#herweirdassfic

[herweirdass]

being clark kent’s girlfriend

he lets you win arm wrestling matches all the time. he fakes strain so convincingly you actually think you’ve got him—until one day, mid-match, you catch the tiniest smirk twitch at his lips.

“wait a damn minute—”

“what?” he laughs, acting innocent.

you slap his shoulder. “you’re faking?”

“wouldn’t dream of it,” he teases, letting you pin his hand again. “you’re just… strong.”

you’re always checking on him after missions, especially after he saves a city, lands a plane, or tanks an explosion. you’ll cup his face and search his eyes, even when there’s no scratch on him.

“i’m okay,” he’ll whisper every time. “you don’t have to worry.”

“i do worry, clark. you live a dangerous life.”

and he’ll just smile softly, brushing a hand over your cheek. “i’ll always make it back home to you.”

he thinks about proposing constantly. every time you fall asleep on his chest, every time you wake him up with a kiss, every time you run your hands through his curls and call him “baby” like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

but he’s scared—terrified—that bringing you deeper into his life could put you in danger.

he keeps little mementos of you everywhere—a photo of you at the planet, in his wallet, a pair of your earrings in the glove compartment of his truck, your favorite lotion tucked into his overnight bag. and he always smells like you after a night together—warm, soft, familiar.

and in the bedroom, he holds back—until you tell him not to.

there’s a night where you’re straddling him, mouth at his neck, and you say, “you don’t have to be gentle with me, you know.”

and something in him snaps—in the best way.

his hands clamp tight on your thighs, his voice gets low, and he flips you under him so fast the headboard groans.

“say that again,” he breathes, eyes darker than you’ve ever seen them.

[herweirdass]

let me in, please | ck

you always make little decisions without clark’s input. mainly because you’re used to your hyper-independence. but when you make one of the biggest decisions in your relationship without even consulting him. he gets very upset.

it wasn’t the first time clark had felt like you’d decided something without him.

sometimes it was little things—like when you rearranged the living room furniture while he was on night shift. he came home, half-asleep and bruised from a mission, only to stumble into the coffee table you’d moved. you just laughed it off, pressing a kiss to his shoulder, saying, “i thought it’d look better this way.”

then there was the weekend you’d gone and signed a lease on a bigger storage unit for all your things without even mentioning it to him. he only found out when you asked him to help you move boxes. when he asked why you didn’t talk to him first, you shrugged, “i didn’t want to bother you. you’re busy enough.”

he let those go. he told himself it was just your independence, something he admired most days. but deep down, each decision chipped at him, making him feel like he wasn’t really in your life—just orbiting around it.

so when you finally sat him down in the kitchen, nervously twisting your fingers together, he had no idea you were about to drop something much heavier.

“i, uh… i was offered a job in central city and… i accepted it.” you shyly.

he froze, mid-sip of water, staring at you over the rim of the glass. “come again?”

“it’s two hours out,” you rushed to explain. “but i can commute, or we’ll figure out weekends, and—”

“you accepted a job two hours away? without even telling me you were applying?” his voice was sharp, sharper than you’d ever heard it.

you swallowed. “i didn’t think it was a big deal until i got the offer. and then… i just thought i’d handle it.”

there it goes again. he set the glass down with a thunk, his jaw tight. “you keep saying that. handle it. like i’m not even here.”

“clark, it’s my career. i’ve always made choices like this for myself. i didn’t want to slow down and risk losing it.”

“but we’re not just you anymore. it’s us.” his voice cracked, raw and desperate. “don’t you see how it feels to find out something like this after the fact? like i don’t matter enough to even be considered?”

“clark,” your chest ached. “it’s not that you don’t matter. i just—i’ve had to do everything on my own for so long, i don’t even think about checking in sometimes. it’s instinct for me, im sorry.”

he shook his head, stepping closer but keeping just enough space between you that it stung. “instinct or not, this is our relationship. i need to know you want me in it, really in it—not just tagging along for the pieces you decide to share.”

you blinked against the hot pressure in your eyes, because clark never yelled, but every word cut like steel.

“i am so proud of you. i’ve always been proud of you. but right now? i’m scared.” his eyes burned into yours, his voice softer but still trembling with anger. “because if you can make this decision without me… what else can you decide without me?”

you sat on the edge of the bed, wringing your hands in your lap. the silence between you stretched like a taut wire, ready to snap. clark stood by the window, arms folded tight across his chest, staring out at the night sky but not really seeing it.

“i didn’t… i didn’t realize how much i hurt you.” your throat tightened, and you leaned forward, trying to catch his eyes. “all those little things—the apartment, the storage unit, even the furniture—I thought they didn’t matter. i thought they were just… me doing what i’ve always done. i never once stopped to think what it felt like on your side.”

“you’re not just my boyfriend, clark. you’re my partner. and i should’ve treated you like that.” your words came out shaky. “you’ve done nothing but make room for me in your world, in ways i don’t even deserve. and i shut you out without realizing it.”

his arms dropped slowly, “do you know what it feels like to be standing right here, loving you with everything i’ve got, and to keep finding out i’m the last to know about your life?”

tears blurred your vision. “i’m sorry. god, i’m so sorry.” you reached for him, hesitant, your fingers brushing his hand. “i’ve been independent for so long, i didn’t even think about what i was taking away from you. but i don’t want you to feel like you’re standing on the outside. i don’t want to keep making you feel like you don’t matter.”

finally, finally, his hand turned and wrapped around yours. he looked down at you, eyes softer now, though still glistening with unspoken worry.

“i don’t need to make your choices for you,” he murmured. “but i need to be there. i need to know we’re building something together. because i can’t… i can’t do this if i’m not a part of it.”

you squeezed his hand like it was the only thing tethering you to the ground. “then you’ll be part of everything. no more shutting you out. no more deciding alone. i want us, clark. i want us more than anything.”

for the first time that night, some of the tension in his face eased. he bent down, pressing his forehead against yours, his breath shaky.

“please don’t shut me out again,” he whispered.

“i won’t,” you promised, voice breaking. “never again.”

and when he finally kissed you, it wasn’t angry—it was relief.

[herweirdass]

watch the headboard, baby | clark kent

synopsis: clark loses control and accidentally breaks the headboard during sex, but you stay on top—literally. i just love sub clark omg.

you had him under you again — where he belonged.

his big body sprawled across your bed, muscles loose, mouth parted, already breathless like you hadn’t even really started. the man could bench buildings, but you so much as breathed heavy against his throat and he was whining.

the best part? he loved it.

“hands where i can see them,” you murmured, running your palms slowly down his chest. “and don’t get cute.”

clark smirked. “yes, ma’am.”

he obeyed, resting his wrists by his head, fingers fisting the pillow. you knew he could lift you with one pinky, but he was always so careful. always so still when you told him to be. and tonight? he looked wrecked already — cheeks flushed, chest rising fast, thighs trembling under your knees.

you rolled your hips against him slowly, just to tease.

his breath caught. “fuck—”

“mm. already?” you smiled, dragging your nails gently down his stomach. “and here i thought superman had stamina.”

“i do,” he said, voice tight. “just… not when it’s you.”

you bit your lip, amused. “don’t fall apart too fast, baby. we’re not even close to done.”

he whimpered, actual whimpered, when you sank down on him fully. your head tipped back, breath catching in your throat, because no matter how many times you did this, it never stopped being good — the stretch, the burn, the weight of him inside you. every inch made to fill you up just right.

you leaned forward, palms flat on his chest, and started riding him slow. deliberate. taking your time.

he was falling apart already — eyes half-lidded, lips slack, those strong hands clutching the pillow like it was his only lifeline.

“you look pretty like this,” you said, breath brushing over his jaw. “all big and helpless. you like it when i make the rules?”

his hips bucked a little before he caught himself. “yes,” he whispered. “you feel so good. can’t think.”

you tilted your head, riding him deeper, harder now. “don’t think baby.”

he moaned — loud and desperate.

and then—

CRACK.

everything stopped.

you blinked. slowly looked over your shoulder.

a chunk of the headboard had snapped clean off — splinters in the wall, cracks down the frame. it looked like someone had driven a sledgehammer through the top panel.

you turned back to clark, who was staring up at you like a kicked puppy.

“…clark.”

"i got excited," he mumbled.

"you broke the damn bed."

he winced. "i can fix it?"

you arched an eyebrow. "with what, laser vision?"

“i didn’t even notice i was holding on that tight…”

you sat back on his thighs, crossed your arms, and stared at the busted headboard.

“…that’s the third bed this year.”

“i can buy you another one—”

“you’re damn right you can.”

you leaned back over him, hands pressed to either side of his head, and kissed him hard — all tongue, heat, and a low warning hum in your throat. when you pulled back, his lips were red and kiss-swollen, eyes dazed.

you smirked, then leaned down, mouth brushing his ear.

"and if you ever break a headboard again, the only thing you'll be allowed to hold onto next time is your damn knees."

he choked on air. "wait, what—?"

but you were already rolling your hips again, slow and steady, like nothing had happened. except this time, you pressed your palm to his chest and pinned him there.

“no questions, pretty boy. hands back. mouth shut.”

he obeyed without hesitation — arms back, fists gripping the pillow like his life depended on it.

and this time, you rode him slow, cruel, intentional — listening to every gasp and tremble, watching his knuckles turn white. the only sound in the room was his ragged breathing, your name under his breath like prayer, and the slow creak of the half-broken bed beneath you.

[herweirdass]

my distant lover | michael jackson

you and michael have been in a relationship for months. suddenly, he becomes distant and cold, and there’s only one explanation: the diana ross. part two found here :)

the first time you met michael, was insane. he looked at you like he already knew you. not in a cocky way. not flirtatious, either.

it was softer than that. curious, one might say.

you were standing off to the side at a music industry party you barely even wanted to attend, holding a sweating glass of cranberry juice and vodka, wishing your friend would hurry up so you could leave. the room was packed shoulder to shoulder with celebrities, producers, photographers, assistants. expensive perfume floated through the air thick enough to choke on.

and yet somehow, when michael walked in, everything shifted. people parted for him naturally. heads turned immediately. conversations stopped and restarted in excited whispers.

but michael himself looked uncomfortable underneath it all.

his shoulders curled inward slightly as security escorted him through the room, dark curls brushing against his forehead while flashes from cameras bounced off the gold trim of his jacket.

you looked away quickly. you didn’t want to stare. but you couldn’t help yourself. every woman in the room already was.

your friend eventually returned to your side breathless.

“oh my god,” she whispered, gripping your arm. “that’s michael!”

“i know who michael jackson is.”

“girl, fix your face.” she said as she slapped your shoulder. she had pulled some big strings to get the both of you into the function.

you rolled your eyes, fighting a laugh.

“i’m tired.”

“well wake up because he keeps lookin’ over here.”

“girl, please.”

“i’m serious.”

you turned slightly then and your stomach dropped. because he was. not dramatically. not intensely.

just… watching.

the second your eyes met his, he smiled.

small.

shy.

beautiful.

you looked away first. you had to. he gave you all kids of butterflies you didn’t even know existed.

later that same night, you found yourself trapped near the balcony doors while waiting for valet. you were checking your purse when you heard a soft voice behind you.

“leaving so soon? was the party as boring for you as it was for me?”

you jumped slightly.

michael stood there alone now, hands tucked into the pockets of his black slacks, expression amused.

up close, he looked even prettier somehow. soft brown eyes. long lashes. that smile.

oh that smile.

you blinked.

“i’m sorry?”

“at the party,” he clarified. “you looked bored.”

you laughed before you could stop yourself. “maybe because i was.”

his grin widened.

there was something disarming about him immediately. something warm. michael didn’t talk to you like you were some beautiful mystery to conquer. he spoke carefully, gently, like he genuinely wanted to know what you thought.

you ended up talking with him near those balcony doors for almost an hour. about music, movies, random memories.

he told stories with his entire body, animated hands moving constantly while he spoke. every few minutes he’d laugh suddenly and grab your arm instinctively like he couldn’t help touching you.

and god, his laugh.

soft and bright and completely contagious.

at one point you teased him about a movie he liked, and he looked so fake offended you nearly cried laughing.

“you are mean,” he accused dramatically.

“you have terrible taste.”

“no i don’t.”

“you absolutely do.”

after that night, the two of you became inseparable.

being loved by michael felt intoxicating in the beginning. not because he was famous but because he noticed things. even the little things.

he remembered your coffee order after hearing it once. he noticed when your mood shifted before you even spoke. if you mentioned liking something casually in conversation, weeks later he’d somehow surprise you with it.

he adored making you laugh most of all.

sometimes you’d catch him staring at you while you talked, smiling to himself like he couldn’t believe you were real.

those moments ruined you. because michael loved in such a tender way when he allowed himself to.

he’d call late at night just to hear your voice.

“what’re you doin’?” he’d ask softly.

“trying to sleep.” you joked.

“oh.”

“…why do you sound sad?”

“i miss you.”

simple. honest. and devastating.

sometimes he’d sneak over to your apartment wearing baseball caps and oversized jackets trying desperately not to be recognized, only to end up curled across your couch stealing all your blankets within an hour.

you remembered one rainy afternoon especially vividly.

the temptations played softly from your record player while thunder rolled outside your windows. michael lay stretched across your bed with his head in your lap while you absentmindedly played in his curls.

“you spoil me,” he mumbled sleepily.

“you’re dramatic.”

“no, i’m serious.” his eyes stayed closed. “nobody takes care of me like you.”

your fingers paused briefly. you looked down at him carefully.

“and who takes care of you, michael?”

his eyes opened and for a second, something deeply sad flashed across his face before disappearing.

“nobody,” he said quietly.

your chest ached instantly. you bent down and kissed his forehead without thinking. you wanted him to know that he deserved the world. your sweet boy.

and michael melted.

actually melted.

he grabbed your wrist gently afterward, pressing his lips against the inside of your palm while staring up at you with those soft dark eyes.

you felt yourself falling in love right there.

hard. irreversibly hard.

but even during the good moments, there was always another presence lingering quietly between you both.

diana.

sometimes it was subtle, sometimes it wasn’t. michael talked about her constantly. stories from childhood. memories. phone calls. advice she’d given him.

he lit up differently whenever her name came up. you noticed it immediately, though you tried not to. at first you told yourself you were overthinking.

everybody knew michael loved diana. the entire world knew. but loving someone and being in love with them were supposed to be different things.

right?

still, there were moments that sat wrong with you. like the time you both attended an event together and diana arrived late.

michael had been relaxed all evening beforehand, sitting close beside you with his hand resting against your knee underneath the table.

then she walked in and he changed instantly. his entire face brightened.

“diana!” he breathed.

you’d never heard your name leave his mouth sounding like that.

he stood immediately, already moving toward her before you could even process it. she hugged him tightly and he hugged her tighter.

suddenly you felt invisible.

later that night, after the event ended, michael noticed your silence in the car.

“what’s wrong?”

“nothing.”

“baby.”

you just stared out the window and blamed it on you being tired.

the second time you realized something was wrong, it was quiet. not dramatic. not explosive. just… quiet.

two weeks of quiet to be exact.

two weeks of staring at your phone every night. two weeks of hearing his voice everywhere else except where it mattered. interviews. recordings. rehearsals. television appearances.

everybody else could reach the michael jackson, except you.

and somehow that hurt worse than if he’d just told you outright that he didn’t want you anymore.

you sat cross-legged on your bed one night with your journal balanced against your thighs, tears burning behind your eyes while the television muttered softly in the background.

your pen pressed so hard into the paper it nearly tore through it.

i just get so irritated and i feel so crazy every time i think about this. like it’s just no way. you went TWO whole weeks without talking to me. okay cool. i expressed to you how i was kinda upset about it, not even kinda i WAS upset and i really missed you. then when i do reach out to you to reconcile you just act like i was the issue??? a couple days ago you said that i was annoying you and i turned you off, well THIS is annoying and turning me off. like this disappearing act is so weird. and you calling me annoying actually really hurt my feelings. is there a deeper issue here that i’m not understanding?

your breathing became shaky halfway through. because deep down, you already knew the deeper issue.

her.

always her.

you remembered the exact moment you were writing about in grave detail.

you’d been sitting in your kitchen making yourself a snack at nearly midnight when the television host smiled and mentioned diana’s recent accident that left her slightly injured. nothing too serious.

“and michael was sweet enough to come check on you personally, right?” the interviewer asked.

diana laughed softly.

“of course, he’s always had a real and true love for me.”

real and true love.

you stared at the television so long you’d abandoned your food. because michael had looked you dead in your eyes weeks prior and told you there was nothing going on.

“she’s family to me,” he’d said gently. “that’s all.”

“family.”

but family didn’t make him disappear for weeks while ignoring your messages. family didn’t make his eyes soften that way whenever her name came up. family didn’t make you feel like you were competing with a someone you could never beat.

when things were good with michael, they were embarrassingly good.

that was the problem. he loved softly. dangerously softly.

he’d kiss your forehead while humming unfinished melodies under his breath. he’d tug you into his lap absentmindedly during studio sessions. he’d laugh at your jokes so hard he’d wheeze and cover his face.

and god, his smile. his smile ruined you.

there was one night in particular you kept replaying even after the breakup.

you’d both snuck out onto the balcony of his hotel suite in new york. it was freezing outside, your fingers stiff from the cold, but michael insisted on staying.

“look,” he whispered excitedly, pointing toward the city lights.

you laughed. “baby, it’s literally traffic.”

“no,” he grinned. “it looks like stars.”

you looked over at him instead. the city reflected in his eyes. his curls falling around his face. that stupid beautiful smile. he literally invented the word whimsical. that was him.

your sweet boy.

and he caught you staring.

“what?” he asked shyly.

“nothing.”

“you’re lookin’ at me like i’m crazy.”

“maybe you are crazy.” you joked.

he gasped dramatically. “see? this is why i keep you around. you humble me.”

you laughed so hard you nearly snorted. and michael lit up. completely lit up.

he pulled you against him under his coat, chin resting on top of your head.

“you know i adore you, right?”

your chest physically hurt remembering that now. because maybe he did adore you. just not enough.

but it was the fight that ended everything happened in his living room. you arrived already exhausted. already angry. already heartbroken. nevertheless, you went to see him anyway.

michael sat curled into the corner of the couch in gray sweatpants and a white t-shirt, looking nervous the second he saw your face.

“hey,” he said quietly.

“hey.”

he stood slowly. “you okay?”

you almost laughed.

“am i okay?”

his shoulders tensed.

“i’ve been worried about you,” he murmured.

“worried about me?” you repeated. “michael, you disappeared.”

“I didn’t disappear—”

“you did.”

his jaw tightened immediately.

“i been busy.”

“busy enough to ignore me for two weeks?”

he sighed heavily, already irritated. and somehow that hurt more.

“why’re you makin’ this into somethin’ bigger than it is?”

your eyes widened.

“because it IS bigger than it is!”

“see?” he snapped suddenly. “this is what i mean. you keep pushin’ and pushin’ and it’s annoyin’.”

the room went silent. because there it was. annoying.

you stared at him like he’d slapped you. and the second the word registered on your face, michael regretted it.

you could see it immediately.

“baby—”

“don’t, michael.”

his voice softened instantly. “i didn’t mean it like that.”

“then how did you mean it?”

he rubbed his face hard.

“i just… i got a lot goin’ on.”

“so do i but i find the time to show up for you, michael. i find the time to show up for us!”

“i know that.”

“no,” you whispered, tears rising. “i don’t think you do.”

michael looked exhausted now. cornered.

“what do you want me to say?”

the question broke something in you. because if he loved you the way you loved him, he would’ve known.

you swallowed hard.

“i want to know why she matters more.”

his eyes flickered immediately. there it was again. that hesitation. that tiny tiny pause that told you everything.

“she doesn’t,” he said quietly.

you nodded slowly.

“okay.”

“i’m serious.”

“i said okay.”

“why won’t you believe me?”

your voice cracked. “because you’re lying to me, michael. you abandon me and go out of your way for her. you answer her every call. you never tell her no. there aren’t any boundaries.”

his face hardened defensively.

“that’s diana.”

“exactly.”

silence. thick silence.

you stared at him with tears slipping down your cheeks while he stood frozen across from you. and suddenly you felt tired. not angry. not dramatic.

just tired.

“i can’t do this anymore,” you whispered.

michael blinked.

“…what?”

“i can’t compete with a woman you’ve loved your whole life.”

his face immediately crumbled.

“baby—”

“don’t call me that right now.”

“please.”

his voice cracked so softly it nearly made you fold. he stepped toward you carefully.

“you know how much i care about you.”

“that’s the problem,” you whispered. “you care about me.”

not love. care.

you saw the exact second he realized what you meant.

his lips parted. but no words came out. because what could he say? that he loved you more?

you weren’t sure he did. and he wasn’t sure either. you grabbed your bag before you could change your mind.

michael followed you all the way to the door.

“please don’t leave mad.”

you laughed bitterly through tears.

“that’s the thing, michael. i’m not even mad anymore.”

that terrified him more than yelling would’ve.

“we can fix this.”

you looked at him one last time.

beautiful.

sad.

confused.

still somehow the boy you loved more than yourself. and that made this even worse.

“we can’t fix this, michael.” you breathed harshly. this was hurting you more than it hurt him, “i wish you the best lovey. i really do.”

his eyes watered instantly and you almost stayed.

almost.

but then you remembered the interview. real and true love.

and you walked away.

the breakup destroyed you in ways nobody noticed. because technically, nothing dramatic happened. no cheating scandal. no screaming. no public humiliation.

just grief.

private grief.

the kind that sat heavy in your chest at three in the morning.

you stopped answering friends. stopped going out. marvin gaye songs became unbearable. everything reminded you of him. his laugh. his hands. the way he’d randomly grab your wrist just to kiss your palm absentmindedly while talking.

you wrote instead.

constantly.

you do not care for me in the same way that i care for you. i’m slowly realizing that. well i did know that, i just didn’t want to acknowledge it. i won’t say i didn’t love you, but i cared for you so much and i still do. i’m so hurt & i miss you. i miss your presence. the way you made me laugh. your touch. i miss everything.

your tears smeared the ink.

i just want to scream and blow up your house phone asking why her over me. i want to cry until i can’t anymore. but i wont. i’m better than that.

you paused there.

because were you?

you slept with his sweatshirt every night for nearly a month afterward. sometimes you’d reach for the phone before stopping yourself. sometimes you swore you could still smell his cologne in your apartment.

and the worst part? a tiny cruel part of you wondered if he was hurting too.

are you acting nonchalant or did you cry a million times too?

months later, he still haunted you.

in grocery stores. on radios. on magazine covers.

you’d see a sequined glove in a storefront and your chest would tighten instantly. you hated how deeply he stayed embedded inside you.

one night, unable to sleep again, you opened your journal once more.

hi again. i miss you. a lot.

your breathing shook.

i shouldn’t but i do. i really really do.

outside, rain tapped softly against your window.

i can’t stop thinking about you. i wish i didn’t think about you. i wish i didn’t want you as bad as i do when you’re clearly over me.

you shut your eyes hard. because that was the worst part.

the idea that he’d moved on easier than you.

that maybe you were just another woman he cared for while still secretly loving diana ross forever.

that can’t be true. i refuse to believe this and that’s exactly my problem. i can’t register this in my brain.

your throat tightened painfully.

i’m simply a girl who cared for a boy. things didn’t work out and that’s okay. but i miss you. i think of you every time i hear marvin gaye. i think of you walking to class. i think of you before going to bed. i thought i would be over you by now. but i’m not. i miss you deeply.

my lovey, my michael, my superstar.

then came the worst night of all.

the night he called.

you almost didn’t answer.

almost. but the second you heard his voice, your knees weakened.

“…hey.”

silence.

you sat down slowly on the edge of your bed.

“hi, michael.”

he sounded exhausted. small. “i didn’t know if you’d pick up.”

“i almost didn’t.” you said truthfully.

a quiet breath.

“that’s fair.”

you closed your eyes. his voice still felt like home and that was the tragedy.

“why are you callin’, mike?”

there was a long silence. then quietly he said,

“i miss you.”

your chest caved in. you covered your mouth instantly. because hearing it out loud nearly destroyed every ounce of healing you’d managed.

“don’t,” you whispered shakily.

“i do, baby.”

“please don’t do this to me.” you begged.

“i think about you all the time,” michael continued, “i miss everything about you.”

you laughed bitterly through tears.

“that’s funny.”

“why’s that funny?”

“because i’ve spent months thinkin’ i meant nothing to you.”

“you never meant nothing to me.” his voice sounded horrified.

you wiped your face aggressively.

“then why did you make me feel like i had to compete for you?”

silence again.

heavy silence.

and suddenly michael sounded heartbreakingly honest.

“…because i was confused. i was obsessed with the version of diana i’d created in my head. what i didn’t realize is that i had what i was looking for in front of me the entire time.”

you inhaled sharply.

“that’s not fair.”

“i know.”

“you don’t get to love me halfway because you can’t figure yourself out.”

“I know.” his voice cracked. “I know, baby.”

the tears began to flow even harder. baby. you’d missed that. so so much.

you could hear it. the regret.

real regret all in his voice.

“did you love her?” you whispered.

he took forever to answer.

“…yes.”

your heart shattered all over again.

but then—

“but i loved you too.”

too.

not more.

but too.

and somehow that tiny word told you everything you’d feared from the beginning.

you squeezed your eyes shut.

“that’s the problem, michael.”

he started crying quietly on the other end. actual crying. soft sniffles he was trying to hide.

and god, that hurt too. because part of you wanted to comfort him anyway.

even now. especially now.

“i never wanted to hurt you,” he whispered.

“but you did, mike.”

“I know.”

you pressed the phone against your forehead.

“michael, i’m trying to do this. trying to sit here on the phone with you. trying to be there for you,” you admitted quietly. “i really am, lovey.”

he stayed silent.

“but i can’t.”

his breathing hitched.

“because i don’t want friendship from you.” you cried softly into the receiver. “i wanted you. all of you.”

the silence afterward was devastating. because both of you knew love existed there.

real love.

just not the right kind.

not the complete kind.

and incomplete love destroys people too.

[herweirdass]

the two of you stepped out of the shower in a haze of steam, laughter still lingering in the air from some joke clark cracked while rinsing the shampoo out of your hair. the mirror was fogged, towels clung to your bodies, and the world outside your little apartment might as well not exist.

you sat at the edge of the bed, towel tucked around your chest, squeezing lotion into your palms. clark watched from across the room, his hands hanging uselessly at his sides. he couldn’t stop staring—not at the towel, not at the curve of your body, but at the way your skin glowed. rich, deep, beautiful.

“you’re staring,” you teased, rubbing lotion into your arm.

“i know,” he admitted easily, stepping closer. “i can’t help it.”

you laughed, shaking your head. “you’re ridiculous.”

clark knelt in front of you, gently plucking the lotion from your hand. “let me.” his voice was low, careful, like this was sacred work. he warmed the lotion between his palms before sliding his hands over your calf, slow and thorough.

you tried to act casual, but the way his thumbs pressed softly into your skin made your breath catch.

“clark…” you started, but his eyes flicked up, stopping you.

“do you have any idea,” he said quietly, smoothing lotion up your shin, “how beautiful you are? how your skin is? i’ve seen sunsets over kansas fields, i’ve flown past entire constellations—but nothing looks like this.”

your heart thudded, and heat bloomed in your chest.

he shook his head, moving to your other leg, his touch reverent. “i get obsessed sometimes. i’ll catch myself staring at you in the middle of the day, in the middle of the street, even at work. i can’t stop.”

by the time his hands trailed up to your thighs, you were leaning forward, eyes searching his. clark’s voice softened even more. “you’re art. and i get to love you. do you know what that does to me? i can’t ever get enough of you.”

you cupped his face, pulling him up to kiss you. his mouth was warm, insistent, like he was trying to pour every word into the press of his lips. when he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, breath shaky.

“and i’ll never stop telling you,” he promised. “never.”

and with the way his hands slid back over your skin, steady and tender, you knew he meant it.

[herweirdass]

feed me, maybe? | ck

you show clark affection through homemade meals & sweet treats. he thinks you’re just being nice… are you?

you loved to cook. being from the south you grew up cooking and you definitely knew your way around a kitchen. even better, you loved cooking for clark. it was one of your favorite ways to show him you cared, the little way you said, i like you without ever having to speak it out loud. every time he came by, you had something waiting or if you’d cooked the night before, you made sure to pack some up and bring them to work the next day for clark. freshly baked cookies, a small tray of brownies, even little sandwiches just because. clark always smiled politely, sometimes leaning down to sneak a bite before you could stop him, and you swore your heart skipped a beat every single time.

people in the office had started to notice. jimmy smirked one morning, sliding a mug of coffee across his desk. “hey, clark,” he said, voice casual but with that unmistakable tease. “so… anything going on between you two?”

clark blinked, flustered. “w-what? no. no, we’re just… friends.” he rubbed the back of his neck, glancing over at you as if you’d give him the right answer without him having to. in his head, he convinced himself that you didn’t like him that way; you were just being… nice. sweet. the office gossip’s favorite misunderstanding.

“oh really?” jimmy questioned, “why does she only ever cook for you? i like brownies?”

this left clark wondering. did you like him?

one evening, you invited him over for dinner like normal—a simple pot roast, slow-cooked with all the fixings. the smell hit him the second he stepped in, warm and comforting, like home. he sank into a chair at your kitchen island, watching you plate the food with that careful precision you always had.

he cleared his throat, a little nervous. “hey… can i ask you something?”

you hummed, not looking up. “sure, what’s up?”

he fiddled with the edge of his napkin, unsure how to say it. “why… why do you do all this for me? the cooking, the snacks… i mean, it’s really nice, but—”

you finally looked at him, meeting his eyes with a soft smile. “because i like seeing you happy, clark. and i like you.”

his mouth went dry. “wait… you… like me?”

you nodded, shrugging like it was no big deal, but the glow in your eyes said everything. “yeah. that’s why i feed you all the time. it’s my way of showing it.”

for a moment, clark just stared, trying to process the truth that had been right in front of him all along. then, slowly, a small, genuine smile spread across his face. “i… i like you too,” he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “i just didn’t think… you know, i didn’t think you felt that way.”

and just like that, the kitchen filled with warmth—not from the oven, but from the quiet understanding, and maybe the start of something neither of you had expected.

after that night, everything shifted. clark suddenly had this little sparkle in his eyes whenever he came over, and you could tell he was both nervous and thrilled—mostly about what he could get away with.

“so… does this mean,” he started, leaning against the counter while you stirred the gravy, “i get to request your cooking more often now?”

you raised an eyebrow, smirking. “oh really? so you’re admitting it’s for selfish reasons?”

he grinned, scratching the back of his neck. “maybe a little. but can you blame me? you make everything taste… amazing.”

you laughed, rolling your eyes, but your heart was doing that little flip it always did around him. “fine,” you said, “but only if you promise to help with dishes. that’s part of the deal.”

his eyes widened in mock horror. “dishes? i thought this was the part where i get free food and unlimited dessert!”

you shook your head, playful. “not without effort, mister. love doesn’t come without a little work.”

he leaned closer, voice soft, teasing. “hmm… i think i could manage. especially if it means i get to see you smile while cooking.”

you felt heat rise to your cheeks, and for the first time, you didn’t bother hiding it. “well… i guess i can make an exception… for you.”

clark’s grin widened, and that night, the air between you felt warmer than the oven ever could. little did you know, every future pot roast, cookie, and brownie would come with just a hint of flirtation—and he was going to make sure you noticed every single one.

[herweirdass]

a season unpromised | anthony bridgerton

synopsis: you arrive from the americas to sign away your late father’s estate and is unexpectedly crowned the queen’s diamond of the season. suddenly, all eyes are on you. including his.

he had made a decision. long before the season began, long before the queen’s naming of a diamond, and long before you stepped onto english soil, anthony bridgerton decided he would not marry for love.

he could not.

to love someone—truly love them—was to risk losing them. he had watched it break his mother when his father died so suddenly, so cruelly. he had watched violet bridgerton fall into a grief so deep, so consuming, that he never fully believed she resurfaced. he had experienced this hurt of his own not very long ago with a particular opera singer.

he was the eldest. the viscount. it was his job to hold everything together. grief had no place in that equation.

so, anthony told himself: i will find a suitable woman. i will provide an heir. i will secure the family name. and i will never, ever love her.

he made a list. well-bred. poised. sensible. educated enough to raise his children, docile enough to not challenge him. someone who understood duty. someone who would not tempt his heart. someone who wouldn’t make him feel.

he was convinced this plan was not only wise—it was noble.

the letter arrived on crisp ivory parchment, sealed with a red wax crest you didn’t recognize.

you were still settling debts in boston, mourning the quiet and complicated passing of your mother, when word reached you: an estate in england—your father’s estate—had been left in your name. a father you never knew. a home you never imagined.

you had every intention of arriving, signing the papers, and leaving the damp greys of london behind for good.

but then there was her. lady danbury.

you were still dazed by it all—the house, the air, the way people looked at you when you stepped out of the carriage. not because they knew who you were, but because they didn’t. a young twenty something black woman from the americas, alone, with no chaperone, no explanation, and an estate tied to a name half the ton had likely whispered about once and then forgotten.

you didn’t know how long you stood staring at the house before a cane tapped against the stone behind you.

you turned, startled. the woman before you was dressed in the best gown, eyes keen.

“you have your mother’s eyes,” she said. “and her posture. heavens, she’d be scandalized to see you slouching.”

she continued. “we were young hellions together. she was one of my dearest friends. and now, you are one of mine.”

you nodded and listened to what more she had to say.

lady danbury didn’t ask if you would attend the season. she told you why you must.

“you are the daughter of a brilliant woman who never once bowed her head to society,” she said. “what better way to honor her memory than to let them see her strength still lives in you?”

“but i am nothing like those women,” you said quietly. “i’m educated, yes. i can speak multiple languages, yes. i can waltz, yes. but i am not and will not succumb to any man’s demands or desires simply for the kind of life he can offer me.”

lady danbury’s mouth twitched. “darling girl, a life of independence is no mere consolation. you are to wed for love. not for fortune.”

and with that, she sent for modite the very next morning.

lady danbury taught you the rhythm of the ton: which men to avoid, which women would smile to your face and sharpen their knives behind your back. she hosted tea with important widows, gave you books of poetry, taught you the subtle art of reading a room and commanding it without uttering a word.

you became something of a curiosity—this woman from the americas, with dark skin and a sharper tongue than most debutantes dared reveal. people expected you to fall behind, to wilt in the face of london’s polished cruelty.

but lady danbury made sure you didn’t.

“you are not here to be chosen,” she reminded you. “you are here to choose.”

the ballroom gleamed like something out of a dream.

every surface glittered. the chandeliers hung low and heavy with crystal. golden sconces flickered along the walls, casting a warm, forgiving glow over powdered faces and anxious eyes. it was lady danbury’s first ball of the season, and it was said—even before the first guest arrived—that it would be the most influential of the year.

you stood near the grand staircase, your gown carefully selected—a deep emerald satin that shimmered like bottled envy beneath the candlelight. lady danbury insisted on the color with it being one of the queen’s favorites.

“everyone will wear pastels to look innocent,” she told you with a smirk. “you will wear power.”

her cane tapped beside you, her presence grounding. “the queen is in attendance tonight,” she said softly.

your throat went dry.

“she also knew your mother,” lady danbury continued. “and she’s taken a personal interest in this season more than the others. if she likes you…” her lips curled. “she’ll make it known.”

you met the queen moments later.

you were introduced with care, your curtsy practiced, your name spoken with pride. “your majesty.”

queen charlotte looked you over from head to hem, eyes narrowed, expression unreadable. you held her gaze, chin tilted just enough to show you weren’t afraid. her eyes flicked to lady danbury and then back to you.

“and you say she’s not of noble birth?” the queen asked, amused.

“her mother had nobility of spirit,” lady danbury replied coolly. “and as for her character—well. i have taken her under my wing.”

“hm.” the queen sipped her tea, lips twitching. “we shall see.”

a string quartet played a graceful waltz. the crowd had thickened, laughter mingling with gossip and the clink of champagne flutes. ladies clustered in corners, watching, whispering. your presence had already stirred curiosity.

but you were thirsty. and slightly overwhelmed.

you slipped toward the punch table, careful not to trip on anyone’s train or ego, and ladled yourself a glass of the bright red drink—tart, sweet… and unmistakably spiked with rum.

you smiled to yourself. so lady danbury throws parties worth attending.

and that’s when you heard it.

you paused behind a pillar near the refreshment table, not eavesdropping—not intentionally—but close enough to catch voices.

male voices.

“you are impossible, anthony,” came one exasperated voice—benedict, you thought.

“you mean logical,” anthony bridgerton replied coolly. “i do not wish to marry for love. it is inefficient. love… it ruins you. i wish only to a woman to bear my children. carry the bridgerton name.”

you stilled.

“our father loved our mother,” colin added gently.

“and look what it did to her when he died,” anthony bit back. “she broke. i will not. i need a wife who understands that this is about duty. legacy. nothing more.”

you stepped away quickly, smoothing your skirts, ignoring the curious glances as you made your way across the floor.

“may i have this dance?”

his voice, low and steady, stopped you in your tracks.

you turned to face him—anthony, standing just close enough to smell the expensive cologne on his cravat.

but you smiled politely. “no, my lord. i am otherwise engaged.”

before he could speak, another voice came from behind.

“my lady,” said a tall, handsome man with hair like sunlight and shoulders broad enough to part crowds, “i’ve been waiting for a moment with you all evening. would you do me the honor?”

your smile deepened. perfect timing.

“certainly,” you replied, accepting lord oaklee’s arm.

anthony stood frozen as you and the blonde lord glided past.

the dance was easy. graceful.

lord oaklee was charming—clever, too, with a wicked sense of humor and a flattering lack of entitlement. he spoke of travel and books, of how you wore green better than the duchess of kent’s prized peacocks. he asked about your time in the americas, and when you gave a knowing look, he said, “i listen better than i speak. it’s why I’m not married yet.”

you laughed softly, and in that moment—just as you twirled back into his arms—the room seemed to hush.

the queen rose.

her voice cut through the ballroom like a blade of silk.

“i should like to make an announcement,” she said, with that imperial calm that silenced even the drunkest lords.

the musicians stopped. the room turned toward her throne-like seat near the orchestra.

she smiled.

“this year’s diamond has revealed herself—not through family name, nor titles of the past, but in poise, spirit, and character.” her gaze swept the floor, until it landed on you.

a collective inhale swept the room.

“you, my dear,” the queen said, lifting her fan and pointing directly at you, “are the diamond of the season.”

the room erupted.

your heart did too.

lady danbury beamed across the room. anthony’s fists clenched. lord oaklee gave you a wink.

and you?

you curtsied deeply, head held high, pulse thundering in your ears.

you did not plan for any of this.

but somehow, you’d just become the most watched woman in england.

and anthony bridgerton would be the first in line.

[herweirdass]

off day | clark kent

synopsis: you and clark both work for the daily planet. you get called into work on your off day & clark can’t take his eyes off of you in your “outside” clothes.

you weren’t even supposed to be here today. your day off was supposed to be you, takeout, and a long bath—until perry called asking if you could please swing by to help edit a breaking story. he quote on quote, “needed your skills.”

you almost said no, but then you thought of the overtime pay.

so here you are, walking into the daily planet newsroom in a black bodycon dress, small gold hoops glinting in the overhead light, sandals clacking on the floor. hair down, lip gloss catching every flicker of the light.

you weren’t dressed for newsroom politics, hence the cleavage.

which is why you notice it immediately—the way clark’s eyes find you the moment you step in. he’s leaning back in his chair, glasses sliding low, lips curving just slightly as his gaze sweeps over you.

“well, well,” he says, voice warm and annoyingly amused. “didn’t realize we had a new dress code.”

you roll your eyes, dropping your bag onto your desk. “don’t start, kent.”

“relax,” he says, smirking now. “i’m just saying… if i’d known you looked like that on your days off, i would’ve found a reason to get you in here sooner.”

“you’re ridiculous,” you mutter, trying to focus on your screen.

“maybe,” he says, leaning over the partition just slightly. his eyes flickered down to your chest when you weren’t looking. taking notice that you had on no bra.

you groan, tossing a paperclip at him. “go write your article, farm boy.”

before you knew it, it’s past nine, and the newsroom is nearly silent except for the hum of the vending machine and the soft clack of your keyboard. most people have gone home, but you’re still chasing down a last-minute source.

you thought clark left hours ago—until you hear his voice.

“still here?”

you look up, and there he is, leaning against your desk with his jacket slung over one shoulder, sleeves rolled up, tie off. he’s got that dangerously relaxed look, like he’s not in a hurry to go anywhere.

“working,” you say, eyes flicking back to the screen. “some of us actually have deadlines.” you say teasingly.

he hums, circling your desk slowly. “mhmm. and here i thought you just didn’t want to leave me alone in here.”

you bite back a smile. “you really think that highly of yourself?”

“no,” he says, stopping behind your chair, “i think highly of you.”

your hands still on the keyboard. you can feel him standing close—too close—his voice low enough to feel against the back of your neck.

you swallow, your pulse ticking up. “clark—”

“i have a question” he continues, tone dipping even softer, “kinda been stuck in my head all day.”

you nod, not trusting your voice.

“do i ever cross your mind? outside of work…when you’re not around me?”

the question catches you off guard. his tone isn’t cocky—it’s genuine.

you bite your lip, trying to hide your smile. “more than i’d like to admit.”

that answer makes his mouth curve into a slow grin, the kind that tells you he’s already planning what to do with that information.

“you’ve been stuck in my head for months, so i need to know if you feel what i feel or if im just crazy.”

“well… you aren’t crazy, farm boy.” you murmur.

clark’s hand moves to your jaw, tilting your face further into his. it’s not rushed, but it’s not hesitant either. the clean scent of his cologne wrapping around you.

“you have no idea,” he murmurs, “how hard it’s been keeping my hands to myself all day.”

your breath catches, and you give him that look—the one you know drives him crazy. he catches it instantly, his smile darkening.

“stand up,” he says. it’s not a request.

you do, the chair rolling back slightly, and he steps in, closing the space between you. one large hand finds your waist, the other slipping up the curve of your back.

“you’ve been taunting me since the second you walked in here in that outfit,” he says against your ear, voice rougher now. “and i’ve been trying to be patient…”

he pulls away for a second to fully look at you.

“…but i’m done being patient. baby, you are gorgeous.”

your hands grip the front of his shirt, and in one smooth motion he lifts you onto your desk like you weigh nothing. papers scatter to the floor, but neither of you care.

you lean back, and clark steps between your legs, his fingers skimming your thigh before tugging you forward until your hips meet the edge of the desk.

“clark—” you start, but he cuts you off with a kiss that leaves you dizzy.

when he finally pulls back, his hand is cupping your chin, holding your gaze steady.

“you still think i wasn’t watching you all day?” he says, lips brushing yours.

you shake your head slightly, a dazed little smile pulling at your mouth.

“the way your tits bounced every time you moved, the way this dress hugs your every curve,” he says, thumb stroking your lower lip. “these lips. you drive me crazy.”

his mouth trails along your jaw, slow, deliberate, until his lips are at the hollow beneath your ear.

his glasses are the first thing to go—he pulls them off with one hand, tossing them somewhere behind him without looking, and that soft, bumbling co-worker persona vanishes instantly.

he’s all heat and focus now, jaw set, eyes locked on you like you’re the only thing in the world worth his time.

“lean back,” he says, voice low and rough.

you do, and he steps right between your knees, hands skimming up your thighs before gripping your hips hard enough to make you gasp. he doesn’t ask permission—he just pulls you closer, until your legs are wrapped around his waist and your dress is bunched up around your hips.

he kisses you again, but this time there’s nothing sweet about it—just hunger. his tongue brushes yours, his hand coming up to cradle the back of your neck while his other one slides under your dress, splaying across your bare skin.

“you’ve been driving me crazy since i met you,” he mutters against your mouth, pulling back just enough to speak.

the wood is cool under your palms, and you feel the desk shift slightly when he pushes you back farther, standing between your knees like he owns the space—like he owns you.

“look at me,” he says, and when you do, the intensity in his gaze nearly makes your knees buckle. “good girl.”

he bends, kissing your neck, dragging his teeth lightly over your skin before sucking just hard enough to leave a mark.

his hands grip your thighs tighter, lifting you just enough to press your hips flush against his. the heat radiating off his body is dizzying, his strength undeniable, but every movement is careful enough to make you moan uncontrollably.

“you’re mine tonight,” he whispers into your ear, one hand sliding between your thighs, the other holding you firmly in place.

he enters you in one swift thrust, making you cry out in pleasure.

you arch against him instinctively, fingers clutching at his broad shoulders as he rolls his hips, thrusting deep and slow, letting you feel every inch of him.

his lips find your neck, biting and sucking, leaving marks that burn deliciously against your skin. his hands slide higher, cupping your breasts, thumbs tracing over your nipples with a precision that makes your back arch and your knees shake.

“clark—baby—” you moan, voice breaking.

he chuckles darkly, pressing his forehead to yours. “say it again. i want to hear you.”

“i…i’m yours,” you gasp, nails digging into his back.

“that’s right,” he whispers, rolling his hips faster now, the desk creaking beneath you. “all mine. all this… just for me.”

every thrust, every touch, every growl from him is completely unrestrained, primal, and overwhelming. he buries himself deeper each time, letting you feel the full intensity of his strength, the weight of him pressed against you, the way he’s completely all in.

you’re trembling, gasping, clinging to him as he rides you over the edge, his name falling from your lips in desperate moans.

“come for me,” he commands, voice thick and low.

he follows you almost instantly, groaning your name, pressing himself into you, grounding you in the intensity of everything he’s been holding back.

finally, he collapses beside you, breath hot against your skin, holding you tight. for a moment, neither of you speaks—just letting the silence, the warmth, and the ache of him pressed against you sink in.

“that,” he whispers, voice ragged, “was a long time coming.”

you smile weakly, still shaking. “understatement of the century.”