It wasn’t the first time you’d tried to dig into Lex Luthor’s operations, but every attempt had ended the same way.
He was too powerful. Too calculated. And absolutely unafraid to bribe, threaten, or manipulate any institution that stood in his way.
You’d already been waiting for hours, juggling other article drafts, answering Perry’s increasingly impatient calls every hour about your progress with the Mayor. Which, so far, was absolutely nonexistent.
It was getting dangerously close to the end of your workday—and the end of the Mayor’s. You could already feel the familiar sting of a wasted afternoon.
Looking up from your laptop, you spotted the Mayor’s secretary walking toward you. The expression on his face told you everything before he even opened his mouth. You sighed, here we go.
“I’m sorry,” he said, voice syrupy-smooth in a way that only made it more irritating. “But the Mayor won’t be able to meet with you today.”
You almost admired the effort he put into sounding polite, almost. But you knew the truth : everyone in this building hated reporters. Especially the ones who asked the kind of questions you did.
“Tell him he won’t be able to avoid reporters forever,” you said, not bothering to hide the edge in your voice. “And to stop wasting people’s time.”
You shoved your things into your bag with practiced frustration, snapping your laptop shut and slinging the strap over your shoulder. You stormed out through the main doors, the late afternoon sun catching in your eyes as you stepped onto the front steps of City Hall.
You didn’t get far.
An unfamiliar voice called your name from behind you. You froze mid-step, your stomach already sinking. Turning around, you found yourself face-to-face with none other than Lex Luthor himself, stepping smoothly out of the building like he owned it, which, in a way, he probably did.
“I’m quite sorry you couldn’t meet with the Mayor,” he said as he approached, that infuriatingly calm smirk playing on his lips. “We had a lot to discuss.”
You scoffed, lifting your chin to meet his gaze without flinching. His eyes held no remorse, no real apology, only calculation.
“It’s fascinating,” you said coldly, “how every time I have an appointment with the Mayor, you just happen to show up, Mr. Luthor.”
Lex’s smirk deepened, a flash of amusement passing through his eyes like he was genuinely enjoying himself.
“Well,” he said smoothly, clasping his hands behind his back, “some would say great minds tend to orbit the same circles.”
You raised a brow, unimpressed. “Others would say it’s suspicious."
It was his turn to scoff.
You weren’t impressed by Lex Luthor, not like half the city seemed to be. To you, he was just a man. A rich one, yes, with a dangerous amount of power and polish, but still just a man.
For years, every reporter at The Daily Planet had tried to land an interview with him. None succeeded. Lex was meticulous about his image, controlling every frame, every word. He only appeared on talk shows where he could steer the conversation, only issued carefully worded statements, and never, not once, allowed a journalist past the doors of LuthorCorp.
This wasn’t your first interaction with him. But it was the first time you thought you might have a shot at playing the game differently.
“I thought reporters loved suspicious,” he said, stepping closer. Not enough to invade your space, but just enough to remind you of the power he wielded. Political. Financial. Personal. “It’s almost like you enjoy sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.”
You crossed your arms, meeting his gaze without flinching. “You make it easier than most, Mr. Luthor. Corruption has a way of attracting unwanted attention.”
His smirk deepened, sharp and knowing, like he was starting to enjoy the direction this was heading.
“Ah,” he said, tilting his head as though you'd just handed him a compliment. “Still, I admire your persistence. Most people back down after one roadblock. But not you. Or your little friends at the Planet.” He spat the word like it tasted rotten, the disdain unmistakable.
“Yeah, well,” you said, eyes narrowing slightly, “we’re not most people, I guess.”
You saw it then, a flicker of something behind his eyes. Anger. Not loud or unhinged, but tightly coiled, controlled. He was a master at that. Lex Luthor didn’t explode, he simmered, he plotted, he waited.
And so you shifted. Softened.
“But I must say, Mr. Luthor…” you added, letting your voice drop just slightly, almost shy, almost deferential. “You impress me too.”
That caught him. His gaze sharpened, not with suspicion, not yet, but with curiosity. You saw the faintest hitch in his breath, the flick of calculation behind his polished exterior. This was unfamiliar territory. Praise wasn’t your usual currency with him, and he knew it.
You smiled, just enough. Meek. Disarming. Let him take the bait.
“You look surprisingly well, considering how much you’re handling these days,” you said, voice casual, light. “Must be exhausting, juggling all those city contracts, private acquisitions… and now all this quiet financing of the Boravian conflict.”
His smirk faltered. Then vanished completely. Silence.
You could almost hear the gears grinding behind his eyes. Then, there it was, the slip.
“How do you know about that?” he snapped, the chill in his voice a sudden, biting thing. “There’s been no official statement.”
Got him. You smiled slowly, the kind of smile that didn’t bother hiding the satisfaction underneath.
“I didn’t,” you said simply, reaching into your jeans pocket. The small recorder glinted in your hand as you held it up between you. “But thank you for the confirmation.”
He stiffened. You stepped back.
“You’ll be hearing from us soon, Mr. Luthor, but I know you won't answer anyway,” you added smoothly. “Have a good evening.”
Then you turned, walking away before he could gather himself enough to spin it back in his favor. Your heart was pounding in your ears, adrenaline surging. You had a lead. You had a quote. And Lex Luthor had finally made a mistake.
Still riding the high of your small victory, you left the City Hall behind in a rush, already pulling out your phone to call Clark. It was supposed to be dinner night, but this couldn’t wait, you needed to tell him what had just happened.
Sure, it hadn’t been entirely ethical. But Lex Luthor never played by the rules, so why should you?
An hour later, you sat across from Clark at your shared table, half-typing, half-talking, your food long forgotten as you recounted every detail of the encounter. He listened patiently, his plate nearly empty, while yours remained untouched, your fingers dancing across the keys in a blur.
“So, let me get this straight…” Clark said, a warm laugh slipping out as he leaned back in his chair. “You didn’t actually record him?”
“Of course I didn’t,” you muttered, not looking up, still deep in the rhythm of your draft. You grabbed a quick bite, chewing fast before continuing, “Why would I have been recording him? It's not like I knew he was gonna talk?”
Clark shook his head, eyes soft, amused. “Not exactly your most ethical moment,” he teased, the smile tugging at his lips belying any real disapproval.
You shot him a look, playful and unrepentant. “Yeah, well, ethics get a little blurry when you're up against a guy who treats international conflict like a business expense.”
He grinned, taking another bite, still watching you like you were the most fascinating thing in the room.
“You know,” he said after a beat, “Perry’s going to lose his mind when he reads this.”
You smirked, finally pausing to glance at him. “Good. Finally got my front page.”
You looked up, and froze for just a second. He was staring at you with the kindest eyes you’d ever seen. Unwavering. Soft. Like you were something rare and remarkable. Like he saw all of you and still chose to look that way.
Your chest tightened unexpectedly. No one had ever looked at you like that. Not like you were just a reporter chasing a story, but like you were everything worth watching. Right on cue, your heart skipped. Flustered, you stabbed another bite of food with your fork and went back to typing, willing the blush from your cheeks.
Eyes still on your screen, you asked, trying to sound casual, “What? Do I have something on my face?”
He let out a quiet laugh, warm and low. “No. I’m just… proud of you,” he said, like it was the easiest truth in the world. “Even if it was a slightly debatable trick.”
You allowed yourself a small smile, hidden by the screen. “Slightly? You’re going soft on me, Kent.”
“Only with you.” He winked, finishing his own food.
That made you stop typing. Just for a beat. Then, you swallowed once, quietly, unsure if it was the food or the flutter in your chest, and resumed typing, pretending like the world hadn’t just shifted a little between you.
You spent the rest of the night writing, the soft clack of your keyboard mixing with Clark’s quiet commentary as he leaned over your shoulder. He offered suggestions here and there—cleaning up a sentence, pointing out a stronger lead, helping shape the tone without ever overshadowing your voice.
It was nice. Sweet, even.
You weren’t used to this kind of collaboration, gentle, unhurried, easy. The back and forth between you felt natural, like you'd been working this way for years.
Sometimes your hands would brush when you passed him your laptop, or when you reached over, completely shameless, to steal a bite of his second dinner. He gave up trying to stop you after the third attempt and just started ordering extra.
He was eating a lot. A lot. But then again, with a body like his, it made sense. Tall, broad-shouldered, solid in a way that felt permanent. You figured all that muscle had to be maintained somehow.
Still, every now and then, you’d glance at the empty plates piling up and mutter, “Where does it all go?”
He’d just grin, dimples and all, and say, “Good metabolism.”
You didn’t believe that for a second. But you didn’t press it either.
The article was nearly done. You were both full, him more than you, and the restaurant had settled into a comforting silence broken only by quiet conversation, shared glances, and the hum of the city through your open window.
Somewhere between line edits and midnight, you realized something dangerous.
You didn’t just like working with Clark Kent. You liked being with him. What had started as a small, harmless crush had grown into something massive, and dangerous.
It crept in quietly at first. But now? It lived in every glance he gave you. Every time his soft, thoughtful smile found you across the table. Every time his hand gently reached out to stop yours from biting at your nails when stress took over. Those small, careful gestures chipped away at your resolve until your heart ached just from being near him.
So when he walked you to the subway that night, the city glowing gold around you both, and pressed a kiss—soft, lingering, infuriatingly gentle—to your cheek… your heart nearly gave out. It thumped wildly in your chest, loud enough to drown out the world for a moment.
You knew you were playing with fire. But God, you longed to get burnt.
You smiled as you descended the stairs into the subway, clutching your bag a little tighter. Hope curled in your chest like something too bold to name.
Maybe, just maybe, one day he’d feel the same way.
Sitting at your desk, you stared at the front page of the freshly printed Daily Planet.
Lex Luthor Admits to Financing International Conflicts
Your name sat proudly beneath the headline.
Perry had been thrilled with the article, grinning like a madman when it hit print, puffing his chest as he waved the paper around the newsroom. The Daily Planet's lawyers, on the other hand, were already on their third round of phone calls before noon. Emails, threats, cease-and-desist letters, they were pouring in from every direction courtesy of LuthorCorp’s legal team.
But Perry had your back. He stood behind the article, behind you, citing freedom of the press with fire in his voice and a cigar practically dangling from his teeth. You hadn’t seen him that fired up in years.
Still, even with the rush of adrenaline and pride, you couldn’t quite relax. You stared at the bold headline again, heart pounding. You’d done it.
You’d poked the beast, and it had roared. But you didn’t regret it. Not even a little.
And just when the nerves started to crawl in again, a gentle tap came on the edge of your desk. You looked up to see Clark standing there, holding two cups of coffee. One was already missing a sip, his.
The other? Yours, just the way you liked it.
“Front page, huh,” he said softly, eyes warm. “Welcome to the club.”
You took the cup, fingers brushing his. That look was back in his eyes again, that same quiet pride from a few nights ago, the one that made your heart trip over itself.
“Thanks,” you said, your voice lower than you meant.
He smiled again before making his way toward his own desk.
You felt so proud of yourself. You couldn't help but smile for the rest of the morning, having a hard time focussing on your work for today. Your eyes always lingered back toward the newspaper lying on your desk. All your team had made sure to congratulate you, filling your heart with warmth.
“Drinks tonight, you can’t say no. We are celebrating you!” Lois’s voice shot across the bullpen like a bullet, barely giving you time to blink before she was already halfway to Perry’s office, heels clicking with authority.
You looked up from your monitor. “I didn’t even say anything yet!”
And she was right, you couldn’t say no. It was Friday night, and you had nothing better to do. You weren’t behind on work, the fridge was stocked, the laundry was done. You had no excuse. And you had made the front page! It was a thing to celebrate.
And maybe it would help taking your mind of Clark, and your not real dates.
They were fun, too fun, really. Liberating in the moment, like you could breathe around him. But afterward? The crash was brutal. Your brain wouldn’t stop spiraling, overthinking every word, every glance, every little laugh. It hurt. Even when it shouldn’t.
That’s how you found yourself, hours later, sitting at a sticky table in O’Sullivan’s, Metropolis’s finest pub, surrounded by your favorite coworkers. Clark and Cat were deep in a heated debate about Superman’s very questionable sense of style, while you, Lois, and Jimmy were somehow talking about... toes?
Jimmy had started it. He always did. The man had a gift for derailing any normal conversation within five minutes.
Oh, and Steve was there too. He hadn’t said much, but he was sipping his beer like a man who had no idea how he’d ended up in a conversation about capes and toes.
As the night wore on, everyone was getting progressively more affected by the alcohol. Everyone but one.
Clark.
He was weirdly good at holding his drinks. Thinking about it, you couldn’t recall ever seeing him drunk. You were fairly sober yourself, a little tipsy, pleasantly warm, but nothing like Jimmy and Cat, who were currently butchering We Will Rock You on karaoke with the absolute confidence of people who had forgotten shame existed.
“How come you’re not drunk?” you shouted over the noise, leaning in a little closer.
He turned away from the chaos, and those soft, annoyingly kind eyes landed on you. Paired with that specialty Clark Kent smile, gentle, quiet, and somehow entirely his, it sent a sudden jolt of heat straight between your legs.
“It’s simple,” he said, holding up his beer. “I didn’t drink that much.”
Sure enough, he was still nursing his first beer, half-full. Meanwhile, the table had gone through at least four rounds.
You stared at the glass, distracted now by the way his fingers wrapped around it, long, strong, careful. The glass looked small in his hands. Like a toy. And for some reason, that sent another ripple of heat through you.
“You seem a little out of it,” Clark added, that soft smirk playing at his lips again, just this side of teasing, but still warm.
You blinked, realising you’d been staring. Hard.
“Oh no, I’m good,” you said, far too loud, and threw both thumbs up in an awkward gesture that immediately felt like a mistake.
Had you been sober, you might’ve cringed. Hard. But right now? Cringing wasn’t on the menu. Not when your brain was soft and hazy, and your eyes were locked on his mouth, on that smirk.
You’d seen it before, of course. He was your colleague, your friend, and Clark smiled all the time. But there was something different about this smile. Something tucked just behind it, something unspoken, almost amused. It tugged at the edge of your memory. Familiar. Too familiar. But just foreign enough to slip out of reach.
Your brows pulled together, the confusion settling in your expression before you could hide it. He tilted his head slightly, watching you. Curious. Patient. Like he knew something. Almost amused.
“Tell him!” Lois’s voice rang out far too close to your ear, snapping you miles away from your little internal investigation. “Tell him about the little cute alien that was glued to your window for days!”
You blinked, turning to find her grinning like a devil, eyes glassy from one too many drinks. Beside her, Steve looked unsure, eyebrows raised, clearly bracing for whatever bizarre story was about to unfold.
They were both watching you. Waiting.
It was a silly story. Embarrassing, even. But one you liked telling, so you did just that. Animated and loud, hands waving around as you launched into the tale.
What you didn’t notice, though, was the way Clark let out a quiet sigh as you turned away. The tension in his shoulders softened, his body subtly relaxing now that he was no longer under your scrutinising gaze.
The hours passed in a haze of laughter, bizarre stories, and absolutely butchered karaoke performances. It had been a long time since the Daily Planet crew had spent a night like this, no deadlines, no looming crises, just fun.
You felt good. Sobered up completely now, like most of the group, except Jimmy, who was still riding whatever chaotic, alcohol-fuelled high had taken hold of him three hours ago.
Thankfully, he lived near the bar, just a few blocks from Lois and Cat. The two women, still giggling, promised to get him home in one piece. You watched them chase after him with fond amusement as they all disappeared into the night.
Yeah. Tonight had been good.
“Fuck,” you muttered under your breath as you checked the time. No way you were making the last subway, especially with the fifteen-minute walk to the nearest working station.
“Everything okay?” Clark asked beside you, concern laced in his voice as his gaze dropped to your phone.
You sighed, trying to wave it off. “I missed the last metro,” you said, almost sheepish. Then, looking up at the soft, quiet summer night around you, you added, “But it’s fine. It’s a good night for a walk.”
“I’ll walk you home,” he said simply, firmly. The kind of tone that left no room for argument.
So, after a quick wave and a goodnight to Steve, you found yourself on the sidewalk beside him, heading off into the quiet streets. Of course, you did try to protest. You told him, more than once, that you were fine walking alone, that he really didn’t need to go all the way to your place when he lived so close to the bar.
But he waved off every concern without missing a beat.
“I’m not letting you walk home alone at nearly 1 a.m.,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “My ma would kill me if she found out.”
You laughed, shaking your head, but secretly? You were glad he insisted.
The thirty-minute walk flew by in what felt like seconds. One blink, and suddenly, you were home.
Conversation flowed effortlessly, like it always did since that first dinner. Comfortable. Familiar. He still walked on the side closest to the road, like always. But tonight, he was a little closer than usual. Just enough that your fingers brushed now and then, barely there, featherlight, but every time, your heart skipped like it hadn’t quite gotten the memo to stay calm.
You didn’t say anything about it. Neither did he. And neither of you moved away, either.
You joked about Jimmy and Cat’s drunken rendition of classic rock songs, gently mocked Steve for always looking like he’d wandered into the wrong timeline, and even admitted that you agreed with Cat about Superman’s questionable taste in suits.
Clark had laughed at that, a soft, genuine sound that made something warm bloom in your chest. And just like that, you were standing in front of your building. The night felt too short. The goodbye, too soon.
Standing on the stairs just before the front door of your building, you found yourself eye-level with Clark, a rare occurrence, given the fact that the man was a literal giant. Something in his eyes, in the way his body leaned ever so slightly closer to yours, in the quiet reluctance on his face, as if he, too, was a little sad the walk had ended, pulled the words from your lips before you could second-guess them.
“Wanna come upstairs?” you asked, the question barely louder than the breeze. A whisper, almost lost to the wind.
But Clark heard you. Of course he did.
Not just because he was standing close, but because it was your voice. A voice he would pick out in a sea of thousands. A voice he'd hear anywhere, no matter how far. Though you didn’t know that part.
He nodded, barely, a quiet “Yeah” slipping from his lips like a promise.
It wasn’t long before your back hit your front door, upstairs, his body pressing gently, but undeniably, against yours. His lips found yours with the kind of urgency that had clearly waited too long. Soft, but certain. Gentle, but wanting. The kiss was rushed, but not careless. It felt like everything you’d both been holding in, months of glances, of almost, of quiet moments too full to name.
This wasn’t a kiss just for the sake of kissing.
You kissed him harder, pushing up on your toes to meet him, trying to say with your mouth what your heart had never dared to voice. That you liked him. That you had for so long. That you hadn’t imagined any of it.
Clark groaned softly into the kiss, lowering himself just enough until, without warning, his arms swept around you, lifting you with an ease that felt unfair. You wrapped your legs instinctively around his waist, breath catching in your throat as he deepened the kiss. He let you no time to protest.
His mouth moved against yours, tongue seeking, exploring, like he had something to say too. Something he hadn’t found the words for yet. And you let him say it this way.
His hands slid under your thighs, pulling you closer until your bodies were flush, his warmth seeping through your clothes and setting your skin on fire. You wrapped your arms tightly around his neck, anchoring yourself to him as if you might float away otherwise.
The kiss deepened, slow and searching, a conversation without words. His tongue traced yours, tentative at first, then more sure, like he was learning the shape of you, committing every detail to memory.
Finally leaving the front door, Clark walked inside your flat with the ease of someone who belonged there. Without hesitation, he made his way to the couch and sank down with a quiet groan, the sound thick with relief.
You settled on his lap, feeling the solid weight of him beneath you. At the noise he made, you instinctively tried to shift, to sit beside him instead, worried you might be too heavy. But Clark’s hands found your hips, gripping firmly, holding you in place.
“No,” he murmured, voice low and urgent, his fingers tightening just enough to pull you closer. You froze as his lips found yours again, this kiss deeper, more demanding. You barely had time to protest before his arms wrapped around you, anchoring you to him.
Your breaths tangled together, your heart pounding in a wild rhythm that echoed his own. You felt it under your fingers. Time seemed to stretch, the world outside shrinking until it was just the two of you, suspended in this moment where everything finally made sense.
When he pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes were dark, shimmering with something raw and real. “I’ve wanted this for so long,” he murmured, voice low and rough. “More than I knew how to say.”
Frowning, you let out a confused sound. "I thought you didn't like me."
Now it was his turn to look confused. Clark blinked, his eyes narrowing slightly as he tried to process your words. Then, slowly, a genuine smile spread across his face, followed by a laugh, deep, sincere, and filling your flat.
“Is that why you always looked so gloomy around me?” he asked, the smile still lingering.
“You avoided me, Clark. All the time. Watching your feet whenever I was near, never talking for more than a minute, never lingering at my desk unless it was necessary…” you said, a hint of frustration creeping into your voice at his teasing. “How the hell was I supposed to know you liked me?”
“I bring you coffee,” he said matter-of-factly, as if that explained everything.
“You bring coffee to everyone,” you shot back, deadpanned, rolling your eyes.
Clark chuckled, shaking his head with that familiar, easy grin. “Yeah, but I always made sure you got the good stuff. Overly sugary milk with a bit of coffee.”
You raised an eyebrow, skeptical, but couldn’t hide the small smile tugging at your lips. His lips trailed softly from your cheek to your jaw, then down to your neck. He lingered over your pulse point, as if savouring the gentle thrum beneath his touch.
“Just know,” Clark murmured, his head still resting against your neck, “I’ve always appreciated you.”
Before you could respond, his lips found yours again, silencing any argument with a tender, insistent kiss.
The kisses felt euphoric, as if time itself had slowed to stretch them out for hours. With Clark, everything was effortless and unhurried. Unlike your past lovers, there was no rush, he moved as if he had all the time in the world, and right now, so did you.
His hands explored your body with tender care, caressing softly, never demanding, always gentle. He asked before slipping your shirt off, waited for your consent before removing your bra. Once you were bare, he peeled off his own shirt, never making you feel vulnerable or exposed.
His touch was intoxicating, as soothing as his lips. You melted under the weight of his hands, large, warm, and perfectly fitting as they cupped your breasts. His fingers toyed with your peaked nipples, alternating between soft caresses and gentle pinches, an unspoken apology woven into each movement. Paired with his lips tracing your neck and lips, it was utterly overwhelming.
Without even realising it, your hips began to move, grinding softly against him, responding to the slow, delicious tension building between you.
He chuckled softly against your lips as your covered core pressed against his already hard length. It was one of the hottest sounds you’d ever heard, a breathless, teasing laugh that sent shivers straight through you. Jimmy had been right, you were absolutely down bad.
“Keep going,” he groaned into your ear, his voice thick with need, just as you paused to rest your forehead on his bare, warm, and slightly sweaty shoulder.
His breath fanned over your skin, warm and steady, grounding you in the moment. You lifted your head slowly, eyes meeting his, dark, intense, and full of something deeper than desire.
His hands found your waist again, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you. The heat of his body seeped into yours, setting a slow, steady rhythm as your hips moved against him. Every touch, every brush of skin, was electric, soft, like he was memorising every curve, every inch of you. You felt safe, wanted, and adored in a way you hadn’t known you needed.
You felt how wet you were, and judging by the hard length pressing against you, you knew he was just as affected as you were. It felt incredible to be wanted by Clark—needed, desired. For months, you had told yourself you were too plain, too overweight, too annoying. But it turned out he liked all of that about you.
You rocked your hips again, frustrated by the layers of clothing between you. Without thinking, you stood up and hurriedly peeled off your pants and panties in a clumsy, rushed way, like the fabric was burning your skin.
Standing naked before him, you noticed the effect it had on Clark. He froze, almost like his brain had short-circuited, not quite processing the very clear message you were sending, that you wanted him naked too. Instead, he simply admired your body, his eyes tracing you slowly and thoroughly, over and over.
Taking matters into your own hands, you knelt in front of him, fingers already fumbling with his belt buckle. That seemed to snap him back to reality. He gently took your hands in his, kissed your fingers softly, then stood up, pulling you to your feet with him.
After slipping off his pants and briefs, he sat back down on the couch and pulled you back onto his lap.
Your breath hitched as his warm hands settled on your hips, grounding you against him. His gaze roamed over your bare skin, eyes filled with awe and something soft, like he was seeing you in a way no one ever had.
You leaned into him, your hands resting lightly on his broad shoulders, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath his skin. The weight of him was comforting, a promise of care and tenderness.
Slowly, carefully, his lips traced a path from your neck to your collarbone, each touch igniting sparks along your skin. You sighed, the tension of months of self-doubt melting away under his gentle attention.
"You're so fucking beautiful," he murmured between kisses.
You gasped, eyes wide as a teasing smile tugged at your lips.
"Did Clark Kent just swear?" you teased, knowing full well his reputation at the office for a gentle, swear-free vocabulary. The fact that he’d let loose like this on your skin made your heart swell with warmth.
He playfully nipped at the skin of your breast before his lips closed over your nipple, while his fingers danced teasingly on the other. Your hips began their slow rocking again, finally satisfied by the warmth of his skin pressed against yours.
You felt him twitch against your stomach, biting your lip at the raw desire radiating from him. It had been far too long since you’d felt this wanted.
“Clark,” you moaned softly.
“Hm?” He lifted his head from your breast, eyes searching yours, waiting.
“I need you,” you whispered into his ear, voice tender and full of longing. “Please.”
How could he ever say no when you sounded that sweet?
Clark’s breath hitched, a low growl vibrating in his chest as he pulled you tighter against him. His hands slid down your back, fingers tracing the curve of your spine with a reverence that made your skin tingle.
Without breaking eye contact, he gently tilted your chin up and kissed you deeply, slow and deliberate, like he wanted to memorise every inch of you. His warmth seeped into you, grounding you in this moment where nothing else mattered.
His hands gently lifted your thighs, easing them onto his lap just enough to draw himself closer to your warm entrance. He paused, holding you there, then looked at you through his glasses, silent, searching, asking without words if this was truly what you wanted. You nodded and pressed a soft kiss to his lips.
With utmost care, he began to lower you onto his length, inch by inch, never rushing, always attentive to your reactions. The warmth and pressure were overwhelming, but not in a painful way more like a delicious surrender. You should have known, it's always the quiet, nerdy, clumsy ones who surprise you by being big.
Finally settling back onto his lap, you needed a moment to catch your breath. You slumped against him, your head resting in the crook of his neck, your hands gripping his shoulders tightly. His hands were steady and soothing, tracing gentle circles along your back, cupping the nape of your neck with tender care. His soft voice whispered warmth directly into your ear, telling you how good and warm you felt.
He urged you to take your time, to never rush, he could wait as long as you needed, even the whole night. But you didn’t need time. You needed to move. So, slowly and hesitantly at first, you began to rock your hips, a gentle, tentative motion.
It felt good, so good. He was reaching places no one else ever had, not even your toys. The sensation was unfamiliar, almost overwhelming, but far from unwelcome. You kept rocking against him, and each pass of his pelvis against your clit made your breath catch in your throat. It was breathtaking... but soon, it wasn’t enough.
Lifting your head from the crook of his neck, you looked up at him, really looked. You wanted to see his face, his expression, as you began to bounce on him. It started softly, tentative, testing the limits of what your body was discovering. But the more you felt, the bolder you became—and so did he.
His hands found your hips again, guiding them with more purpose, lifting and pressing you down onto him in a steady rhythm. But even that didn’t satisfy him for long. Soon, his hips began to thrust up to meet yours, strong and fast, until his pace overtook yours and all you could do was hold on.
Moans, grunts, whines, and gasps filled the room, raw, honest sounds tangled together with the sharp rhythm of skin against skin. Sounds that had never once filled this flat before Clark.
After a few minutes of his relentless rhythm, you felt your orgasm building, close, achingly close, but just out of reach, like it was trapped behind a wall of glass. You let out a soft whine directly into Clark’s ear, trying to rock your hips in rhythm with his, but you couldn’t keep up. He was too fast, too deep, too much.
But he noticed. Of course he did. The way you whimpered, the way your body tried to move, it told him everything. And he felt it too, in the way your pussy tightened around him with desperate pulses, clenching so hard it almost made him see stars.
He smiled, just a little. His girl only needed a bit more.
His hand slipped between your bodies, fingers sliding down to where you were joined. At first, he just teased, letting his fingertips brush lightly across your skin. It earned him another needy whine, one that made him chuckle softly against your shoulder.
Greedy little thing you were.
And he adored you for it. Clark would give you anything.
Without holding back any longer, his fingers found your clit, circling it in slow but steady motions, firm, grounded, perfect. The added pressure sent shocks of pleasure through you, colliding with the rhythm of his hips pounding into you. Your toes curled. Your hands dug into his shoulders. It was all too much.
And then it happened, your release crashing over you, breathtaking and unstoppable. The moans caught in your throat, your body trembling as wave after wave of pleasure consumed you.
Clark wasn’t far behind. The sound of your climax, the way your body tightened around him like a vice, it pushed him over the edge. With a groan that rumbled deep in his chest, he came hard, spilling into you, filling you with warmth.
Even as the last waves of your orgasm pulsed through you, Clark didn’t stop. His thrusts slowed just enough to keep from overwhelming you, but they were still deep, intentional. He stayed hard inside you, your slick heat coaxing him to keep moving, to draw every last ounce of pleasure from your spent body.
Finally, after a few more thrusts, he stilled remaining inside you. A golden, heavy quiet filled the room, broken only by the sound of your ragged breathing and the gentle thump of his heart against your chest.
Clark didn’t move right away. He just held you. One arm wrapped securely around your waist, the other stroking your back in slow, grounding circles. His lips pressed soft, breathless kisses against your temple, your cheek, your shoulder, everywhere he could reach without letting you go.
“You okay?” he murmured, voice low and careful.
You nodded against him, too dazed to form words just yet. He smiled softly and shifted just enough to grab the blanket off the couch, wrapping it around your back without slipping out of you. He stayed seated, still joined, still holding you close like he couldn’t bear to let you go.
Getting up with you still in his arms, his softening cock still nestled in your warmth, he carried you gently toward the bathroom. He turned on the water, letting it warm up for the both of you, steam already beginning to rise and curl around the tiles.
He set you down carefully on the counter, your body pliant in his arms. Your head came to rest against the cool mirror behind you, eyes half-lidded, lips parted in a dazed smile. Clark let out a quiet chuckle at your blissed-out expression, brushing his fingers tenderly across your cheek.
“I’m gonna pull out now, okay?” he said softly, voice full of care, not wanting to startle you or cause any discomfort.
“Yeah…” you mumbled, barely coherent, too tired and thoroughly spent to say more than that.
The shower was quick, quiet, and sweet. Clark was gentle with every touch, washing your body with thoughtful care, making sure not to linger too long or overstimulate your already-sensitive skin. He moved with reverence, like tending to something precious.
When it was over, he didn’t bother trying to dress you. Instead, he wrapped a towel around your damp body, gently patting you dry before scooping you back up into his arms.
He didn’t go back to the living room for his briefs, didn’t bother with anything else. All that mattered was getting you comfortable.
He carried you straight to your bed, settling you down with the same tenderness he’d shown you all night. Then he climbed in beside you, pulling you into his arms like you belonged there, like you always had.
The soft throw blanket he’d grabbed on the way to the bathroom now covered both of you, a light layer against the summer night. The duvet was folded off to the side, too heavy, too much, especially with Clark radiating warmth like a human furnace.
You let yourself melt into him, safe, warm, held.
You felt like you were on another planet, drifting through the best dream of your life, half-convinced you’d wake up any minute. Needing to make sure he was real, solid and warm beneath you, you clung to him. One leg curled possessively around his waist as you lay nearly fully on top of him, your bodies still bare, still close.
His semi-hard cock rested dangerously close to your still-sensitive cunt. It was a risk… but one you welcomed. A game you were more than willing to play again if it led to the same beautiful consequences.
Your fingers traced idle shapes along his chest, feeling the slow rise and fall of his breath. When you looked up, you found him already watching you, glasses still perched on his nose.
Weird.
Had he even taken them off in the shower? You couldn’t quite remember. Your brain had been hazy, your body boneless, your mind confused, but you were almost certain he’d kept them on the whole time. Just like he was keeping them on now, even though you both clearly had no plans of moving anytime soon.
You brushed it off, figuring he just wanted to see you clearly. Maybe it was a comfort thing. Maybe it was just Clark.
The silence stretched for a few more moments, soft and content, until you broke it with a rasping whisper. “You know I had the biggest crush on you for months?”
His lips curved into that smug, infuriatingly cute grin. “Oh yeah. I know,” he said, teasing deep in his voice.
You squinted at him, suspicious. “What do you mean, you know?”
Still grinning, he added—without thinking, way too casually. “I could hear how fast your heart was beating.”
Silence. Your brain stalled.
“You could… what?”
His smile faltered. Fuck. Clark had a lot of explaining to do.
request: dad!Elvis coming back from a long tour, just wanting to be back in his wife’s arms in Graceland and she isn’t there to greet him like usual. He’s looking for her and she’s sat with little Lisa Marie in the jungle room playing a guitar and singing Elvis’ songs (link)
A hand pushed him into the car, the screams faintly fading in the background. Elvis' breaths were uneven, rushed.
"C'mon E, deep breaths, man.", Elvis' ears muffled all the noise for a moment, his fingers reaching to pinch the bridge of his nose. Jerry grabbed a water bottle and handed it to him — there was no concern masked over his face, this was normal. Elvis was on the verge of passing out — that was normal.
The singer's eyes were shut as he blindly reached for his drink.
"—hell of a show, EP."
"Yeah, absolutely incredible."
Elvis nodded with a hum, his jaw set and his head leaned against the window. The chattering continued, his friends talking about the show and people who had attended. Eventually someone passed him his glasses and he instantly felt a little better, maybe it was a psychological thing, but that was a ritual. Something that settled him into reality.
Then he'd go to the hotel, take his pills and drowsily call you, asking for his little darling. But he wasn't going to do that today, no.
"Make a turn to the left."
The chattering stopped immediately. All eyes settled on Elvis, whether it was through the rearview mirror or even a glance over their shoulder.
"The hotel is—"
"I ain't spending another night by myself. Take me back to Graceland."
There was no please and thank you, those were orders and they were to be followed blindly. Elvis was no uncaring man — he was kind, generous and good-hearted. But people took advantage. His drowsy mumbles to his daughter on the phone were nothing in contrast to the laughter at the bar on the first floor.
It was finally time to get a hold of his life. And he was going to do that.
The gates of Graceland opened unexpectedly. The maids and cooks looked out of the window and exchanged confused glances. Should they start on a late dinner? Should they prepare a snack or drink ready to go? No one acted until orders were given.
"C'mon darling.", you wrestled your daughter, but she squealed, not tired at all. "You know your daddy is gonna call— And if he finds out you ain't in bed, you're gonna be in trouble."
"No!", her giggles filled the room as she dodged you with speed. "I wanna call daddy!"
You groaned and shook your head. "Daddy is the one that calls us, darling. We can't call an empty room, can we?"
The little girl ignored your words and grabbed the door handle, pushing it open.
"C'mon baby!", you called and winced as your voice echoed in the hallway. But your little girl was off, and you already knew where she was headed. She was much like her daddy, calling for music when she needed comfort. There was a fine thread that connected your baby, Elvis and music — a thread that was so fragile when being pulled, yet so strong when being tested.
Elvis didn't expect you to go on tour with him, especially since your little terror-baby had been born, but those were the times he needed you both the most. When everything was flashy and loud, he needed his two girls. His best girls. Only you were able to make him feel like Elvis, the human, and Elvis, the entertainer could finally take a breather.
You weren't surprised to find your daughter in the Jungle Room. A faint smile found your lips as you leaned against the doorframe, staring at your kid fiddling with her daddy's guitar.
"Mama?", she mumbled, her voice a low hum. "Can you play?"
You pulled yourself off the door and approached her. "Of course. What song would you like to hear?"
"I'm good, thanks Mary.", Elvis smiled at his cook, brushing his hand on her arm. "I'm just gonna go lay down with my girls."
Mary chuckled, pointing to the hallway. "Little Miss Presley wouldn't go to sleep. I'm pretty sure she's found her way to sneak in your music room. That kid."
Elvis shook his head, but his ever growing grin couldn't be held back. That definitely sounded like his daughter.
"I'll go see what they're up to. Good night, Mary.", he didn't need to guess where his two girls were, for the sound of music led him straight to them. Soft guitar strings being tickled and pulled, two singing voices melting in one, creating the most angelic sound he had ever heard.
"—your kisses lift me higher, like the sweet song of a choir.", you sang. "You light my mornin' sky with—"
"Burning love!", your daughter squealed with the biggest smile on her face. You kept singing, your lips twitching into a half smile at her reaction.
Elvis smiled at the sight, his lips pressed together to withhold him from singing.
Your daughter was patiently watching you play and sing, eventually singing her own version of the song, when her blue eyes raised and widened in a split second.
"Daddy!"
Your fingers stopped playing as an exhausted sigh fell from your lips.
"Darling. Your daddy is—", You slowly turned around to reprimand her, but your words were suddenly caught in your throat.
"Elvis?", you barely made out, the sight of him holding your daughter in his arms enough to take your breath away. "I thought— I thought you were in..."
You couldn't even finish your sentence, the guitar long ditched, unable to tear your gaze away from your husband.
"Good god, are you real?", you slowly approached the grinning man, raising your hands to his cheeks. Your daughter found it all amusing, hiding her chuckles in Elvis' neck.
"I'm real, baby, feel me.", the easy grin turned into a cheeky smirk as he pressed himself closer to you. "Whenever, honey, take your time."
That drawl, that lip curl... God, it really was him.
"Oh my god.", you threw your hands around his neck, breathing in his familiar scent as your eyes shut. "I missed you. So much."
Elvis tightened his grip on your little girl, his other arm extending to hold you as well. He breathed in and out, feeling his jaw unclench and shoulders fall loose.
That was all he had ever needed.
A/N: thank you for reading! hope you enjoyed 💋⚡️
tag list:
@pearlescentswirls @wifetomanyfictionalmen
MASTERLIST elvis masterlist ships and tails series
❛ dangerous era!michael jackson 𝑥 fan!reader ❜ ᛝྀིྀིྀིྀིྀིྀི you send michael letters never thinking much of it until the two of you end up growing close.
𐔌 ݁ 𓂃 ⓘ content ﹕ super feel good fluff, warning may cause heart to ache or feet to kick ok ok bye
May 6, 1993
Dear Applehead,
Hi applehead! It's babyface :) I know it’s been a while since I’ve last wrote. I want you to know I did receive your letters.
I’ve actually read them so many times that the corners are beginning to bend.
The one where you told me about feeding the animals made me laugh. I can practically hear you telling the story in my head. My mom thinks I’m ridiculous because every time a letter arrives, I disappear into my room for an hour and come back smiling.
I hope you’ve been taking care of yourself. I know you’re always busy and traveling somewhere new every week. Sometimes I see photos of you in magazines and wonder if you’re exhausted. You always look happy, but I know pictures don’t tell the whole story.
Things here have been pretty ordinary. University has been boring as usual. I spend most afternoons reading, listening to music, and waiting for the mailman to come down our street. I think he knows me by name now.
You asked me what my favorite place is, and I think it’s the little park near my house. There’s a bench beside a pond where I sit when I need to think. Listen to the birds chirping or the frogs croaking, even the crickets if I go late at night. Sometimes I bring one of your letters with me and read it there. It sounds silly when I write it down, but somehow it feels like talking to a friend.
Thank you for writing back all this time. I know there are millions of people who would love to hear from you, so the fact that you take the time to write to me means more than you’ll ever know.
Anyway, I should probably stop before this turns into another five-page letter.
Write back when you can.
Your friend,
Babyface.
P.S. I still think you should learn how to take a day off once in a while.
P.P.S. I know you’re probably rolling your eyes right now.
michael held the long awaited piece of paper between his fingertips as he read your letter over and over. he did indeed roll his eyes at the last part, before huffing a small laugh out of his nose because of course you knew. it had been months since he last heard from you. he thought maybe it was because he wasn’t home for a while or that you had been busy with school. either way, he was so excited to see the envelope with your name on it.
he had connected with millions of fans and yet you were the one that stood out. your first letter to michael consisted of telling him how much his music moved you, how much of an impact and influence he had on you and a little bit about your personal life. how you had grown up with an alcoholic father who was physically violent. michael seen himself in you and had to write back immediately. well, after a year and a half of writing back to back, exchanging photographs—you sent him one of you and your cat and a detail that stood out to him was the slight baby fat stored in your face that made your cheeks extra plump, which is what caused him to give you the nickname ‘babyface’ and even giving you his personal p.o. box specially for your letters, you two had grown exceptionally close. so close, in one letter michael had included his personal phone number for the two of you to be able to talk more often.
that first phone call was the most nerve wracking. your stomach jumped, turned and flipped as you hesitantly dialed the numbers in your home phone. all you kept wondering was how his voice would sound, what he would say. everything and anything was running through your mind. it took you a good thirty minutes before even deciding to push the call button. and after 3 rings the line finally clicked.
“hello?” said the familiar voice you’d hear through your headphones, but his speaking voice wasn’t as high pitched as you were expecting it to be. it was about an octave lower than what you were used to. hearing his voice made your heart fall to the bottom of your stomach though and it wasn’t some fan freak out, it was because now it felt real. instead of reading ink on a page like a book, you got to hear his tone in which how he said certain words or how he paused whenever he had to stop and think of what he’s saying.
“hi. it’s babyface.” your voice was quite small at first, just jumbled with nerves. you twisted the coil of the cord as you conversed, it was the only thing that helped you focus on his voice instead of your nerves.
“babyface!” he exclaimed over the line, “ahh, i’ve been waiting for your call.” was he really? it was so anomalous to believe that he was waiting for you. that first phone call, you two sat and talked and laughed for what felt like eternity but was really three-ish hours. and when you saw how long you sat on the line for, you couldn’t believe it. speaking with him just felt so nice, you felt like he could’ve been the only person in the world who understood you.
“i should probably let you go.” you laughed quietly, glancing over at the clock sitting on your nightstand.
there was a brief static of silence in your ear which made your stomach turn a bit.
“already?” michael said, almost a bit of a whine caught in his tone.
the disappointment in his voice caught you completely off guard but it made you smile to yourself.
“applehead, it’s been three hours.”
“has it?” the innocent playfulness showing through his voice.
“yes.” you replied, phone stuck between your shoulder as you reached for your glass of water.
there was another pause between you two before michael’s voice rang through once again.
“huh.”
you couldn’t help but laugh and neither could he.
the conversation continued for another few minutes, neither one of you really saying anything important anymore. the topics had long since run dry, yet neither of you seemed willing to be the first one to hang up.
eventually, the silence settled comfortably between the two of you.
“goodnight, babyface.”
the nickname made your heart do that familiar little flip yet you shook your head.
“goodnight, michael.”
another pause of silence.
“sleep good, okay?” his voice soft and low now.
“you too.”
and yet neither one of you decided to hang up which caused you to smile despite yourself.
“bye, michael.”
“bye, babyface.”
this time the line finally clicked.
you stared at the receiver for a moment before slowly placing it back on the hook. somehow, saying goodbye to him felt harder than calling him in the first place.
┊ ♡ ﹒ summary : michael is a lovesick loser boy and you get off on that. you say jump, and he says how high. why? because you’re pretty, give him attention and you have the pussy he can’t last three minutes in.
┊ ♡ ﹒ byi : smut! 🔞, submissive michael, mentions of face fucking.. but its not you getting your face fucked :), full on intercourse, reader is a D1 dirty talker, michael struggles with premature ejaculation, talks of loss of virginity, age gap (reader in mid to late twenties, michael is twenty one), strong emotional dependency, jealousy, codependent tendencies, idolization/idealization of a partner, insecurity (michael), power imbalance, bossy reader, lovesick michael. “daddy” is used to tease. reader is also a socialite. girl idk! there’s a lot to unpack here.
The roller rink was pulsing with life beneath a haze of colored lights. Purple, blue and red beams chased each other across the polished floor, reflecting off sequined jackets and the mirrored disco balls suspended from the ceiling.
The venue itself smelled of an array of things: hints of red icee and cotton candy, colognes, heavy hairspray and cigarette smoke as music thundered from enormous speakers mounted in the corners, bass vibrating through the walls and floor alike.
The rink was one of Los Angeles’ worst kept secrets. On any given weekend, half the city seemed to pass through its doors, LA personalities, aspiring musicians and even well known ones, actors, and industry kids all looking for a few hours of normalcy beneath the disco lights. Michael had even performed there once or twice over the years, drawing crowds that packed the floor shoulder to shoulder. Tonight though, he was there because it was Friday night, the music was good—or so he says.
He sat perched on the edge of a vinyl booth near the rink, one leg bouncing restlessly beneath the table. At twenty one, he occupied an awkward space between abandoning boyhood and stepping into superstardom. Off the Wall had transformed everything. People stared now. People whispered. Girls gathered the courage to approach him and then dissolved into nervous giggles halfway there. Yet somehow he still looked slightly uncomfortable with the attention, dressed in a fitted button down and dark bell bottoms, curls falling around his face as he watched the skaters glide by.
Across from him sat Bill, who had spent the better part of the evening pretending not to notice Michael checking the entrance every five minutes.
“Gonna wear a hole in the floor if you keep doing that, Joker.”
Michael looked away from the doors immediately. “Doin’ what?”
Bill chuckled. “Keep those feet still.”
Beside them, one of Michael’s managers leaned back with folded arms. “She’s not coming.”
Michael frowned. “Who?”
That earned him three unimpressed stares.
The manager laughed first. “Right. Sure.”
Michael rolled his eyes and reached for his orange juice, hiding a shy smile. “You guys are trouble..” The real truth was embarrassing enough without them making a spectacle of it.
You’d simply mentioned a few days ago that you might stop by the rink on Friday night around eleven. Any accusations that he was waiting for any particular person were completely unfounded. Baseless, even! The fact that he’d arrived early, picked a booth with a clear view of the entrance, and couldn’t seem to stop looking toward the doors was merely an unfortunate series of coincidences. Right? Right.
The music shifted into another song, drawing a fresh wave of skaters onto the floor. Michael watched absentmindedly, fingers drumming against the side of his cup.
Unfortunately for Michael, the second he saw you every carefully constructed fantasy he’d been rehearsing in his head before he went to sleep these past couple nights went poof! Oh, baby had the vision planned out so perfectly too. You would arrive alone, right? Perhaps a little late knowing how you girls were. Your eyes would find him across the rink.. he’d wave you over with a pretty smile, say something clever to make you giggle, something charming to make you blush, and the two of you would spend the whole evening together. Simple! Romantic! And honestly.. the sort of thing that only ever seemed possible in his imagination.
Instead, you arrived wrapped in a world that had nothing to do with him.
You were laughing before you had even fully stepped inside, surrounded by friends who seemed to orbit you as naturally as planets around the sun. One of them hooked an arm through yours. Another leaned close enough to whisper something that sent you into another fit of giggles. You moved through the crowd completely absorbed in your circle, tucked safely inside a bubble of conversation and affection that Michael found himself staring at with an intensity that bordered on painful.
It was ridiculous, really. He knew that. These were your friends. People who loved you. People who had every right to occupy your attention. Yet all he could think about was how easily they had access to you. They could stand beside you without overthinking. They could make you laugh without rehearsing every sentence beforehand. They could touch your arm, lean into your space, steal your attention for entire evenings without their heart threatening to beat itself clean out of their chest. Michael hated the ugly little stab of jealousy the realization inspired but it settled in anyway, impossible to ignore.
The worst part was that you looked so happy. Not even looking for him. Not wondering if he had shown up. Not scanning the room in search of a familiar face. You were perfectly content exactly where you were and that simple fact managed to burst his fantasy more effectively than outright rejection ever could have. It forced him to confront the embarrassing truth that while he had spent the better part of a week thinking about you, you had probably spent the week simply living your life.
His fingers tightened around his cup as he watched you laugh again, your head tilting back beneath the colorful lights. God, you were beautiful. So beautiful it almost felt unfair. There was something doll like about you tonight, something soft and luminous that seemed untouched by the chaos around you. For a moment, Michael forgot entirely about the drink in his hand. Orange juice slipped over the rim and splashed across the table, but he barely noticed. The pounding in his ears had grown so loud that the rest of the rink seemed to fade into the background.
All he could see was you.
And all he could think, with a mixture of longing and frustration that made him feel like an awkward teen instead of twenty one, was that every single person standing between him and you suddenly felt like an obstacle because they were occupying the exact place he wished he was.
The pounding in his ears was so loud he didn’t even hear Bill calling for him. “Michael.”
No response. “Michael.” Still nothing.
“Yeah, that brotha’s starvin’.” Bill says shaking his head, causing the other two in his party to chuckle at how adorably absurd this entire situation was.
The longer he watched, the worse it became.
At first, Michael told himself he was being dramatic. You had only been there a few minutes. There was no reason to assume you wouldn’t acknowledge him eventually. No reason to let his imagination run wild simply because you were occupied talking with your friends.
Yet with every passing moment, his confidence seemed to shrink.
You looked so settled over there. Every now and then another person would stop to greet you, extending the circle around you further. You laughed, listened, smiled, completely absorbed in whatever conversation was unfolding. Meanwhile, Michael remained exactly where he was, nursing a cup of orange juice and feeling increasingly foolish for having spent the entire evening waiting for you.
The ugly little voice in the back of his mind began whispering all the things he hated most.
Maybe you hadn’t come for him. Maybe you’d only mentioned stopping by in passing. Maybe you hadn’t even noticed he was there.
His stomach twisted.
The more he thought about it, the more embarrassed he became. Suddenly every hopeful fantasy he’d entertained over the past week felt very childish. Of course you weren’t looking for him. Why would you be? You had a life, friends, people you genuinely wanted to see. You were a socialite. The world did not stop spinning simply because Michael Jackson happened to have a crush.
Across the table, Bill watched the slow collapse unfold in real time. The slumped shoulders, distant stare, the deepening pout.
“Don’t start.”
Michael frowned. “’M not startin’ anything.” Oh! He has a little funky attitude now.
“Alright now.” Bill warned and Michael looked away.
For a moment, Michael seriously considered leaving the booth altogether. Maybe he’d skate a few laps, find something else to focus on. Anything was preferable to sitting there feeling sorry for himself while you remained blissfully unaware of the emotional catastrophe taking place twenty feet away.
Then it happened.
Your laughter softened as the conversation around you shifted, and for the first time since you'd arrived your attention wandered. Almost absentmindedly, your gaze swept across the rink drifting over the crowd until it landed on him.
Michael forgot how to breathe.
The feeling was instantaneous and overwhelming. One moment he had been sitting there stewing in his wounded pride, thoroughly convinced that you hadn’t noticed him all evening. The next, he found himself trapped beneath the weight of your attention, every insecurity he’d managed to accumulate over the last ten minutes suddenly feeling ridiculous.
Because you had noticed him.
And apparently, you’d noticed him quite a while ago. A smile began to form on your lips, and Michael felt his stomach drop for an entirely different reason.
It wasn’t a grin nor was it playful enough to be teasing or sweet enough to be innocent. It was something far more dangerous than either of those things. A smile touched with amusement and recognition, as though you’d caught sight of something you found particularly endearing. As though the sight of him sitting over there, staring at you from across the rink like a lovesick puppy had confirmed something you’d suspected all along.
Heat climbed his neck and the longer you looked at him, the more certain he became that you’d seen everything.
You’d seen him checking the entrance, seen him watching your group from across the room. Seen the way his mood had visibly soured the longer he convinced himself you weren’t coming over.
The realization should have mortified him. Instead, all it seemed to do was make him feel validated.
God.
You looked beautiful.
The colorful lights flashed across your face as you stood among your friends on the rink, completely at ease in a way Michael had always envied. While he spent half his life overthinking every conversation, every interaction, every glance, you moved through the world so effortlessly confident that made everything look easy. You never seemed concerned with whether people liked you. They just did. You never chased attention because it found you anyway.
And right now, all of that attention was directed at him.
Neither of you looked away as the skaters continued moving around you. Music thundered from the speakers. Laughter echoed throughout the rink.
Yet somehow the space between you felt strangely quiet.
Then you lifted your hand.
Just one finger.
Crooked toward yourself.
Come here.
It felt like a command because it absolutely was, with the confidence of someone who already knew exactly what would happen next. And the truly humiliating part was that you were right.
Michael was on his feet before his brain had fully processed the gesture. His knee struck the edge of the table and all the drinks nearly spilled over as the booth rattled violently.
A chorus of protests erupted behind him as he nearly sent the entire setup crashing to the floor, but Michael barely heard any of it. He was already moving through the crowd, abandoning every ounce of composure he’d spent the evening trying to maintain.
Behind him, Bill watched the scene unfold with the exhausted expression of a man witnessing something both embarrassing and completely predictable.
“Oh, man. That boy is gone.”
Because after all that moping, it had taken exactly one finger to get Michael Jackson moving. Not a greeting or even his name.
Just a look and a simple little come here.
And off he went.
You stood on the other side of the low barricade that separated the rink from the seating area, balanced easily on your own personal skates. Colored lights skimmed across the polished wood beneath your feet, catching on your jewelry every time you moved. Up close, Michael found you even more distracting. You smelled so good.
The journey across the rink had done absolutely nothing to improve his condition. If anything, it had made it worse.
“Hi, Michael.” You tilted your head slightly as you looked at him, your smile lingering at the corners of your mouth.
“Hi.” The response came out embarrassingly quiet.
For all the confidence he’d managed to summon while crossing the room, it deserted him the second he arrived. He was suddenly intensely interested in the floor, the barricade, the wheels on your skates, anything except your eyes.
A soft laugh escaped your lips. “You look nice.”
Before he could respond, your hand rose to straighten his collar. The gesture was casual and like muscle memory, and Michael felt every nerve in his body come alive beneath your touch. Your fingers smoothed the fabric before sliding behind his neck, settling briefly against the nape.
Your acrylics scratched lightly through his curls just enough to send a pleasant shiver down his spine.
You noticed the way his shoulders stiffened and your smile widened. “Miss me?”
Michael swallowed. The honest answer sat so heavily in his chest that he couldn’t think of a clever way around it.
“Yeah..” His voice was barely above a mumble.
You heard him but you pretended like you didn’t just to hear him say it again. “Hm?”
Then he nodded and a little louder, “Yeah.”
Something softened in your expression, satisfaction. You’d suspected that was going to be the answer and you were merely waiting to hear him say it.
“That’s sweet.”
Michael felt his face grow hotter. You, meanwhile, appeared completely unaffected.
“Go get skates.” You ordered
Michael blinked. “Pardon?” He wasn’t listening, he was staring.
”Go get skates.” You gave his shoulder a light push. “You’re not gonna sit over there all night, are you?”
“Oh, right!” Another blink. “Okay.”
You stared at him.
Michael stared back.
A laugh escaped you. “Michael.”
“Yeah?”
”Go.”
He nodded immediately. “Right. Okay.” Then he turned and started walking away to rent some skates for the night.
By the time the night was halfway over, the pattern had become impossible to ignore.
Michael had spent most of the night orbiting you.
Not hovering awkwardly across the room or lingering nearby under the pretense of doing his own thing. Deadass on you. Every time you moved, he ended up moving too. If you skated toward the opposite side of the rink, he followed. If you stopped to talk to someone, he appeared a few feet behind you waiting for you to get done. More than once, you’d looked over your shoulder only to discover him on your heels, wearing the innocent expression of a man who had absolutely no idea how he’d gotten there.
The funniest part was that he never seemed aware he was doing it, but you were no better.
At one point you’d hooked a finger through one of his belt loops and dragged him through a crowd because he kept getting distracted by people stopping to talk to him. Michael hadn’t protested, he was right where he wanted to be and simply allowed himself to be steered wherever you wanted him, weaving obediently between skaters and crowds alike while your friends tried not to laugh. Which by the way? You didn’t like very much, because you should always be the one giggling him out of his underwear.
Then later, there was a point where the music grew too loud and you’d grabbed his jaw to pull his face closer so you could hear him better.
“What?”
You’d tugged him forward. “What’d you say?”
Michael had repeated himself, this time barely three inches from your ear. The poor thing had nearly short circuited.
Now he was standing at the concession counter retrieving the drink you’s sent him to get, and your friends were watching him with poorly concealed amusement.
“Girl,” One of them said, glancing between you and Michael. “He’s been overly going. All night.”
A smile tugged at your mouth. “I know.”
Across the room, Michael accepted the drink from the cashier before immediately turning to look for you. The second he spotted you, he started heading back like clockwork.
You watched him approach, taking in the sight of him weaving through the crowd with such earnest determination that somehow managed to be both charming and ridiculous.
“He’s just as cute in person, right?” you asked.
Your friend barked out a laugh. “He’s cute but what if the shy thing is for appearances?”
You shrugged, not minding her. “I’ve known him for a while through my dad, he’s really like that. I think it’s charming.”
“How old is he again?”
“Twenty one.”
Your friend made a face. “Girl..”
“What?” You laughed. “I’m twenty (number).”
"I don't know— younger guys.. they be lowkey annoying.”
Your gaze drifted back toward Michael. He was almost there now, protecting the drink from being knocked out of his hands while navigating around people.
The sight made something warm settle in your chest.
“Mm.” You tilted your head slightly, she eyes him. “He’s been good to me though..”
Michael finally reached the group and immediately held out the drink you’d asked for and his expression brightened the moment you took it.
Like he’d just accomplished something so important.
You were feeling generous tonight, maybe even a little possessive.
That was the only explanation you could come up with later, because the way the evening had escalated felt almost absurd in retrospect. One moment Michael had been trailing after you everywhere you went, carrying drinks, accepting orders, allowing himself to be tugged through crowds by his ear whenever he drifted too far away from you. The next, you were standing beside him beneath the flashing lights, watching him laugh again at something one of your girlfriends said, and making a decision that surprised even you because usually you were much more.. tactful.
Maybe it was the way he’d spent the entire night looking at you or the fact that he’d never once complained. Maybe it was because every time you called his name, he appeared instantly.
Whatever the reason, you’d found yourself gliding up beside him as the night began winding down. Michael was midway through a conversation with Bill when you hooked a finger through the front of his shirt and pulled him down slightly.
He went without resistance.
Of course he did.
The music was still loud enough that nobody else could hear you as you leaned close, your lips brushing the shell of his ear.
“You’re coming home with me tonight.” You felt him go completely still. “Say bye bye to Bill and your people, ‘kay?”
For a moment, Michael simply stared at the floor and you watched the reaction spread down his neck. When he finally looked at you, there was something dazed in his expression, as though his brain had temporarily stopped functioning.
“Okay.” The answer came so fast you nearly laughed.
Not where?
Not why?
Not even a hesitant really?
Just: “Okay.”
You bit back a smile and wave at Bill as she glides away back to her table and Michael had barely managed three words of explanation before Bill figured it out.
Not that there had been much mystery to solve, the equation practically solved itself.
Bill sighed heavily. “You serious?”
Michael nodded. “Yeah.”
“She askin’ or tellin’?” Bill immediately had his answer when Michael coughed in response.
Michael looked down at the floor and Bill shook his head. “Son, one of these days you’re gonna have to stop jumpin’every time that woman points somewhere.”
Michael’s embarrassment deepened. “I don’t do that.”
The thing was, Bill liked you. You made Michael happy. You were good to him. You looked after him in your own way.
Bill had no objections there. His issue was the complete collapse of Michael’s spine whenever you entered the equation.
The boy had spent all evening following you around like he’d been hired for the job. “You know she already likes you, right?” Bill asked.
Michael blinked. “Huh?”
Bill rubbed his face. “She already likes you.”
Michael stared, the very suggestion seemed impossible to him. “But..”
Bill already knew where this was going. “But what?”
Michael shrugged awkwardly.
“She’s..”
“Pretty?” Michael nodded.
“Successful?” Another nod.
“Older than you?” A smaller nod.
Bill threw his hands in the air. “And?”
Michael didn’t answer, because that was the problem.
Somewhere deep down, Michael still couldn’t understand why someone like you would choose him when you could have anybody. Meanwhile, everyone around him had been forced to watch you practically drag him around a roller rink all evening.
Bill snorted. “Son, if you don’t quit feelin’ sorry for yourself."
Michael frowned. “I’m not..”
Bill laughed. “She got you fetchin’ drinks, carryin’ her stuff, followin’ her around, and lookin’ at her like she hung the moon.”
Michael buried his face in his hands.
You looked over your shoulder at him across the room, probably to see what was taking so long and the second Michael noticed, he straightened.
Bill caught it and a long, exhausted sigh followed.
Then he patted Michael’s shoulder. “Go on. Use protection.”
Michael sputtered. “You’re talkin’ dirty! I’m a gentleman.”
Bill shook his head. “You hopeless.”
The funny thing is Bill didn’t dislike the dynamic. He probably finds it adorable. He just spends a lot of the time trying, and failing, to convince Michael that being loved by a confident woman did not require acting like he’d been personally selected by royalty every single day. Michael, unfortunately, would continue acting exactly like that.
Because he loved bossy women.
You were beautiful—everyone knew that. It wasn’t exactly a revolutionary observation. People noticed when you walked into a room, they turned their heads and stumbled over conversations, found reasons to linger a little longer in your presence.
But Michael’s problem had long since surpassed simple attraction, because your pussy was the closest thing Michael thought he’d ever get to experiencing heaven while he was still on earth.
The thing about Michael was that he was sort of person who experienced affection through proximity. He liked sitting close enough for your shoulders to touch. He liked feeling your weight beside him on a couch. He liked the absent minded ways you occupied space, the little touches that seemed insignificant to everyone else but somehow lingered in his mind for days afterward.
The truth was that he never quite got used to you, even more so because you were the one to take his virginity.
Some people eventually acclimated to affection, they normalized it and over time, they came to expect it. Michael never seemed capable of doing that. Every act of intimacy, no matter how small, retained its ability to affect him. A hand on the back of his neck. Your fingers smoothing his collar. Your arm looping through his. Tiny gestures that should have become ordinary by now somehow remained extraordinary.
There’s unfortunately just a small part of him still couldn’t believe he was being chosen.
For Michael, intimacy was never something separate from affection. The two were hopelessly intertwined. Physical closeness carried an emotional weight that he couldn’t easily detach from which is why he’s so enamored with you. Where other people might eventually grow accustomed to being loved, Michael seemed determined to remain grateful for it. The familiarity never dulled his appreciation.
You’re no longer just the woman he has a crush on. You’re the person he trusted with something deeply personal. The person who guided him through an experience he had spent years imagining, worrying about, romanticizing, and building up in his head.
The irony is that it probably makes him less focused on sex itself and more focused on you.
Because afterward, what’s left isn’t necessarily the memory of the sex. It’s the memory of your kindness. Your patience. The way you looked at him during. The fact that you wanted him there with you. The feeling of being accepted completely, without performance or expectation.
For someone like Michael, that would be difficult to separate from love. Very difficult.
“Fuck, Michael,” You feel breathless, hands resting on the sides of his abdomen as you wrap your legs around his waist. Michael balances his weight above you, palms spread out on your soft bedding as you pull him closer with each thrust deeper into your pussy. Your pubic bones met with each movement, curly bushes intermingling and creating a friction. “That feel s’good, baby. Can’t believe you’re fuckin’ me this good..”
Michael’s face twists with a cute strain, his eyes squeeze shut so tightly his brows pinch. Every muscle in his body goes rigid as he fights the overwhelming to pump his nut inside of you. He can’t cum now. It’s too early, it’s way too soon. He can’t. He can’t. It’s barely been three minutes! But the filth spilling from your pretty lips in such a nasty tone makes his dick fucking throb and jerk against your tight walls. ”Lovey.. stop—stop.. stop talkin’ for a second..”
You know exactly what you’re doing, but you don’t mind. He’s been very generous with his mouth tonight and you can’t even count the amount of times you used his tongue to get off. Emphasis on you using his tongue, he’s eager to please but he still needs a little guidance. So, usually when he’s between your legs, you’re practically face fucking him. Hands in his curly coils to hold him in place as you roll your clit along his tongue.
Your heavy breasts bounce and sway with each sloppy thrust, jiggling provocatively under his straining chest. You reach up, soft palms cupping his tense cheeks, tenderly stroking his sweaty skin as you whisper.
“Look,” You tilt his face down, forcing him to look directly beneath the two of you—making him watch. “Look at that dick fucking your pussy, daddy.” He lets out a particularly pathetic whine as the nickname, you only use it to tease him but he seems to like it even though.. he’s not really the ”daddy” type. He watches as his slick, latex covered cock pushes relentlessly in and out of your pretty petaled pussy. The smooth wrapper makes his shaft glide effortlessly, pumping in and out as his dark skin contrasts against the lighter colored latex. Fuck, it’s pretty. All six inches of it.
“Who’s pussy is this? Let me know..” You grab his jaw, making him look at you as you gently runs a finger down his bottom lip to watch it pop back into place.
“It’s mine..” He whimpers out.
“Yeah? ’s all yours?” You smile, slipping her ring and middle finger into his mouth.
“Mhm..” He nods, closing his eyes again as he sucks on her fingers.
“Look at me, baby..” You say and he reluctantly does as he’s told. “I love watching you fuck me this good..” You look up at him with those big soft eyes, your expression melting into a breathtaking mix of pure adoration and overwhelming affection. Right now, there’s nothing dirty in your gaze now, only a deep, lovesick tenderness that reciprocates his same feelings for you—and it completely unravels him. Seeing you look at him with such.. love is his absolute undoing, shattering his control instantly.
Michael’s hips start to stutter and falter, his rhythm breaking as he approaches his high. His face contorts with distress, a mixture of pleasure and panic etched into his features.
“Oh—m’god..” He pants, his breath coming in ragged gasps. “Can’t.. that's gonna make me..”
“Make you what, angel face? Cum?” You smile.
“I can’t—I really can’t..” There’s really no warning.
Michael’s body suddenly goes rigid and his hips press deep as he buries himself completely inside you. His muscles tense and twitch as wave after wave of intense pleasure crashes over him, filling the condom with thick ropes of hot, sticky cum.
Michael collapses fully onto you, his strength completely spent as his body trembles uncontrollably. His hips continue to rut instinctively, pathetic little twitches driving his spent cock deeper into your warmth as he rides out the overwhelming aftershocks. His face buries into you shoulder, whimpering softly.
“Sorry.. sorry—felt too good..” There’s always a sense of shame that sits on his chest because since he’s been having sex, he’s been struggling with prematurely finishing. But you always tell him it’s not his fault when he brings it up hours later, his body has never known a woman until relatively recently. It just makes his body notoriously hypersensitive and prone to finishing too soon. It takes some time to build an endurance. But what he lacks in lasting, he makes up for with his refractory period which is seemingly nonexistent.
snowghoul
baratheonpilled
gummygunk
tangentwithtanner
ellievsbear
vaporwave
turnnoffyourmind
