heartfullofamor

[heartfullofamor]

Older Wrestlers Do It Better—Shawn Michaels x Fem!Reader

summary— After winning your first Women’s Championship, you finally meet your childhood crush, Shawn Michaels. Nervously flirting with him leads to an unforgettable night where he makes your win ever better.

warnings— age gap(reader is in her 20s, shawn is in his 50s), flirting, cunnilingus, praise kink, possessive!shawn, unprotected sex, creampie, aftercare.

a/n— My first Shawn Michaels fic, hope you guys enjoy <3 Literally have had a crush on him for so long🤭

Winning the Women’s Championship was the most surreal moment of your life. Years of grinding in other promotions, building your name, perfecting your craft, it had all led to this. The cheers of the crowd, the weight of the gold on your shoulder, the rush of emotions hitting you all at once as you stepped backstage.

The second you crossed the curtain, a wave of congratulations hit you. Superstars, crew members, even higher ups, everyone was there, giving you pats on the back, words of praise. You tried to take it all in, your heart still hammering from the adrenaline, when you heard it.

A deep, gruff voice behind you.

“Congratulations, champ. I’m proud of you.”

You froze. That voice. That unmistakable, slightly raspy voice. Slowly, almost in disbelief, you turned around and your breath caught in your throat.

It was him.

Shawn Michaels.

Your brain short circuited. For years, you’d admired him. Hell, if you were being honest, you’d been in love with him. Growing up, watching him on your TV screen, mesmerized by his presence, his talent, his everything. And now, here he was, standing right in front of you, looking at you like he actually knew who you were.

“Wow,” you blurted out, your voice coming out embarrassingly breathless. “Thank you.”

Shawn smirked at your obvious nerves, his arms crossing over his chest. “You earned it,” he said. “I’ve been watching you for a while now. I made sure they knew you were the real deal. You’re gonna carry this division better than anyone.”

Your heart nearly exploded. Shawn Michaels had been watching you? Shawn Michaels had put in a word for you?

“I—” You struggled to form words, your cheeks burning. “That means everything. I admire you so much, I love your work, I—” You cut yourself off before you started sounding like a crazy fangirl, pressing your lips together to stop yourself from rambling.

His smirk deepened, and before you could react, he pulled you into a hug.

Holy. Fuck.

Your face pressed against his chest, his arms wrapped around you, the scent of his cologne completely overwhelming your senses. Your brain refused to function, your hands awkwardly gripping onto the back of his shirt as your cheeks burned hotter than ever.

After a few moments, he pulled back, his hand squeezing your shoulder before dropping to his side. “Didn’t wanna take up too much of your time,” he said. “Enjoy your night, champ.”

And just like that, he was gone, leaving you standing there like an absolute fool.

Later, after the chaos of the night settled, you were lounging with Rhea, Tiffany, and Liv in the locker room, all of them still hyped over your win.

“You killed it out there,” Rhea said, nudging you with a proud grin.

Tiffany nodded, flipping her hair. “And let’s be real, your skin looks so good with gold.”

“Thanks, guys. But guess who congratulated me? And—” You leaned in dramatically. “Was apparently partially responsible for my win?”

The girls exchanged curious looks. “Who?” Liv asked.

You took a breath for dramatic effect. “Shawn. Fucking. Michaels.”

The reaction was instant. Rhea’s eyes widened, Tiffany gasped, and Liv practically shrieked.

“Your crush?” Rhea said.

“The man you said you wanted to marry?” Tiffany added.

“Exactly,” you confirmed, still trying to process it yourself.

“And?” Liv pressed. “Did you keep your cool, or did you embarrass yourself?”

You groaned, throwing your head back. “Oh, I embarrassed myself. I was all nervous, blushing like an idiot, barely forming words. But he hugged me. I swear I almost passed out.”

“Okay, but what does this mean? Do you think he was flirting?” Tiffany laughed.

“God, I hope so,” you muttered before sighing dramatically. “I just want him so bad. He’s so fine. And you know I love older men. Like, I would give anything for him to fuck me hard. With eye contact, might I add. Older men just do it better—”

The sudden silence from the girls made your stomach drop.

You saw their eyes widen, their mouths slightly open, and the moment Rhea subtly nodded toward something behind you, you knew.

Slowly, dreading what you were about to see, you turned around.

And there he was.

Shawn Michaels.

Standing right behind you.

Smirking.

Your heart fell straight to the floor. You were so done. Absolutely finished. WWE was going to strip you of your title, fire you, and blacklist you from the industry.

Shawn crossed his arms, looking far too amused for your liking. “Whenever you’re free and ready to leave,” he said smoothly, “meet me in my dressing room.”

You nodded, entirely incapable of forming words.

He winked before walking off, leaving you frozen in place, your entire soul leaving your body.

The second he was out of earshot, the girls erupted into laughter, squealing and shaking you like you’d just won the lottery.

“You are so lucky,” Tiffany gasped, fanning herself.

Liv was practically in tears. “Oh my god, I thought you were gonna die on the spot.”

Rhea smirked, slinging an arm around your shoulder. “Well, champ, looks like your childhood crush just became your reality.”

Your brain was still catching up. Shawn Michaels had heard you. Shawn Michaels wanted you to meet him.

Holy. Shit. You were in for one hell of a night.

Shawn was waiting when you stepped into his dressing room, leaning back on the couch with that signature smirk.

“You took your time,” he teased.

Your heart pounded as you shut the door. “Trying to recover from the fact that you heard all of that.”

“Oh, I heard every word, sweetheart,” he chuckled.

You groaned, covering your face. “God, that was so embarrassing.”

He pried your hands away. “Nah, I liked what I heard.” His smirk deepened. “Older men do it better, huh?”

Your face burned. “Are you gonna keep bringing that up?”

“Maybe,” he said, tilting his head. “But I think I’d rather show you instead.”

Your breath hitched, and he leaned in, voice lower now. “Where you staying tonight?”

You told him your hotel, and he hummed in approval. “Same one. I’ll drive you.”

You texted the girls telling them you’d be with him. There would be a lot to talk about in the morning.

The car ride made you nervous. You stole glances at him, watching the way his muscles flexed as he gripped the wheel. He was even hotter in person. He looked just as good, hell, even better than he did on TV. The years had only added to his appeal, roughening his edges in the best way.

“You keep looking at me like that,” he said without taking his eyes off the road, “I might just have to pull over.”

You bit your lip. "Can’t help it. You’re kinda unreal."

His smirk grew. “Come to my room tonight. I’ll give you exactly what you’ve been craving.”

Your stomach flipped.

90s Shawn Michaels had been your first love. But Shawn now? Oh, you’d let him do anything to you.

When you arrived at the hotel, people stopped to congratulate you. You took pictures, smiling through the anticipation burning inside you.

The moment the elevator doors shut, his fingers brushed your wrist. “Last chance to back out.”

“Not a chance,” you murmured.

His hotel room door had barely shut before he turned you, pressing you against it. His hands beside your head, eyes dark as they met yours.

“This what you wanted?”

Your breath caught. “I’ve dreamt about this.”

His lips crashed onto yours, stealing any response you had left. His hands gripped under your thighs, lifting you effortlessly as you wrapped around him. He carried you to the bed, sinking onto it with you in his lap.

You could feel him beneath you, hard and eager, as you rocked against him. His hands roamed, mapping every inch of you, his lips never leaving yours.

“Been wanting this for years, haven’t you?” he murmured against your lips, hands roaming your body.

You nodded breathlessly, gripping onto his shoulders for balance.

His smirk returned as he cupped your face. “You’re just as sweet as I imagined.”

His lips trailed down your cheek, to your neck, pressing soft kisses that left you shivering. He moved slowly, savoring, before laying you back against the bed, hovering over you. His eyes searched yours, expression softening slightly.

“This okay?” he asked, voice quieter now.

“I want this. I want you,” you nodded, already breathless.

He exhaled slowly, his thumb tracing your cheek. “Then let me take care of you.”

His hands found the hem of your blouse, fingers toying with the fabric as he waited for your permission. When you gave it, he lifted it over your head, his gaze roaming over you with something akin to awe.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured.

Heat pooled in your stomach, your heart pounding as he leaned down again, pressing another kiss to your lips. He slipped you out of the rest of your clothes then pulled back, his eyes once again taking over you.

“Look at you, naked in front of me. Fucking perfect,” he said.

He knelt, making you gasp, trailing kisses until he reached your clit, spreading your legs and kissing further and further.

“You're soaked, sweetheart, so wet for me,” he murmured, using his tongue to collect your wetness and spitting it back onto your pussy.

A soft moan escaped your lips, you couldn't believe Shawn fucking Michaels was about to eat you out.

“I love those moans. Let me hear you.”

He dived in, flicking his tongue on your clit before bringing it down to your leaking hole and licking back up. His grip was firm but gentle on your thighs, spreading them wide as he continued. You couldn't believe the utter pleasure you were feeling, he was so skilled with his tongue having you squirm underneath him and moan so loudly, you feared the other wrestlers on the floor would hear.

“Oh, Shawn,” you cried, back arching off the bed.

Cocky Shawn hadn’t been lost due to the years. You could feel the smirk between your legs. “That’s it, sweetheart. Scream my name. I’m the one making you feel good.”

His tongue worked you over sending jolts of pleasure throughout your body as his blue eyes stared into yours. As his movements grew, the coil in your abdomen grew tighter, ready to burst.

“Cum on my tongue beautiful.” A loud moan left your lips and your body lifted from the bed, as he practically took your soul and you squirted onto his face, soaking him. He slurped you up like you were his last meal and you squirmed under his touch, your eyes rolling into the back of your head.

“You're so beautiful when you cum. You taste amazing,” he panted.

You pulled him up into a kiss, his mouth soaked in your juices. His head moved down to your breasts, suckling and moaning as your fingers clawed his back.

Shawn’s eyes never left yours as he undressed, revealing his toned chest and arms. You smiled, your heart racing as you reached out to gently touch his chest, tracing the lines of muscle with your fingertips. “You’re so so hot,” you whispered.

He let out a soft laugh. “You’re the one who’s hot, sweetheart,” he said, his hands in through your curls, tugging you closer to him.

Your lips met his again, tender and slow, savoring the moment. You pressed yourself against him, feeling his hard cock, the heat of his body matching the desire building between you. His hands were gentle but firm as he guided you to the bed, settling you back gently.

Your gaze wandered and your eyes caught his very hard cock. He was so thick, the full package. Shawn always radiated big dick energy but to see it up close and personal—veins prominent, slight curve, long—it was no wonder he acted the way he did in the 90s. He had all reason to be that cocky bastard. He was perfect.

Your mouth practically watered at the sight and you took ahold of it, hand barely able to go around and angled it towards your mouth but he stopped you.

“Not yet,” he murmured. “Tonight’s about you, about making sure you feel good.”

You nodded, heart fluttering as he hovered above you, his hands resting on either side of your head. His expression was soft, his eyes filled with nothing but admiration as he looked down at you.

He used the tip of his cock, dragging it along your wet folds as the sound of squelching filled the room. He teased you a bit more, until he slowly pushed inside, your mouth falling open as he thrusted into you. You moaned at the intrusion and looked down, only to see he was just half way in.

“Y-you’re so big,” you gasped.

“I know, but you can take it. This tight little pussy was made for my cock,” he whispered, leaning down to bite your ear lobe.

It felt like all the wind had been knocked from your lungs as he slid the rest of his length inside you. Tiny whimpers left your lips when he stilled, savoring how your walls began to welcome him in.

“See, you can take it baby, it’s okay.” He began rutting into you steadily, each time, you could feel the head of his cock brush against an area no man had ever come close to hitting before. He was so deep.

“You feel so good,” he groaned, rolling his hips to meet yours.

All you could do was moan, the overwhelming pleasure taking your ability to form coherent words.

“God, I love hearing your pretty moans,” he said, pushing your hair back.

You could barely hang on and “Shawn, cum,” was all you managed to say as you felt the pressure build up like a dam ready to burst.

“I can feel your pussy just sucking me in and gripping me. Go ahead sweetheart, cum for me, s’okay,” he cooed.

You cried out, wrapping your arms around him as he picked up his pace, the dam inside you bursting and your orgasm overtaking you. Your entire body shook and he pressed kisses on your damp forehead, slowly moving inside you to draw every last drop of cum from you.

Shawn had awaken that demon deep inside that you weren’t even aware was there. You needed more.

“I need more,” you moaned, voice shaky.

With that invitation, he increased the pace, thrusting harder and deeper. The headboard slapped against the wall under the pressure, the whole floor probably heard, your nails dug into his back, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. “That’s it sweetheart, scratch my back,” his gruff voice said.

You were lost in the rhythm, your breath quickening, each thrust sending waves of pleasure coursing through you.

He was pounding you hard and relentless, sending waves of pleasure crashing over you. He pulled back slightly, capturing your lips in a heated kiss. His voice was a low growl as he murmured against your mouth, “You’re all mine. Mine to fuck and use now.”

A shiver of excitement raced through you, and he continued, “I want to hear you say it.”

“I’m all yours, Shawn,” you moaned, the words flowing from your lips as if they were the only truth that mattered.

“Such a good girl.” With a gasp, your body responded to his words, pleasure washing over you in waves as you squirted, soaking him completely. Shawn groaned in response, his grip on you tightening as he felt the warmth of your release.

“That’s so hot baby, that turned you on huh,” he said, now chasing his own orgasm as your body lay shaking underneath him.

You were too fucked out to answer, each deep thrust making your pussy throb around him.

He smirked, that infamous cocky smirk, clearly proud of how he had you at his mercy. He switched his pace, slow and deep, driving you both wild. It was as though he was proving a point to you. Showing you exactly who was fucking you and how good it felt.

You wrapped your legs around him tightly for a moment, pulling him closer before releasing them, spreading wider to accommodate him. The shift allowed him to plunge deeper, each stroke igniting a raw, primal desire within you. You gasped, the sensation overwhelming, and you met his movements with your own, grinding against him as he filled you.

“Just like that,” you urged, your voice thick with passion. “Please cum inside me.”

He couldn’t take it anymore. You words sent him over the edge and with a deep, guttural moan, he bucked his hips inside you, his hot cum filling you to the brim. You moaned in satisfaction, his cock throbbing and practically breeding you from how much he came—triggered your own orgasm.

Your body jolted beneath him, shaking from the pure intensity as you both were on cloud nine together.

“I’ve got you sweetheart, fuck, I can’t get enough of this pussy. I’ve got you,” he groaned.

Your body was still buzzing, your mind hazy as you lay against the soft sheets. Shawn pressed a kiss to your temple, his hands tracing slow, soothing patterns along your bare skin.

“You were incredible,” he murmured, voice deep. “So perfect for me.”

“I think that title belongs to you,” you teased, brushing your fingers along his jaw. “I mean, I just won the Women’s Championship and spent the night with you, I’m lucky.”

Shawn chuckled, shaking his head. “Nah, sweetheart, I’m the lucky one.” He kissed your forehead before slipping out of bed. “Stay here, I’ll be right back.”

You watched him disappear into the bathroom, and moments later, he returned with a warm cloth, carefully tending to you with the kind of gentleness that made your heart swell.

“Didn’t have to do that,” you smiled.

“I wanted to,” he replied simply.

Once he was done, he climbed back into bed, pulling you close against his chest. His arms wrapped around you securely, his body warm and solid against yours.

“You’re everything I thought you’d be,” you admitted softly, tucking your head under his chin. “And somehow even better.”

He sighed contentedly, his fingers tracing over your back. “And you’re even more perfect than I imagined,” he whispered. “Strong, talented, and so damn beautiful. I knew you were special the second I saw you wrestle.”

You smiled tiredly as you nestled further into him. The day had been surreal, from standing champion in the ring to this—wrapped up in the arms of the man who had been your childhood crush, your inspiration, and now, something more.

As your eyes grew heavier, Shawn pressed a final kiss to your hair, his voice a low murmur against your skin.

“Sweet dreams, champ.”

And with that, you let sleep take you, still wrapped in the warmth of the best night of your life.

[heartfullofamor]

Hi there! I see your requests are open. I recently have gotten into the hobby of sewing and was wondering if you could write a one shot with Elvis and a reader who loves to sew? Maybe she enjoys making little knickknacks for him or even clothes? Thanks! 

hiii darling! such a cute idea and I had fun writing it. hope you like it! 🤍

thread and tenderness

❥ word count: 1,5K

✦︎ warning(s): none.

The hum of the sewing machine filled the music room like a low, comforting lullaby, dulled slightly by the thick carpet under your bare feet. Elvis had set up a little table near the piano when he’d realised your new obsession with sewing was here to stay and honestly, that was all you needed. The music room had the best lighting in the house and you enjoyed sitting there, day and night. On this Friday afternoon, sunlight filtered through gauzy curtains, turning the edges of the room golden. Your latest project—a shirt in soft, smoky blue cotton—sat half-finished under the machine. You chewed your bottom lip, squinting at the seam you’d just stitched. It was a little crooked. Again.

“Goddammit,” you muttered, pulling the thread loose.

You heard soft footsteps through the carpet behind you and a low chuckle followed—you didn’t need to turn to know it was Elvis.

“You cussin’ at that machine again, baby?”

You leaned back in your chair, glancing over your shoulder. Elvis stood barefoot under the arch that seperated the living room and music room, wearing the same pair of dark pajama pants from the night before, matching pajama button-up, hair rumpled in a way that said he’d only just gotten up. A coffee mug dangled lazily from one hand. He looked like Sunday morning personified—sleepy, warm, and a lot cozy.

“I wouldn’t have to cuss if it just does what I want it to do for once,” you said, motioning at the machine, clearly annoyed.

He walked in slowly, taking a sip of coffee, eyes fixed on the shirt you were so excited to start on but were now greatly disappointed in. “That for me?”

“It was supposed to be.”

“Supposed to be?” he echoed, arching an eyebrow.

“Yeah, well, I sewed the collar on backwards. Again.” You let out a sigh and flopped dramatically in your chair. “You’ll be the only man in Memphis wearing shirts with inside-out necks.”

He laughed, low and easy, and came to crouch beside your chair, one arm resting on the back of it—coffee cup still hanging from his fingertips, his other hand finding home on your thigh. “Far as I’m concerned, long as it’s from you, you could sew me a damn potato sack. I’d wear it.”

You rolled your eyes, pouting. “Liar.”

He grinned and set the coffee on the piano behind him before reaching for your hand. “Lemme see what you messed up.”

You carefully took the shirt from under the machine and handed it to him a bit reluctantly. His fingers brushed yours, warm and calloused, and you tried to ignore the small flutter that always came with it—you doubted that would ever go away, that’s how much you loved this man. And how much he was still the cause of the butterfly storm in your stomach.

He held the shirt up, squinting. “This don’t look bad. Collar’s just got personality.”

“Personality, huh?”

“Yeah. It’s just a little… quirky.”

You snorted. “Quirky’s not exactly what I was going for.”

He stood, put the shirt on the table next the machine and leaned down to kiss your temple. “S’perfect. You’ll get the hang of it.”

“I have gotten the hang of it,” you mumbled. “Mostly.”

You’d picked up sewing a few months ago after seeing an issue of that month’s McCall’s magazine at the supermarket, something about the glossy women in their homemade dresses made you think “hell, why not?”

Plus, you liked making things for Elvis—small things at first. Embroidered handkerchiefs and socks for him and the guys. Then came the pajama pants, loose shirts, and a few jackets that actually came out decent. You even made Joe a wallet out of old denim.

“You know,” Elvis said from the couch he plumbed down on. “Joe said that wallet you made him held up better than anything from Lansky’s or the stores he buys from in LA.”

You blinked. “He used it?”

“Does he use it? Honey, he carries that thing ‘round like it has gold bars in it.” He snorts, taking another sip from his coffee before putting the mug down on the table in front of him. “The other’s keep pesterin’ him where he got it from.”

You grinned, pleased despite yourself. “Maybe I should go into business.”

“Hand-sewn wallets by my best girl,” Elvis mused, his mischievous gleaming eyes meeting yours. “I like that.”

Your heart stuttered for a second at the phrase. My best girl. He said it often, casually, like breathing, but every now and then it landed heavy. You didn’t say anything, just bent your head and started resewing the collar with slower, more careful stitches.

He watched you work in silence for a while, the only sound in the room your machine’s gentle purr. You enjoyed when it was quiet like this—you loved the boys, but sometimes Graceland could feel like a hotel. People coming and going at all hours, voices bouncing off the walls. But in rare moments when it was just you and him… it felt more like a home. Normal, almost.

“You ever think about makin’ somethin’ real fancy?” he asked, his head leaned back against the couch. “Like somethin’ that’s in those magazines of yours?”

You raised a brow. “You mean the designer magazines?”

He nodded, as if what he was asking wasn’t crazy at all. But to you, it was—thanks to your insecurity nagging at you. Thanks to that damn collar.

“Elvis, I can’t even sew a collar straight. I won’t even make it into a local paper.”

“Yet,” he said, pointing a finger at you. “You can’t sew a collar straight yet. Doesn’t mean you won’t.”

You shook your head, laughing. “You’re crazy.”

“And you’re talented,” he shot back. “Don’t make that face. You got good hands. Besides, you’re creatin’ something from scratch and last time I checked, that’s what designers do, don’t they?”

You paused at that, caught off-guard, a soft hint of crimson creeping up your neck to your cheeks. It wasn’t what he said—it was the way he said it. Warm, sincere. Like he meant every word, not just trying to sweet-talk you into sewing him another pair of pajamas. Though he was awfully fond of the last ones you made—a black silk with tiny red hearts stitched into the hem.

“Well,” you said, trying to play your blushing off with a little smirk. “if I ever do make something designer worthy, don’t expect to get anything for free anymore.”

Raising his eyebrows in humor, he laughed. “Consider me your best payin’ customer, baby.”

You laughed along with him, turning to sit sideways in your chair when he stood and came over, nudging your legs apart gently so he could kneel between them, hands resting on your thighs. His eyes found yours, quiet now, more serious now.

“I love that you do this stuff,” he said, voice low. “For me. For the guys. You don’t have to, you know.”

You looked at him. Really looked. The sleep-lined face, the heavy-lidded gaze, the small crease between his brows that only showed up when he was being earnest.

“I know I don’t have to,” you said. “I want to. It calms me. Gives me something that’s mine. And… I like making things for the people I love.”

He leaned in and kissed you, slow and lingering, tasting like black coffee and warmth. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.

“I love that about you,” he murmured. “And I love you.”

You smiled and stroked your fingers through the hair at the back of his neck. “Even when I give you clothes that don’t fit right?”

“Especially then,” he said, eyes crinkling. “Makes me feel like I’m wearin’ a love letter.”

That nearly undid you, your heart missing a beat and those butterflies going crazy again.

You didn’t say anything for a long minute, just kissed him again and let yourself feel it all—the quiet, the warmth of him, the way his hand found your waist like it always did.

Eventually, you both migrated to the couch, you curled into his side, shirt forgotten on the table. You couldn’t be so worried about it anymore, not with the way Elvis had his arms wrapped around you and a hint of cologne still lingered on his skin from last night.

“Y’know,” he said, voice muffled against your hair, “next time you sew me somethin’ weird, just tell folks it’s high fashion. From Paris.”

“I don’t think Paris is making inside-out pajama shirts.” You snort softly, nudging your nose against his neck, crawling closer against him.

“They might, if you keep at it,” he teased. “Trendsetter.”

With a grin, you smacked his chest lightly, which earned your ass a soft squeeze.

And later, when you finally fixed the collar and he wore the damn shirt all day—even through a full game of pool with the boys—you realized he meant it. It didn’t matter if the seams were crooked or the pockets too low.

He wore it like it was stitched from gold silk.

Because you were the one who made it, like a personal love letter.

[heartfullofamor]

Tan Lines & Love Marks

Label Mature 18+

Summary You and Austin enjoy a romantic summer vacation where he unleashes his passions on you in the hotel suite.

❤️‍🔥Passionate Smut ❤️‍🔥 Austin on vacation • romantic holiday • dinner on the sand • pet names • emotional intimacy • soft dom • praise kink • ‘touch yourself’ • dirty talk • orgasm denial • edging • fingering • s*x toys • nipple play • clit play • overstimulation • spanking • p in v • size kink • cream pie • after care • sweet talk • soft bruising • exhibitionism • mild public humiliation kink 🔗 Masterlist

📖 Proofreader @purejasmine ✨Request via @f3ytal

Tan Lines & Love Marks

The air smells of wet stone and tropical flowers, but you can barely keep your eyes off of Austin. He’s in a damp tank top plastered to his chest, muscles flexing as he climbs up the rocks beside you, golden skin gleaming in the sun. 

His hair is wet, curling slightly at the ends, and his blue eyes squint behind long lashes as he grins at you.

“C’mere,” he says, lifting the waterproof camera and you scoot in, dripping wet, wrapping an arm around his waist as he snaps a photo of the two of you with the waterfall behind.

But he doesn’t stop at one, he lowers the camera and kisses you for the second shot. Soft at first… then deeper. His lips taste like river water and sun, and his hand slips down your soaked back, cupping your ass under the water.

You press your chest against his as the kiss turns more passionate …until suddenly, you’re interrupted.

“Okay, lovebirds,” the private tour guide calls from the path above, barely hiding a smirk. “It’s getting dark time to head back.”

You glance up, heart pounding and Austin pulls back with a shy smile, cheeks flushed. “Busted.” He says.

“You started it.” You tease.

“I’ll finish it later,” he says under his breath, his eyes darkening as he gently squeezes your thigh under the water.

When you make it back to the resort, you change into something soft and flirty, a pink tropical slip dress that catches the warm ocean breeze, the frilly straps teasing the smooth curve of your shoulders.

Austin is in loose linen pants and a pale blue dress shirt, the top buttons undone, sleeves rolled back to his forearms. 

His skin is bronzed, his sandy brown hair a little blonder at the ends, and he has that relaxed, romantic vacation look that makes him almost too pretty to stare at for too long.

Your private dinner table is far from the restaurant, set up directly on the sand beneath a canopy of flowing white curtains. Lanterns sway gently overhead, casting golden light that flickers against the black endless ocean in the dark.

You are warm and loose as you drink tequila-infused cocktails rimmed with sweet chili sugar, and muddled exotic fruit.

After the meal, Austin reaches across the table, his fingertips brushing over your wrist, light at first, then more  intentional, tracing slow circles over your skin. 

As you smile at him, he watches you with a still, heavy gaze that makes it impossible to hold a thought.

“I can’t stop looking at you,” he says finally, his voice low and certain. “Your dress, your smile…the way you look tonight.”

“Austin…” you grin softly, too flattered to hide it and before you can reach for your drink, he leans in, brushing his mouth over yours. 

He kisses you until you start to pull back breathless, and then he catches your wrist, drawing you toward him for another kiss, slower this time, tasting the sweetness of your drink.

“Sit with me,” he whispers, slowly pulling you over to him and lowering you onto his lap.

“Austin,” you breathe, even as your body leans into his.

“Don’t ‘Austin’ me…” he smiles against your neck, his lips moving in slow, claiming kisses. “You know I want you.” He says as his mouth drags higher, his breath warm at your ear. “I want you all the time.” He confesses. 

His hand spreads over your thigh, sliding higher, until your breath catches as his tongue flicks softly before his mouth presses against your neck, heavy with intent.

“Been thinking about it since the waterfall,” he whispers. “Since even before that….thinking about all the ways I’m going to have you.”

The waiter approaches quietly at the edge of the sand as he interrupts, his tone playful. 

“Would you like to start on desert..or maybe just the check,” he says clearly seeing you already have each other. 

Austin grins as you shyly press your forehead to his barely looking up. “Yeah, we’re good here.” Austin says.

By the time you reach your room after dinner you’re both heavily intoxicated on cocktails. The sultry Mexican night envelops the sprawling resort suite, the air fragrant with the scent of hibiscus and sea salt drifting through the open balcony doors. 

The moon spills a silvery glow across the tiled floor, illuminating the large, plush bed, and you lie there, your body already deep in relaxation.

Austin stands at the foot of the bed, his silhouette tall and commanding, yet his presence radiates a calm, almost hypnotic control, his deep smooth voice filling the room as he speaks.

“I have rewards for you tonight,” he says, his cadence slow and intentional, each word pulling you deeper. “I want you to earn each one of them.”

His blue eyes softened by the dim light, lock onto yours with a gentle challenge in their depths.

“I like rewards,” you grin, your voice laced with eagerness.

He smirks faintly, as if he can read your mind and he unbuttons his shirt, revealing his lean, tanned torso, ridged with muscle, leading down to the linen pants that hang low on his hips.

The sight of him makes your heart beat faster in anticipation.

“Take your clothes off for me,” he says, and you readily obey, sitting up and slipping the straps from your shoulders, letting the dress fall as you pull your panties down your legs.

You’re naked as you lay back across the crisp white sheets, your skin tingling under his gaze.

He steps closer as he smiles. “Such a good listener,” he says, his praise sending a shiver down your spine. “Now… spread your legs for me.”

You obey, parting your thighs, feeling the cool air against your heated skin and his eyes darken with approval.

He kneels on the bed in front of you, his hands warm and firm as they glide up your thighs possessive and tender. 

“I want you to touch yourself,” he says, voice low and coaxing, his thumbs pressing into the soft flesh of your thighs to spread you wider.

“Austin…” you breathe looking at him, but his resolve is unwavering. 

Your fingers tremble as you follow his command, your body held under the weight of his watchful stare.

You slip your fingers over yourself, slow at first, circling your clit where the heat is sharpest until the pleasure rushes through you.

He watches intently, his breaths growing heavier. “Slower for me,” he says, his voice steady but edged with hunger. “I want to see everything.”

Your movements falter under the sheer gravity of his attention, your fingers dragging in soft, teasing strokes around your entrance, making your thighs tense.

“Don’t be shy,” he coaxes, his voice a velvet tether around your will. “Push them in for me let me see.”he breathes. 

You hesitate, your hips rocking forward with need, and your eyes flutter shut as you obey, slowly thrusting your fingers inside yourself while he stares at the sight. 

“Fuck…” he exhales, the word rough, dragged from somewhere deep inside of him. “So perfect like this… giving me what I want.” He praises watching every movement you make.

The distant crash of waves outside blends with the low slick sounds between your legs, creating a rhythm that draws him even deeper under your spell.

Your fingers move faster, each thrust made with a desperate rising need for him, his hands, his mouth, his weight over you.

“That’s it,” he says, his tone heavy with approval, like every word is dragging over his own restraint. “So eager… so obedient. Fuck, you’re making me so hard.”

You open your eye to see his hand has drifted lower gripping the ridge of his cock as his thumb slides over the tip.

Your breathing becomes heavier from the sight, the pressure building higher and higher until it’s almost unbearable. 

Your hips begin to rock against your own hand, chasing the edge with every thrust of your fingers.

“You getting close, baby?” he whispers, watching the way your body starts to arch, your lips parting helplessly, then his eyes darken with knowing. “Yeah… you can feel it. You’re right there, aren’t you?”

You can only nod, your voice breaking in soft sounds as your thighs tighten. The wave of pleasure rises too sharp…too fast…and you’re about to give in when suddenly his hands close firmly around your wrists, pulling them away from between your legs.

You cry out at the sudden loss of touch, your hips lifting toward nothing.

“Not yet.” he says, his voice deep and unyielding as he pins your wrists beside your head against the pillow.

The gentle restraint sends a shiver through you, your breath hitching as he leans in, his lips grazing your ear.

“Stay just like this,” he whispers, his voice a soothing command. “Don’t move unless I tell you to.”

You nod, giving in completely and he releases your wrists leaving you on the bed. 

He crosses the room and retrieves a sleek black case with clasp locks, bringing it to set on the bed beside you.

He kneels between your legs, snapping the clasps up, and before you can even glimpse what’s inside, his mouth is on yours again, stealing your curiosity with a deep, consuming kiss.

His lips drift down your neck, then lower over your chest, warm and unhurried, pausing so he can whisper against your skin.

“You’re so perfect for me,” he praises, the words sinking in as his hands cup your breasts, his fingers rolling your nipples between them, coaxing a gasp from your lips as your back arches into his touch.

“Austin…” you whine, hips shifting restlessly, already pushed beyond your limits.

“Shhh,” he soothes, his voice unwavering. “Be good for me, I’ll give you what you want.” He promises, and his hand moves lower, tracing the curve of your waist, then lower, until his fingers hover just above where you’re aching for him. 

“You need me right here, don’t you?” he says, his voice gentle, his eyes searching yours.

“Yes, please, Austin,” you whisper, your voice barely audible, your body trembling with need.

“So polite when you ask baby,” he says, his fingers finally slipping between your thighs, dragging through your slickness before pushing inside you. 

A sharp moan escapes you as the sensation floods your body, your walls clenching around his fingers.

“That’s it,” he says, his voice steady as he curls them stroking against a soft ridge within. “Let me know how good it feels.”

His pace builds slowly, each thrust driving into you faster until your hips jolt, sending surges of pleasure through your body. The wet, rhythmic sound of him working you fills the room, every stroke hitting deep and unrelenting.

“You’re doing so well,baby” he says, watching you writhe under his touch, his fingers curling and pumping with precise, skill. “Falling apart for me… so pretty.”

Your hips begin moving with his hand, rocking and grinding with his thrusts, chasing the release building sharp and fast.

He feels it the way your walls tighten and just when you’re about to come, his hand stills.

A desperate, broken whine spills from you.

“Not yet,” he says, calm but laced with authority. “You don’t come until I say so… can you do that for me?”

You nod frantically, every nerve aching for release but desperate to obey. “Yes, Austin,” you gasp.

“Good girl,” he says, pride sparking in his blue eyes as he carefully removes his fingers.

Your clit is already throbbing, the ache deep and urgent, and your eyes flick to the black case resting beside you, curiosity pushing through the haze of need.

He follows your gaze, a slow grin spreading on his lips. “You ready for your rewards,” he says, his voice low and teasing.

“Show me,” you say breathless, your words barely holding up.

He pushes the case open with teasing slowness “You’re going to take every thing I give you aren’t you baby?”He says with a coy smirk on his lips. 

“Yes,” you rush out, almost panting, just wanting him to touch you.

You watch as he pulls out a pink bunny-shaped clamp from the case, its soft silicone ears designed to hug your clit, and your pussy clenches at the sight.

“Your little bunny friend’s gonna look so fucking cute on you,” he teases, his voice filled with mischief as his palm glides up your thigh.

“Spread your legs more for me,” he commands, his tone calm but unyielding. 

You obey, thighs parting, the cool air hitting your slick folds. His gaze darkens instantly, and a low groan slips out. “Fuck…” he says, filthy and reverent all at once. “You’re already so wet.”

He starts with the bunny clamp, placing the ears to cradle your clit as he squeezes them to in place, the pressure making you softly moan. 

“So pretty baby,” he coos, his voice soothing as you squirm. “Look at that cute little clit, all hugged up.” He says flicking on the vibration, and the low buzz jolts through you, making your hips buck.

“Shh, baby,” he says stroking your thigh, “You can take it baby..be my good girl.”

The buzz intensifies, and your breaths quicken as you whimper under the sharp unrelenting vibration.

“Austin…” you pant, hips twitching from the pulse of his little device, the sensation stealing your breath until you can barely form words.

“Fuck… you’re so beautiful like this,” he says, his voice low and desperate, fingers gliding through your slick and spreading it around the clamp savoring your wetness.

“You love it?” he asks, the tension in his voice betraying how hard it is for him to watch you.

Your trembling as you nod feeling his fingers circling and gliding over the buzzing clamp until your thighs quiver from overstimulation.

“So fucking pretty doing all this for me…,”he praises, and he flicks the dial so the clamp vibrates even higher as you moan helplessly.

He rolls and pinches your nipples, sending a sting of pleasure through your chest that makes your back arch hard into his touch.

The combination of the clamp’s hum on your clit, and his fingers teasing your nipples, has you teetering on the edge ready to orgasm…but he isn’t finished.

“You like your little reward?” he asks.

“Yes… Austin!” you cry out, thighs trembling with the effort to hold back.

“You’re taking it so well… I have another one for you,” he says, and he pulls a sleek purple vibrator from the case.

Your breath hitches at the sight of the curved tip. “Austin… I can’t …I’m already gonna—”

“None of that,” he cuts in gently but firmly. “You earned every minute of this this being so good for me.”

He presses the humming tip to your entrance, dragging it through your slick, and your hips jolt when he pushes it inside, the toy’s hum syncing with the clamp’s buzz as the curve presses your g-spot. 

“A—Austin—” you gasp, thighs desperately trying to close from overstimulation.

“Shh, baby,” he soothes, pumping the vibrator slow and deep. “Look at you taking this toy like it’s my cock.” He says, his thumb brushing the clamp as the sharp jolt makes you cry out.

Your walls flutter, hips rolling desperately as he watches “Fuck, baby…” he exhales, turning the setting even higher.

The vibration sinks deeper, your body tensing, thighs trembling violently as sounds spill uncontrollably from you in broken moans and gasps. 

“Come for me,” he orders, seeing you right at your breaking point, his voice slicing through your haze of pleasure.

“A—Austin!” you cry out, panic and bliss combined as your body locks up… and then it hits, your orgasm surging, the toy thrusting in until you’re shivering through the aftershocks.

He slowly pulls the vibrator out, a broken sob escaping as you shudder, walls pulsing. “Oh, baby…” he coos, slipping the clit clamp off carefully.

Your chest heaves, heart pounding and he leans in, kissing you slow and deep. “You did so well… so perfect …” he praises, his voice low and promising against your lips, “I’m not done with you yet. Can you take more for me, baby?”

You nod, still trembling, your breath catching as his hands move over you.

He rolls you onto your stomach, his palms firm but gentle as he guides your hips up. 

“Arch for me,” he says, the command smooth and certain and you obey, your cheek pressing the sheet.

“Good girl,” he praises, his hand trailing slowly between your legs until his fingers finds your clit. The sudden contact makes you gasp, hips jerking back into him before you can stop yourself.

“You feel how hard I am for you?” he says, the tip of his cock nudging at your entrance until you whimper, then with deliberate slowness he slides in… every inch of him making your walls flutter and tighten until a moan breaks from your lips.

The first spank lands, sharp enough to steal your breath, the warmth blooming across your skin. 

“You love this?” he asks, his hand soothing you in slow circles. “You love my rewards?”

“Yes…” you breathe, barely able to speak.

He thrusts in again, deeper this time, the force pushing another moan out of you as his rhythm builds, each stroke making the slick noises between you grow louder.

His hips slam into you faster, the wet sounds matching his rushed breaths. “Fuck… you feel so good…” he exhales, each thrust deeper than the last. “Squeezing me so tight… like you don’t wanna let go.”

His hand slides between your legs, fingers finding your swollen clit, rubbing in tight, little circles as another spank lands and your hips jerk back into him. 

“I’m not gonna last…” he admits, his voice breaking as he groans, his grip bruising as his fingers dig into your hips driving into you harder, faster, until every movement is a blur of his thrusts.

“Come for me,” he breathes his voice breaking with need, and he triggers your release, your walls fluttering, as your orgasm rips through you.

He groans your name, his thrusts faltering as he spills in deep, holding you until he releases every last drop.

He pulls out slowly, a shiver running through him as his palm glides up your spine to caress your neck. 

“Fuck, baby…”he breathes, wrecked. “…I love you so much.” He says with exertion.

“I love you so much too,” you admit, smiling softly.

“Yeah?” he grins, hooking an arm around your waist and rolling you onto your back in one fluid motion, his eyes locked on yours the entire time.

He settles over you, his weight warm and solid, before claiming your mouth in a slow, consuming kiss.

“Yeah…” you whisper against his lips, “I love you Austin” you smile, the words melting into him sealing the moment between you.

Morning sunlight floods the suite, the ocean sparkling outside.

You stand before the mirror in a tiny turquoise bikini, tying the strings. Your thighs and hips a canvas of little bruises from his grip last night.

You smile as Austin steps in wearing swim trunks and sunglasses ready to head out… until he sees you in the mirror.

“Shit, baby,” he says, stepping closer and lifting his sunglasses. His fingertips trail over a dark bruise, pressing just enough to make you gasp.

“Does it hurt baby…” he asks quietly, worry etched into his voice as his eyes search yours in the mirror.

“A little,” you say with a playful tilt of your head, turning to the side so he can see them even better.

His brows knit as his thumb strokes the marks. “Baby I’m so sorry,…” He says his tone soft with regret, “You want to stay inside today while I take care of you?” He asks, like he’s already imagining how you must feel.

You turn your head, meeting his eyes with a slow smile as your fingers trail lazily up his chest. “Or… I could just wear a sarong to the beach.” You say with enthusiasm.

He exhales, half relieved and half nurturing “Whatever you want, baby… just promise you’ll tell me if it’s too much.” he says, cupping your chin.

He leads you out of the resort to the sandy shore while holding your hand, the beach packed with bronzed bodies and the sent of coconut oil.

Eyes follow you, the sheer sarong barely covering the grip marks against your skin.

Your face heats, but Austin’s hand tightens over yours, his voice soft against your ear. “Doing so well, baby… we’re almost there.”

You reach the private cabana near the water, and he pulls the curtains just enough to keep you hidden from view. The air is warm and salt-sweet as you untie your sarong and let it drop.

You settle on the lounger, and he stretches out beside you, the golden light catching on his bronzed skin and sandy-brown hair. His blue eyes sharpen as his fingers trace a bruise in slow, gentle circles.

“I’m gonna be really careful with you next time,” he promises, his voice low.

You smile, tilting your head toward him. “What… you don’t like seeing your love marks all over me?”

His mouth curves slightly, but his eyes stay lowered. “I got so carried away… with how you felt… with how much I was pleasing you,” he says, his eyes distant already replaying it in his mind.

“I know baby,” you smile softly, leaning in to kiss him, soft and slow letting it sink in.

When you pull back, your lips brush his. “You have any other rewards for me?” you tease.

His hand slides to your jaw, warm and steady, his thumb brushing your cheek. “There’s nothing I wouldn’t give you,” he promises.

Your cheeks heat, and you can’t stop grinning, leaning into his touch as the waves crash and the salt air drifts in around you.

“You want to swim with me?” he asks, his voice softer, almost coaxing.

“Yes, Austin,” you say, your voice sure as you look into his eyes, ready to follow him anywhere, your body and heart entirely his.

END ☀️👙 🌊

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[heartfullofamor]

His Favorite Voice

You walked into Elvis’ office just as he hung up the phone. He looked tense, rubbing his temple as he leaned back in his chair.

“Kathy’s sick… says she won’t be able to sing with us at the Astrodome,” he muttered. It was his first show outside the International Hotel, and the pressure was obvious.

“I’m gonna have to find another backup singer in the next few days,” he sighed.

You frowned and walked over, gently placing your hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, baby,” you said softly. He reached for you, pulling you down into his lap, arms wrapping around your waist.

He stared at you, eyes distant like he was thinking hard. You raised an eyebrow and chuckled. “What?”

“I want you to do it,” he said.

You blinked. “Huh?”

“I want you to sing backup for me.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Very funny.”

“I’m serious, mama,” he said, dead serious. “You’ve got a beautiful voice. I want you up there with me.”

“But I can’t,” you said quietly. You’d never sung professionally, mostly because the thought of singing in front of a huge crowd terrified you.

“Yes, you can,” he insisted. “I’ll set up some rehearsals. You can practice with the Sweets.”

“I don’t kn—” you started, but he cut you off with a quiet, pleading, “Please…”

His eyes were soft, his mouth curled into a slight pout. You were a goner. You sighed, defeated—and before you could even say “yes,” his lips were on yours.

“Thank ya, thank ya, thank ya,” he murmured between kisses.

—

February 27, 1970.

You stood on stage beside the Sweet Inspirations, clapping along to the rhythm of Elvis’ set. The lights, the crowd, the enormity of it all—it should’ve terrified you. But it didn’t. Because nobody was really watching you.

They were watching him.

Elvis was a few feet ahead, dancing around the stage with all the energy and charm in the world. You couldn’t help but smile.

The music faded, and Elvis stepped forward, a little out of breath.

“Thank ya, thank ya very much,” he said, flashing that signature grin. “Before we go any further, I’d like to introduce ya to the members of my group.”

He introduced J.D. Sumner and the Stamps Quartet, then turned toward the Sweet Inspirations.

“These are the girls who opened our show tonight—the Sweet Inspirations,” he said as they stood and took a bow.

Then, he walked over to you. Your stomach flipped.

“And the little girl doin’ our high voice singin’ tonight…” He took your hand and gently pulled you to your feet. “…is my beautiful wife, Y/N Presley.”

The crowd erupted in cheers and applause.

You couldn’t help the smile that spread across your face. Elvis kissed you quickly, whispered, “I love you,” then turned back to the mic to finish introducing the rest of the band.

You sat down, still smiling, heart racing—not from nerves this time, but from pride.

[heartfullofamor]

THE SUMMER HE PROPOSED

conrad x reader

WARNINGS: none

just Conrad proposing to you WAYY better than Jeremiah ever could trust me and I didn’t really look over this story so there might be some mistakes

It started like any other late summer afternoon at Cousins — or at least, that’s what you thought.

The sky was that perfect, hazy blue that only exists at golden hour, streaked with soft clouds and the warmth of July. You hadn’t been to Cousins in weeks — not since school got so busy.

But Conrad had called you the night before, asking, “Come to Cousins with me tomorrow. Just for the day.”

You didn’t question it. When it came to Conrad, you never really could.

Now you were driving with the windows down, his hand resting on your thigh, the scent of salt and sunscreen already filling your lungs. Music played low on the radio, but he wasn’t singing along like he normally would. He was quiet. Not distant, just… quiet. Like he was trying to keep something inside.

You parked in the same driveway you always had, the house just as you remembered — white trim, sea-worn wood, and tons of summers past hanging in the air. But Conrad didn’t let you go inside.

“Come with me,” he said, his fingers lacing with yours.

You looked at him curiously. “Is this the part where you tell me you found a hermit crab and named it after me again?”

He smiled — that crooked, nervous Conrad Fisher smile — and shook his head. “No. Something better.”

You passed the firepit. The volleyball net. The log where you and he sat for hours talking about constellations and fears and forever. And then… you saw it.

The old dock.

Except now it looked like a dream.

String lights were hung around the posts. A blanket was spread out at the end, weighted down by candles in glass jars and hydrangeas that looked like they’d been picked with care.

You stopped walking.

“Wait,” you breathed. “What is this?”

He turned to face you, eyes soft and nervous and so full of love it almost hurt.

Before you could say anything else, he let go of your hand, dropped to one knee — and for a moment, the world just stopped.

Your breath caught.

Conrad Fisher — your Conrad — was looking up at you like you were the only thing he saw, kneeling in front of you with a velvet box in his hand.

“I’ve been trying to figure out what to say for weeks,” he began, voice low and trembling. “I’ve rewritten this in my head a thousand times — when you’re asleep next to me, in the car when a song reminds me of you, during random moments when I look over at you and realize all over again that I’m in love with you.”

You were already crying.

“I don’t think I ever believed in soulmates — not really. Not until you. You changed everything for me. You were never just the girl I liked. You were the girl who stayed. When I pushed you away, when I pulled you in, when I shut you down — you were still there. You’ve seen me at my worst. And you never gave up on me. You reminded me that I was worth loving, even when I didn’t believe it.”

“I’m not perfect. I overthink everything. But you — you make me want to be better. You make everything feel possible. You make love feel like coming home.”

“I want every version of life with you,” he said, his voice thick now. “The messy parts. The mornings when nothing goes right. The nights when we’re just laughing on the couch, half-asleep with takeout. I want to fight with you and make up with you. I want to grow old with you, even if we still argue about who’s better at Mario Kart.”

You laughed through the tears, shaking your head.

He smiled.

“I asked your parents last week,” he added softly. “Your mom cried. Your dad tried to act tough, but he hugged me before I even finished asking.”

Your hand flew to your mouth.

“And now I’m asking you,” he said, finally opening the box.

The ring was a gold-and-silver stone. Beautiful. Classic. Him.

“So I’m not just asking if you’ll marry me,” he said. “I’m asking if you’ll choose me. Over and over. The way I’ve always chosen you. My forever?”

You didn’t speak.

You dropped to your knees right there in front of him, face wet with joy, hands trembling.

“Yes,” you whispered. “Yes. Yes. Always.”

He let out the softest breath — part laugh, part relief, part sob — and slid the ring onto your finger.

And when he pulled you into his arms, both of you kneeling on that dock lit up with soft lights and candle flame, the waves crashing behind you like applause, you knew:

This wasn’t just the end of a love story.

It was the beginning of forever.

taglist: @lindsaynathi0n, @wearemadeofstardust0, @v4mqvs, @aariahnaa, @congratsloserr

[heartfullofamor]

conrad imagine where him and reader are best friends and they are talking and smoking in his room and then it leads to smut?

I have been thinking about this request since I first saw it.

cw: MDNI (18+) smut (p in v) unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it) cockwarming, mention of smoking weed

You’re in your room as you lie on your bed with Conrad. Soft music is playing from your computer as you pass a joint back and forth. This is a typical night off for the two of you and you always look forward to it. Conrad’s residency at the hospital is draining and your hours at the bar downtown have really taken a toll on you. This is exactly the kind of thing you both need to forget about your jobs for a while.

You pass the joint to him then turn to face him, seeing the gears turning in his head. You just know that whatever he has to say is going to be ridiculous but you want to know anyway. He takes the joint and takes a hit, holding the smoke in his mouth as he motions for you to come closer.

You find that smoking tends to amp up your sex drive and for the first time since you started smoking with Conrad on a weekly basis, you suddenly want him in ways that you know you shouldn’t. He’s been your best friend for as long as you can remember and once you sleep together, everything changes.

You do as he says and move closer until your bodies are flush. He takes your face in his hands and pushes your mouth open. You hold it there as he presses his lips to yours, blowing the smoke into it as you inhale. You’ve shotgunned before, but never like this and never with Conrad. It’s something that’s intimate and that’s not something that you and Conrad would ever think of doing. You’re just friends-that’s all.

But as the smoke is inhaled, his lips slot between yours and you don’t dare stop him. It’s messy and sloppy because neither of you are sober. You’ve only kissed once before but that was years ago and it was just the two of you getting caught up in the moment. And isn’t that what this is right now?

Before you know it, your tongues are in each other’s mouths and you’re straddling his waist. You can feel his cock hardening underneath your ass and you grind against him, swallowing up his groans as his hands slide up your skirt. His fingers dip into the waistband of your underwear and you let him pull them down before tossing them to the side.

He pushes you to the mattress and suddenly he’s hovering over you, his pupils blown wide because of the joint but you can see the lust in them too. He wants you and he wants you bad. Tonight, you think you might let him have you. If he can behave.

“I need your fingers,” you tell him, completely breathless from his kisses. He goes in for more as one of his hands grabs your thigh, the other sliding up your skirt again. His fingers push into your sopping wet cunt pushing in and out, in and out as you grab onto the sheets below you for dear life.

“Yeah? You like that?’ He asks. He always thought doing stuff like this with you would be weird, but it’s not. There’s something about it that just feels so…right. “Fuck, you’re so tight.”

“Haven’t really-” you let out a loud moan. “Had the time, you know? But I have the time now…if you want to…” His pupils get even bigger at your suggestion and now he’s grinning.

“God, you’re making me want you even more.” You were always off limits in Conrad’s mind so hearing you say those words is surprising to him. He’s hard beyond belief now and now he’s got to have you right now.

“You want me?” This is news to you. You never knew that he was attracted to you, let alone in that way. And you’d be lying if you said you didn’t feel the same way about him. Especially when he wears those damn sweatpants that sometimes ride a little too low-

“Are you fucking kidding? I’ve wanted you for so long and then you walk in here in that low cut tank top and short skirt and fuck-” His fingers are moving even faster and he’s more desperate. He wants to get you there and he wants to do it fast. And you’re already close, he can see it.

As soon as you orgasm, he removes his fingers and pulls his underwear down, his shirt following. He lies back on the mattress and all you can think about is how huge his cock is and how much you need it inside you.

“Ride me, baby.” He’s never called you that, but you have to admit that you love the way it rolls off of his tongue so easily. You do as he says and climb on top of him, neither of you sober enough to be thinking about a condom.

It’s slow at first as you both try to get used to it and then you quickly pick up the pace, Conrad hypnotized by the way you look on top of him. You’re so hot that he can’t stand it. He feels the high wearing off but he still wants you so fucking bad.

He bucks his hips, matching your pace as you speed up even more, your shirt coming off as sweat rolls down your body. Your bra is also discarded and watching you play with your nipples has him going absolutely mad.

“Fuck,” he whines. “Fuck, baby, keep going.” You twist your nipples this way and that and hearing the noises that come from your mouth, he’s sure that you’re trying to mess with him.

“You want a turn?” You ask, grabbing hold of his hands that are on your thighs, nails digging into your skin. You don’t even have to ask because his hands grab hold of your tits, massaging your nipples as he imagines covering them in hickeys.

You’re moving even faster and he’s having a hard time keeping up but he manages. This has got to be the best fuck of his life and he’s going to savor it because he knows it’ll never happen again.

You’re both rapidly approaching orgasms and he doesn’t want this to end. He wants to keep going until you can’t possibly take it anymore.

“Harder,” you tell him. “I don’t want to be able to walk in the morning.” He’s bucking his hips even harder until he’s fully seated inside you. You can practically feel him in your stomach and he stays there, coming first and you’re not that far after, your loud moans filling your bedroom as his name falls from your lips in a final scream.

Once you come down, Conrad collapses onto your chest, both of you breathing heavily, not even bothering to move. Your hand moves up to run your fingers through his hair-something you both just expect when you lie together.

Once you both decide to turn in for the night, he finally pulls out and cleans you both up like the gentleman he is before you both get back into bed. Your bodies are flush together as you share a few more kisses in the dark before falling asleep, just knowing that you’ll definitely end up right here again. And neither of you can seem to wait.

[heartfullofamor]

also idk if u want this to be a fic or hcs either way i’m SAT: meeting conrad in freshman or sophomore year of college. he’s not over belly but eventually because of reader he gets over it and falls in love again. (yes i love angst and fluff especially when they’re together)

After Her, There Was You

conrad x reader

WARNINGS: none

This is a LONG story. It’s 2 AM, I’ve been working on this for 2 days, my tumblr keeps glitching and deleting everything, so I’m done. But thank you for the request! I don’t like it but I hope you do! I will start working on the Rafe request tomorrow.

You met Conrad Fisher on a Tuesday.

It was late fall. You were half-asleep in a lecture hall, running on caffeine and survival mode, when he sat beside you—long legs, dark hoodie, quiet presence.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just nodded when you glanced over.

When the professor asked a question no one answered, he spoke up—voice low but confident.

And you thought: Great. Smart and pretty.

After class, he held the door open for you without a word. You thanked him. He smiled. It wasn’t big, but it was something.

That was the first interaction.

After that, you kept seeing him.

In class. In the cafeteria. Once, at the library, where you both reached for the same copy of The Bell Jar.

“You read Plath?” he asked, surprised.

You shrugged. “It was either that or writing another paper about Gatsby.”

From then on, you started sitting together in class. Then studying. Then grabbing coffee after.

He wasn’t loud. He didn’t overshare. But he was kind.

You’d talk about books, and music, and stress—and he’d listen like no one else ever had. Sometimes he’d say something that felt a little too thoughtful for someone you barely knew.

Like:

“You scrunch your nose when you’re focused.”

“That color looks good on you.”

But the one that always left you confused was:

“You remind me of—”

He always stopped himself there. You never pushed him. But the way he looked at you sometimes made your heart skip.

And maybe you were reading into it, but it felt like something was starting.

The signs were small at first.

A name—Belly—on his phone screen one afternoon. A voicemail he let ring, then stared at for a long time.

You weren’t going to say anything. You weren’t his girlfriend. You weren’t even sure what you were.

But then there was the notebook you borrowed from his backpack, just to copy a lecture slide. You hadn’t meant to see the page tucked inside.

“I miss the version of her that loved me.”

“I keep trying to forget someone I never really had.”

“Is it possible to love someone and still want something else?”

You closed the notebook after reading the last line.

Something in your chest sank.

Once you saw it, you couldn’t unsee it.

He’d look at you and say something kind, then check his phone like he was waiting for a message.

He’d spend hours talking to you, then disappear for a day with no warning.

He never kissed you. But he’d brush your hand when you walked side by side. Rest his head on your shoulder when he was tired. Tell you how much he liked being around you.

And yet… you two never moved forward.

You started piecing it together. The phone. The notebook. The voicemail.

He was still in love with someone else.

You didn’t know her. But you knew enough.

It was late November, the night before Thanksgiving break. You were curled up in his dorm, watching a movie you didn’t care about, his head resting lightly against yours.

And that was the moment you knew you couldn’t keep pretending.

“You still love her, don’t you?” you asked softly.

He stiffened.

You pulled away. “Don’t lie.”

He didn’t.

“I don’t want to,” he said.

“But you do.”

He closed his eyes like he couldn’t argue with that.

And you laughed—a bitter, heartbroken sound.

“You act like I’m something to you. Like this—” you gestured between you, “—is something. And I let myself believe that maybe it could be. But you’re not here. Not really.”

“I didn’t mean to lead you on.”

“You didn’t have to,” you whispered. “You were kind. You were… good. That was enough to make me fall.”

His breath caught.

“I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“But you did.”

You stood, your hands shaking.

“I’m not staying here. Not with someone who only wants me when she’s not around.”

You left.

He didn’t stop you.

December

You didn’t text him. You didn’t answer when he did.

One message.

“I’m sorry.”

You didn’t open it.

You went home for break. You cried more than you admitted. Told yourself to move on. That he hadn’t even kissed you. That it didn’t count.

But you couldn’t forget the way he looked at you. Like you made the world quieter. Like you reminded him what it meant to breathe.

Christmas

You weren’t planning to go to the holiday party your friend dragged you to.

And you definitely weren’t planning on seeing him there.

But there he was, across the room, standing near the fireplace with snow in his hair and regret in his eyes.

He saw you.

And this time, he didn’t look away.

He crossed the room. Slowly. Carefully.

“Hey,” he said, voice barely above the music.

You didn’t answer.

He took a deep breath. “I know you probably don’t want to hear this. And you don’t have to say anything. But I’ve been thinking about what I did. Or didn’t do. And I can’t live with the version of me that let you go.”

Your heart thudded.

“I was in love with her for so long, I didn’t realize I’d stopped needing her. I just didn’t know what it felt like to want someone without needing them to fix me.”

He swallowed.

“And then you showed up. And everything got quiet. You didn’t save me—you made me want to save myself. You made me laugh again. You made me believe in the present instead of wishing for the past.”

You looked down, trying to keep your walls up.

“I was scared,” he said. “I didn’t think I could love someone new without betraying what I had before. But the truth is—I was only holding on to her because I hadn’t found you yet.”

Silence.

“I don’t expect you to forgive me. But I needed you to know… you weren’t a placeholder. You were the first real thing.”

You looked at him.

And for the first time, he looked scared.

Not sad. Not lost.

Just scared—of losing you.

The words hung between you like fog in winter—soft, heavy, impossible to ignore.

“You weren’t a placeholder. You were the first real thing.”

You looked at him. Really looked at him.

“I believe you,” you said quietly.

His shoulders dropped just a little. Hope flickered in his eyes.

“I forgive you.”

Relief passed over his face. Like the weight of it all had been lifted.

But then you kept going.

“I forgive you… but I don’t think we can go back to what we had.”

The words came out steady, but you felt your heart break all over again.

“I don’t think I can be the girl I was before I knew. Before I realized what it meant—that you were giving pieces of yourself to me when someone else still had your heart.”

He didn’t argue. He didn’t beg.

He just nodded. A slow, painful acceptance.

You stepped back.

“You needed time to figure it out,” you said. “And now I need time, too. Not to punish you. Just… to protect myself.”

And then you walked away.

And this time, he let you go—because now he understood why you had to.

Winter Break

You didn’t block him.

You didn’t delete the pictures.

But you didn’t reach out either.

He didn’t text you on New Year’s. He didn’t like your stories. He didn’t chase.

Instead, he gave you silence.

But somehow, it felt different.

Not absence. Not avoidance.

Just space.

The kind of space that said:

I’m still here. When you’re ready.

January

The first time you saw him again was in the coffee shop on your second day back.

You almost didn’t notice him—he was sitting in the corner, hoodie up, reading something with a pen between his teeth.

Until he looked up.

And smiled.

Not a flirty smile. Not a sad one.

Just real.

You nodded.

And that was it.

No conversation. No grand gesture.

February

He started showing up in little ways.

A shared class—he always saved you a seat but never assumed you’d sit beside him.

A study group—he let others talk more, but always looked to you first.

You got sick for a few days, and when you returned to class, he quietly handed you a folder full of notes.

“Just in case,” he said, not meeting your eyes.

You started noticing how different he was now.

Quieter, but not guarded.

Kind, but not trying to impress.

He still looked at you like you mattered—but now, it felt grounded.

Like he’d stopped holding onto an idea and started seeing you.

March

He kept showing up.

No games. No mixed signals. Just consistency.

He remembered things you thought he’d forgotten—your favorite pens, your allergy to cinnamon, how you hum when you’re thinking.

One afternoon, you both got caught in the rain.

He didn’t offer you his jacket. He just held the umbrella over your head, let himself get soaked, and smiled like he didn’t mind.

“You always do that,” you said, shivering.

“Do what?”

“Put everyone else first.”

He looked at you and said, “No. Just you.”

It was a Thursday night when it finally happened.

You weren’t planning to see him that night. You had a paper due, laundry in the dryer, and every reason to stay in. But your roommate had a headache and kicked you out for quiet, so you ended up at the campus library instead.

It was almost empty.

And of course, he was there.

You didn’t even speak at first. He just nodded at the chair across from him. You took it.

You pretended to read. He pretended to write.

But the silence between you had changed—it wasn’t empty anymore. It was full of things that hadn’t been said. Words left over from Christmas. From last semester. From everything.

You were the one who broke it.

“Why didn’t you try harder?”

His eyes lifted slowly from the page.

“When I left. You didn’t call. You didn’t text. You didn’t fight for me.”

He didn’t blink. Didn’t look away.

“Because you deserved more than someone who didn’t know what the hell he wanted,” he said quietly.

You didn’t say anything. Just looked at him.

And that’s when he let go.

“She was my first love.”

His voice didn’t shake, but something in his face did.

“I spent so long believing we were meant to be that I didn’t know how to stop. Even when it ended. Even when she chose someone else.”

He paused.

“And then you showed up. And you were… easy to talk to. Kind. Real. You made everything quieter, like I could breathe again.”

You felt your throat tighten.

“But I hadn’t let her go. Not really. Not fully. I kept trying to act like I was ready. Because I wanted to be. Because being with you felt good. Felt right.”

“So I did all those things—held your hand, touched your hair, let myself fall halfway in love with you—and I told myself it was fine.”

“But it wasn’t.”

“You deserved the whole version of me. And I gave you someone who was still looking over his shoulder.”

A tear slipped down your cheek before you could stop it.

“You hurt me,” you said, voice small.

He nodded. “I know.”

“I thought I was special to you. And I was. But I was also… second,” you said.

His eyes closed like the words burned.

“Not anymore,” he said. “I swear to God, not anymore.”

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, like the words were too heavy to say sitting up straight.

“The day you left, I knew I messed up. I knew I’d let something real slip away while holding onto something that only ever existed in my head.”

“And I didn’t reach out… because I didn’t want to come back the same. I wanted to become the person you thought I already was.”

His voice cracked.

“I stopped chasing a memory. I stopped waiting for something to fix itself. Because the only thing I wanted anymore was a second chance to earn you.”

You wiped your cheek with your sleeve.

“You did hurt me.”

“I know,” he whispered.

“But you also changed. I see it.”

He looked at you—hope flickering, but afraid to take root.

“Conrad?”

“Yeah?”

“If I’m gonna love again, I need to know I’m not rebuilding something broken. I need to know it’s something new.”

“It is,” he said. “It is.”

He reached across the table, slow and careful, and offered his hand—open palm, no pressure.

You stared at it for a long moment.

And then, you placed yours in his and walked out of the library.

You stopped walking when the sidewalk curved, campus lights glowing dim behind you.

Conrad looked at you like he didn’t want to ruin anything.

Like you were something he wasn’t sure he was allowed to reach for yet.

“I want to kiss you,” he said, barely above a whisper. “But only if you want me to. We don’t have to.”

You didn’t answer with words.

You just leaned in.

It was the kind of kiss you give when you’ve waited long enough to know it’s real this time.

When you pulled back, he just rested his forehead against yours.

And for once, neither of you needed to say a thing.

Six Months Later

You were late to class, shoes half-tied and coffee sloshing in your cup—coffee Conrad had bought you. He insisted on walking you anyway, his sweatshirt slung over your shoulders like it lived there now.

“Don’t forget we’re meeting your mom for dinner,” you reminded him as you jogged toward the building.

He smirked, tugging gently at your sleeve to stop you. “You forgot to kiss me.”

You rolled your eyes, but leaned in anyway. “You’re needy.”

He grinned. “I missed you for too long not to be.”

And for the first time, love didn’t feel like something you were chasing.

It felt like something you’d found—and this time, you weren’t letting go.

After editing I didn’t want to do I finished at 2:15 AM 😊🥰🙄💔 it better be worth it cause I don’t even like this story but I love the request idea

taglist: @lindsaynathi0n , @wearemadeofstardust0 , @v4mqvs , @congratsloserr

[heartfullofamor]

You need Cody right after a match.

a/n— My first Cody blurb, I need him so bad, had to whip this up rq.

Your boyfriend Cody, spent the entire day rehearsing his match and promos. You stood at ringside, watching on as his muscles flexed each time he moved. He was so fucking hot, and you couldn’t help but admire him. You needed him, but was in his element, you couldn’t distract him.

By the time Raw had began airing, he was out cutting a promo, the fans just as wild as you. Except, something else was wild for him. Your teeth sunk into your bottom lip as you watched him pace in the ring, his neck tattoo you craved to lick on full display.

When the bell rang, he immediately got the upper hand, dishing out punishment on his opponent. Punishment you craved for your pussy. Maybe it was your ovulation—whatever it was, it had you feeling like you’d die without his dick inside you.

Cody won the match and the referee held his arm up in victory. Your core throbbed in anticipation as he made his way to the back, his steps deliberate. As soon as the door to the room opened, you pounced on him, your lips all over his face and lips.

“Baby, what’s gotten into you? I’m all sweaty,” Cody muttered into your kisses.

“I don’t care, I need you. Sweat and all, let it drip all over me, I don’t care, just fuck me. Please,” you pleaded.

His eyes darkened at your words, he could practically smell you dripping for him. “So fucking desperate for me, I’ll give you what you want.”

And that’s exactly what he did.

Cody had you bent over a chair, his gear ripped off by you and his hard cock buried inside you. Your panties were ripped and he slammed into you from behind, his cock stretching you out. You hoped the distant cheering from the fans masked your loud moans as he absolutely ravished you.

“This is what you wanted? Huh? To get fucked like a slut?”

You nodded frantically, your pussy clenching tightly around his cock as he angled into you even deeper. If it wasn’t for his grip on your curls, you would’ve toppled over.

He slapped your ass and you cried out. “Y-yes sir! This is what I wanted.”

You knew he was smirking behind you and in your last act of boldness, you pushed back against him, fucking yourself on his cock.

“That’s a good girl. You should see how your pussy’s just creaming on my dick.”

His words sent a ripple through you and your body convulsed, an intense orgasm hitting you like a truck.

“Good fucking girl,” he murmured, but he wasn’t finished with you.

He lifted and carried you to the couch in the corner of the room. A cry left your lips as he sank into your pussy once again, immediately finding your sweet spot. You drooled as he hovered over you—Cody was a greek god, one you would be happy to worship every single day. The sweat made his muscles glisten and he wrapped a large hand around your neck, making your pussy twitch in excitement.

Your body jolted as he slammed into your pussy and his grip around your neck tightened. “You feel so fucking good. So tight, so wet, fucking perfect for me.

You held his dark gaze, wrapped your arms around his neck and grinding against him, meeting his thrusts. His sweat dripping all over you made you moan and you reached up, licking the tattoo on his neck.

“My dirty fucking girl,” he said, darkly.

One of his hands pressed against your abdomen, making you moan so loud, you knew anyone passing by would hear. “Feel how deep I am inside you? Only my cock can get that far. I fucking own you.”

“You own me,” you echoed, your nails now digging into his back.

“Cum on my cock, cum with me.”

With a loud cry, you squirted on his cock, soaking both him and the couch as he continued to pound into your aching pussy.

“Fucking hell, what a good girl just squirting for me like that.”

His orgasm followed immediately after and he pushed deep inside you, his cum filling your ovulating womb to the brim.

He leaned down and whispered in your ear, his thrusts slower and deeper. “I’m gonna get you fucking pregnant.”

[heartfullofamor]

just us ── .✦

requested! thank you.content: soft surprise proposal, flowers, warm domesticity, quiet joy, reader crying (in a good way), pure love, just the two of you.

You weren’t expecting him home yet.

He said he had “one last thing” to do before coming back. You figured it was groceries, or one of those little Pedro errands that somehow take two hours but always end with pastries and a forehead kiss.

But when you open the door — barefoot, cozy clothes, hair in a clip — he’s there.

Holding a massive bouquet of bright pink peonies. Easily the size of your torso. A perfect white hatbox. A velvet ribbon tied around it in a soft bow.

And that smile.

That soft, shy, secret little smile he only gets when something important is happening in his heart.

“Pedro…” you breathe, stunned. “What is this?”

“I saw them and thought of you,” he shrugs, walking in, kissing your cheek as he passes. “You love peonies.”

“I do, but—this is... a lot of peonies.”

He chuckles, placing them on the kitchen counter like he’s been rehearsing it in his head.

You turn around to tease him again — and freeze.

He’s already looking at you.

Hands in his jacket pockets. That same crooked smile still pulling at the corners of his mouth.

And eyes — soft and overwhelmed — locked on yours.

“I know we said we didn’t need anything fancy,” he says quietly. “No big proposal. No cameras. No pressure.”

Your heart pounds.

“But I saw those flowers and thought... if I’m gonna ask the person I love more than anything in this life to marry me, I want to bring her everything beautiful I can carry.”

Your hands start shaking, gently.

Pedro steps forward and slowly pulls his hand from his pocket — not a ring box. Just a simple band, warm gold between his fingers. Like he couldn’t wait.

“No speeches,” he says, his voice already thick. “No surprises. Just this.”

He takes your hand and presses the ring into your palm, then brings your fingers to his lips.

“Will you marry me?” he whispers. “Be my forever? Just us?”

You don’t cry — you sob.

He laughs softly as you nod, wrapping your arms around his neck, burying your face into his shoulder.

“Yes,” you say against his skin. “Of course yes. Always yes.”

He exhales against your hair. Like he’s been holding his breath for a lifetime.

The flowers are still on the counter.

You dance around them later, barefoot and breathless and wrapped in each other.

It’s not fancy. It’s just home. Just you. Just him. Just love.

✦ please do not copy, repost, or translate this work. © lazysoulwriter // i write with a lot of love and care, so please respect that.

[heartfullofamor]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐂𝗼𝐥𝐝 𝐒𝐡𝗼𝐮𝐥𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐂𝐮𝐫𝐞

Tags: ddlg, sweet make up, big daddy!EP, fluff, age gap, BD!EP, blurb

You didn’t run to the door when he came back.

That was the first thing Elvis noticed.

No soft footsteps padding across the floor, no squeal of “Daddy!” or arms thrown around his neck.

Just a heavy, aching silence that didn’t belong in Graceland.

He shut the door behind him slow, boots echoing off the polished floors. “Baby?” he called, voice still thick from the road, that familiar Southern drawl dragging out the word like molasses.

No answer.

“Where’s my girl?” he tried again, quieter now, edging into the living room where you sat cross-legged on the couch, arms folded, lips pursed. He could tell just from the way your nose twitched—oh, you were mad.

Lord help him. “Ain’t gonna talk to me?” he asked gently, setting his bag down. “Y'mad ‘cause Daddy missed dinner again?”

Your chin lifted, defiant and wordless.

He huffed a quiet laugh, but it wasn’t amused. It was regretful.

“Baby, I didn’t mean t’be gone so long. The practice ran over, and then the damn Colonel had me on the damn phone till midnight.” He kneeled down in front of you, calloused hands resting on your knees, pressing tender kiss there. “I woulda rather been right here. With my best girl.”

You shifted, refusing to meet his eyes.

Elvis leaned in, brushing his lips along your knee. “I hate when ya go all quiet on me, sugar. Hurts worse than bein’ punched in the gut.”

Still nothing. “I brought ya somethin’.” He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small velvet box, placing it in your lap.

You didn’t open it.

“Guess I gotta earn my way back in, huh?”

That’s when you looked at him. That pout softening, just a little, and tears glassing over your eyes.

“You could've called,” you sighed. “Didn’t hear from you in five whole days…”

Elvis exhaled, cupping your face with one hand, thumb dragging over your chin. “Y'r right. I’m sorry, darlin'. That won’t happen again. I swear ta ya.”

You melted then, crawling into his lap with a sniffle, burying your face deep in his neck as he held you tight. “I hate being mad at you,” you mumbled against his skin, voice a little muffled.

Elvis smiled, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Then don’t be, lil' baby. Jus' tell Daddy next time—‘fore you go breakin’ my heart with all that silence.”

And just like that, Graceland felt like home again.

[heartfullofamor]

magic hands ── .✦

content: sensual back massage, body worship, soft & sexy domestic clark, big hands, tension relief, sleepy intimacy, implied spicy thoughts but full fluff ending

You’re lying on your stomach, cheek pressed to a pillow, skin warm and flushed from the hot shower you took thirty minutes ago — and still, your back aches.

Long day. Long week. Long life, honestly.

Until Clark.

Until his voice, smooth and low behind you, says: “Let me take care of it, sweetheart. Let me take care of you.”

He straddles your thighs gently, weight barely there. His big hands find your shoulders first, strong but soft, pressing slow, deliberate circles into your muscles.

You moan. Not the polite kind — the real kind. The kind that slips out without asking permission.

Clark chuckles under his breath. “That bad, huh?”

You don’t answer. You’re already melting.

His palms slide down your back with practiced patience, mapping your spine like sacred ground. His thumbs work into the knots, easing tension with a kind of focus that makes your breath catch. Every touch is slow. Intentional. Worshipful.

And he’s so quiet about it. Just the soft sound of his breathing, the occasional whisper of your name when you twitch or sigh.

“You deserve this,” he murmurs at one point, lips brushing your shoulder.

You mumble something in response — something completely unintelligible and sleepy, probably embarrassing — and he smiles. Keeps going. Long strokes down your sides. Fingertips dragging gently up your arms. Then back down again.

At one point, he leans down, kisses your shoulder blade, and whispers, “I could touch you like this forever.”

You hum, nearly asleep now, fully boneless under his hands.

And just as your mind starts to drift, warmth pooling everywhere, you sigh softly, completely content, and murmur:

“I love my life.”

Clark freezes for the briefest second. Then kisses your bare back again, right over your heart, and whispers:

“I love you.”

You’re asleep before you can hear it. But he says it again anyway, softer this time, still tracing little shapes on your skin with those magic hands.

“I love you. Always.”

✦ please do not copy, repost, or translate this work. © lazysoulwriter // i write with a lot of love and care, so please respect that.

[heartfullofamor]

In sickness, in health

Clark Kent (Superman) x Ex!Wife!Fem!Reader

wc: 4.6k

boarders by @cursed-carmine & @saradika-graphics 🧊💋🦴

~ reblogs, comments, and likes are so appreciated ~

It’s been almost exactly a year since the split. Clark left with a resounding slam of your door. You got the papers a week later, tears streaking down your cheeks, but if it was what he wanted, you’d sign. So you did, you gave him his share and made do with yours. The argument regarding your safety due to Clark being Superman had strained your relationship to the breaking point. And like so many other unlucky couples, you just couldn’t work it out.

When you get a random call around 2:30am the day after Thanksgiving from Ma, your heart drops. The connection is weak; all you can make out is, “Clark… Hurt… Please come as soon… He asked… you.”

It’s enough for you to throw clothes into a duffel and book the next flight. You still loved him, even after everything. And he needed you.

You laughed at the irony of your vows. You would still keep them. You hoped Clark wouldn’t send you away when he came to.

Warnings: Mentions of Violence, Clark has Kryptonite Poisoning, Clark is Whiny, Husband Clark Kent, Hurt/Comfort, Very Slight Reference to Sexual Content, Guilt, Fear, Reuniting with your Ex-Husband Superman, Unsolved Tension, Lots of Angst, Slight Mentions of Near-Death Experiences, Pain, Reader is Down Bad, Clark is also Down Bad, This is Angst City, and I am the Mayor

You glance over at the clock, and it reads 2:15am. Great, another sleepless night, alone. The bed feels cold and empty beside you, hollow from days past. You roll over, trying desperately to get into a comfortable enough position to sleep. You know it’s hopeless, but you try anyway.

The wind whips against your window pane, reminding you of the harsh reality of the time of year it was. Late November, Thanksgiving had just passed, and it was your first Thanksgiving without Clark. You’d spent the day binge drinking and watching horrible Hallmark movies about city girls and country boys.

You sigh in defeat. It would only be a couple more weeks until he’d been gone for a year.

The sadness sank deep into your chest, aching and beating slowly in your sorrowful heart. The tears had all but vanished, causing you to lie there, eyes dry. You quit feeling sorry for yourself a long time ago, but the holidays reminded you so much of Clark, hopefulness lingering in everyone’s attitude that you passed on the street.

The difference was that each of your friends had someone to come home to. Lois had Jimmy, and you could sadly tell that they pitied you, often offering to take you to dinner, letting you third wheel their events, and pretending that everything was okay.

Lois had cussed out Clark when he’d made the decision to leave you. Calling him a “selfish asshole," and stating that his resignation to The Planet was "Total, utter bullshit!" Jimmy tried to stay out of it as long as he could, but he ultimately sided with Lois every time. You’d been really thankful to have someone on your side. Because once the media caught wind of Superman’s secret love affair, they’d immediately taken it way too far.

Rumors of cheating, emotional abuse, etc., lingered in the magazines for a few months. You barely left your house, afraid to be assigned a lead on 'the mysterious wife of Superman.' Clark spent many weeks as his alter ego fighting to have every false allegation taken down. He loved you so much it hurt, but he couldn’t bring himself to put you in constant danger, not after your accident. That was his sorry excuse for walking out on you.

You blamed it on his fear that too many people were uncovering the possibility of Clark Kent being Superman.

You ponder the thought of calling him, and glance at your phone, thrown lopsidedly to the pillow next to you. After all the pain and abandonment, you had only called Clark twice. The first time was on your birthday. Lois had taken you out for drinks, and well... you got wasted.

You had called him, just for the phone to ring twice before going to voicemail. You cussed him out for not calling and singing to you, sobbed into the phone as your friends tried to calm you, and puked onto the floor when Lois finally ripped your phone from your hands. She muttered something crossly towards Clark in the message, stating that it was "just like you to not call her on her birthday. No contact doesn't mean forgetting everything she means to you."

The no-contact rule was torture for both you and Clark; he told you it was the best way to keep you safe. But he was unwilling to hear just how desperate you were to keep him in your life. You longed to know how he felt. You wanted to know the truth: that he missed every inch of your skin, just like you missed his. You were sure that he truly just hated you, and it pained you so bad that you spent many nights on the roof of your apartment building, pondering the fall.

You wondered if Clark would catch you halfway down.

You doubted it, the longer he'd been gone.

Abandoning those thoughts, you roll in the opposite direction of your phone, mentally cursing yourself for the pure audacity to think of calling Clark right now. He was probably out saving some damsel in distress anyway. You sigh, gazing into the clock that now reads 2:24am.

This was going to be a long night. The kind of night that promised nothing but silence.

You close your eyes, huffing into the stillness of your bedroom, and try to count sheep.

You’re about four sheep in when your phone rings, the song “You Are My Sunshine” echoes into your ears, and you sit up. That was Ma’s ringtone.

Your heart drops to your stomach. Clark.

Picking up the phone without a second thought, you raise a shaky hand to your mouth, biting your nail in anxiety, “Ma?”

The line cracks, muffled and broken between what you’re sure is Ma crying, and she speaks, “Y/n! Sweetheart, is that… we need you… Clark’s hurt… please… as soon as possible… he asked for you.”

The line goes dead.

You brush some of your bed head off your forehead and inhale with an open mouth. Your head spins and you stand on two wobbly legs. Clark was hurt. Superman, hurt. Your Clark. The cheeky man that had stolen your heart with his messy black hair and rigid dimples. The same Clark, who used to kiss your stomach unhurriedly and stare at you too long with those ocean blue eyes. You prayed for him to be alive within the cold air of the night.

Tears somehow found their way to your cheeks again, running like rain on a car window, recklessly. You pulled out a bag and quickly stuffed a charger, some clothes, and god knows what else inside. You didn’t pay it much mind, thinking only of Clark, and the quickest way to get to him.

You would catch the next flight, no matter what it took to see him again. Ignorant of the price, even though you had very little. You cared only to see Clark, to brush his hair between your fingers and whisper sweet nothings into his temple, breath brushing his ear. That was what you used to do when a fight went South, when a civilian died. You were the only one who could console him. He went at ease when you were near. Maybe that's why he needed you.

Ma used to call you his ‘emotional kryptonite.’ God, you missed him.

As you pass your kitchen on the way out, you glance at the fridge. No, you were still far too full from Thanksgiving dinner at Jimmy’s to eat anything. But you hesitated. Clark loved your peanut butter brownies. They’d go bad otherwise. Maybe that’s what he needed.

You sigh, rip a Tupperware container from its place in the dishwasher, hands shaking from stress and worry, and dump the remainder of your brownies in. Every little thing in this apartment still screamed his name, his presence. The candle by the couch, one he’d bought you after saying it reminded him of your shampoo. Each dent in the drywall, where he’d slammed you into the wall after a long day when he just needed release, nipping at your neck with want. The robe that used to be his, hanging on a hook, which now acted as your oversized towel after a bath.

It all became a way of coping. Every first aid kit you had on hand for the cuts on his knuckles, every pocket protector you’d stuffed away into a drawer with no need for them anymore. You slowly forgot the meaning of living with him, the meaning of living. But he was still in every sentence you wrote at The Planet. He lingered in every breath you drew in, alone.

Your life had faded into a concept of surviving. And you did everything you could to stifle any hope of him returning.

He’d made it very clear that he wouldn’t.

You zip up your duffel, brownies inside. Your heart still beats wild and uncomfortably in your chest. Every second you wait, you’re not there for Clark. He asked for you. Your lip tilts up, it’s not a smile, but it’s something.

The gate is quiet, the crowd small but steady. People shuffle between TSA checking and cuss at a small volume when they get flagged for the fluid bottles in their bags. You pass through, keeping to yourself, too hurried to worry about the way a woman shoulder checks you. You brush it off, rushing for your 4:30am flight to Kansas City. Pa would meet you there in his dusty red Chevy, probably halfway squeeze the life out of you, and cry like the old sap he was.

You loved it, you missed the family you lost because of those damn papers.

You take a sip from the four-dollar water bottle you bought in the small gift shop by your gate. The water tastes like metal and something else you can’t quite put your finger on. When they call for boarding, you spring up, wiry and light on your feet, clutching the strap of your duffel like it was rope and you’re hanging off a cliff.

You take the aisle seat on the fourth row, eager to be one of the first people off the plane. You had no luggage to pick up, no rental car to wait for, only the promise of your quick feet and small frame to shift through the crowd. You willed the plane to arrive before schedule, and sat back, headphones playing “The Mighty Crabjoys.” You chuckle, strained, and raise a head to your forehead, rubbing away the memories like smudged lead on paper.

The flight was four hours; that meant you had four hours to try and sleep. You crack your neck in restlessness, recoiling in the thought of how Clark must feel. Hurt, alone. A feeling you’d become far too familiar with. Still, it left a heavy sting of guilt deep in your stomach, causing it to churn with unease.

Every second you’d had with Clark was magical; you felt like you were in heaven in the moment. He was the dream, the perfect gentleman. He memorized your heart and made it his. Promised you a life full of adventure, risk, and happiness. You never expected him to stomp on it all with his custom Kryptonian boots. You didn’t think he meant to, truly. But now you looked back over the years like a sad nostalgic dream, crushed by the weight of every harsh truth and splintered trust.

It must be nice to never feel like this. You cursed every delusional happy couple; they all had what you still hoped for with every moment alone in the shower, someone to love. To hold.

Where you two had left things, it didn’t promise much to look forward to. The argument, which caused Clark Kent of all people to slam your door, snapping several hinges, explained his reason for never calling you, never sending a card. The way he’d spoken to you, the way you’d spoken to him, it was lethal. It destroyed years' worth of admiration, every morning naked in bed, giggling, every night dripping in sex and sweat. You both had crushed the walls you once built with hammering words, shattering the mirror of truly seeing one another.

Your heart died that day, with every word he’d uttered, fists drawn tight and rigid to his sides. And god, when you’d slapped him, he raised one of his fists. You both stared at it like it had betrayed you each in its own way. His eyes widened, and he gulped so hard you heard it. Your breath sucked in with a sharp gasp, and you flinched away. He crumbled, tears spilling down his cheeks, “baby, no, no… You know I would never. Oh god, Y/n, sweetheart, you have to believe me.”

“Get out, Clark.” You’d whispered, eyes screwing shut, your own sorrowful tears spilling all the way to your collarbones. He flinched like your words had slashed his middle. “Y/n, not until I know you’re okay—” but you’d cut him off, hands slapping to your cheeks and angrily swiping at your hot tears. You stared into his eyes, yours cold with hatred. “G-get the fuck out, Clark.” A breath, “Please, don’t make me ask again.”

He hesitated, watching your chest rise and fall quickly. He gave you one long and suffering look, his face screaming anguish. His mouth hung open, angry words dangerously hanging on the tip of his tongue. Hands clenched and unclenched at his sides, right foot beginning its anxious habit of tapping against your floor.

Then without warning, he’d turned sharply, grabbed his coat from the rack he’d hung only weeks prior, and left. No more backward glances, no more second chances. Clark read your mind in that last look, and had seen just how much he needed to go. So he did. The man was painfully true to his word.

You wish you could take back every word. Every cutting touch and angle you’d pushed. He only wanted to protect you, and you’d freaked. It wasn’t entirely your fault; you knew what you were getting yourself into from the start. Clark was never satisfied, knowing you were always unsafe.

Every encounter you’d made with villains, most of them run-of-the-mill losers who had figured out Clark's identity, had chalked up to another point towards an at-home fight. You were certain that you could handle it. Clark was never so sure, always so afraid of you breaking, of losing you. He didn’t know that he eventually would lose you in an even greater fashion. You weren’t glass, you weren’t a damsel in need of saving. You knew the cost of loving Superman; it laid heavy in your chest like a stack of bricks.

But the difference was you knew that it was worth it for Clark, and he didn't.

But then, the accident happened. You were never supposed to be there, if you’d just listened. He wouldn’t have almost lost you. Clark had been too late.

You could confidently confirm that when you’re about to die, your life does indeed flash before your eyes. It had, in a burst of darkness and dust. Then, you were gone.

You jolt awake at the force of the plane landing. Ah, you had fallen asleep. Clark. You were almost home. Please hold on.

When the airplane clears to exit, you shoot up. Offering a quick apology to those ahead of you, and shuffling between the rows, practically running down the loading gate. You sprint through the crowd, avoiding a businessman and his steaming latte. Your eyes scan the pickup lane, finally landing on Pa.

He’s waiting, cardboard sign in hand, with your name scribbled messily. You smile softly, and your heart aches with pure and utter homesickness. You run up to him, taking him by surprise as you wrap your arms around him. He chuckles in shock and returns the hug, squeezing you tightly like an overprotective parent when their child returns from war. You don’t realize the tears until they’ve already fallen, and he’s whispering, “I missed you, buttercup,” into your ear.

“Please tell me he’s alive, Pa.” You murmur, voice breaking, desperate and raw. Pa nods firmly, pulling back from the hug. “He’ll be okay. I think this fight woke’m up from the horrible, ugl’ah nightmare of losin’ you.” He confirms, patting your shoulder in comfort.

“He doesn’t miss me. I just wanted to see him. I-I had to know… had to know he was okay.” You cry, burying your head into his neck. Pa sighs, rubbing at your shoulder blade with his worn hands, “Sweetheart, he doesn’t know just how much he needs you.”

You bite back the words “I still love him” and instead nod, wiping at your eyes with the back of your hand. Pa smiles, flashing you a true American farmer grin, and opens the door of the truck for you. You climb in, breathing in the scent of the Kent household and relax back into your seat. A feeling of anticipation begins to thrum quietly in the hollow of your heart.

The drive feels shorter than you remember, Billy Joel and Diamond Rio streaming out of the radio in their regular fashion. You watch the corn fields pass, remembering the first time Clark had brought you home with him. You’d been so nervous, even though you had no reason to be worried. Ma and Pa were the parents you never had.

When the split happened, they didn’t know who to call first. They’d called Clark, obviously. But you were the one they visited. That meant something real to you. You weren’t sure Clark knew, so you’d stowed it away with every flannel he hadn’t bothered to pick up.

You see the sign for Smallville, and your heart leaps in your chest, with a sudden burst of anxiety.

You pull up to the driveway, and with every yard closer, your chest grows increasingly tight. The house looks the same as you’d seen it. Crooked shingles and white siding frame the childhood home that Clark grew up in. The fields outside whistle in the wind, drifting with memory and nostalgia. You grip the handles of your duffel and pinch your wrist. This was truly real.

When the tires screech to a stop, you sit still against the leather, waiting a minute before hopping out. Ma meets you at the screen door, pulling you straight into her arms and brushing your hair with a soothing hand. You meet her with a sigh, “Ma…” She shushes you, just breathing into your shoulder with a shuddering inhale, holding you. Your face twists into something deeply uncomfortable, scrunching up like wrinkled laundry. You hold back the tears, and break apart, holding each of her shoulders, “I need to see him.”

She nods in understanding, stepping out of your way. “You know where to find him, babygirl.”

You move down the hall in a silent tradition, without a second thought. You pass the endless frames, which hold everything sweet and innocent about Clark beneath their glass. The hallway moves around you as your feet hit carpet, slow, sure, and familiar. Everything comes to a slow rhythm of instinct. The door to Clark’s bedroom is ajar, allowing you to see his posters, trophies, and baby blue wallpaper from the outside.

Your feet come to a rest at the threshold. Blinking in slow motion, your eyes well up once more. You’re not sure if it’s from fear or excitement. Maybe it’s just the overwhelming sensation of knowing that the love of your life waits inside. You haven’t seen him since he slammed that oak door back in the city.

You weren’t sure about this.

But nothing stops you from stepping inside, a vow kept in the hushed corners of the Kansas house. You were here in sickness, in health. Through the fall from grace and the cold, bitter reality of hurt.

When you behold Clark lying on his full-sized bed, completely crushing it beneath his massive frame, you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. He’s not asleep, but he hasn’t noticed you yet; that or he’s pretending you aren’t there.

His eyes flicker to yours, and he draws in a quick, faltering breath. “You came,” he cracks, with a pitiful and wretched timbre of disbelief. His eyes pinch together with a raw and painful flinch.

You drop the duffel and stride to his side in three short steps, collapsing to your knees.

“You called.”

He breaks, the waterworks instant. His chin quivers in a way that tells you everything you needed to know. That he regretted those words too, that he missed you every. damn. day. That he tried so hard to stay away that it had utterly destroyed him on the inside.

You drop your head onto his shoulder and sob, “I thought– I thought, oh god, Clark. I– I thought you were gone.” Your tears wet the flannel on his chest, and you bring a hand up to feel at his face. He struggles, weeping openly and watching you cry too, clutching your body with one strong but weary arm.

“I’m so fuckin’ sorry. I’m so sorry,” he whispers, painful and pure with every shake.

His voice is muffled in your hair, strands spread across his chest. He holds you like something scared, secret. It’s a moment that you both know you’ll store away somewhere safe. The air around you shifts in a tense click.

You lift your head, meeting his red-rimmed eyes, bluer than ever through his crying, with yours. They hide away a hideous guilt, masked by his determination to make the right decisions. All the while, Clark knew he hadn’t.

He’d stormed out that day, only to collapse into the brick outside the building, tearing at his shirt and sobbing unashamedly.

Every day he’d spent without you had been true hell, and even now, Kryptonite poisoning and all, his chest felt lighter at the graze of your touch. It was all the pain medicine Clark needed.

“I’m glad you’re here.” He admits, not quite meeting your eyes this time. His chest rises in a steady thrum, and he rests his head back against the plush pillow. He doesn’t dare to lie, to fake some sorry excuse due to the no-contact rule. It was a dumb, fucking stupid rule that he had used to cower from his problems.

The truth was, Clark hadn’t felt like Superman since he’d left.

He felt like a traitor to the name of Justice and Hope.

You were his hope, you were his peace. It was all because of you that he could wake up every morning and promise the people of Metropolis his best self.

He hadn't promised anything in a real long time.

Clark stares at the ceiling as you shift off your knees, rising again to your feet and searching for the chair by his desk. You pull it to the bed, sitting down slowly.

“I came as quick as I could, t-took the next flight out.” You tell him, searching his eyes with yours, reminding him of just how much you cared. He looks at you again, and for a moment you both sit there, silent. The intensity leaves a pit in each of your stomachs. Clark clears his throat, coughing slightly in strained air, “Thank you, Y/n.”

You nod without restraint, your neck cracking at the sudden movement. You both huff out a laugh. It feels like everything.

You’re not sure how this moment feels so reverent, so private. But it does. You feel miles away and nearby all in the same twitch of your fingers. Clark stares at you like you might disappear into the light of the lamp beside you if he blinks. His hair is a mess, swamped around his bloody forehead.

“You need some serious sun, golden boy,” you laugh, calm and slow this time. Clark breathes out a sigh of relief at the domestic tease. “Wow, teasing me already, sweetheart? It’s true, nothing’s changed, has it?” He eases, but the words are more than a tease; he really is asking. The words hold the weight of the truth, the ugly and bitter loss of time together you’d each given up. Clark didn’t know just how much you had changed. All the ways you tried to survive.

You meet his eyes again and hold your breath. His face still screams apology, so you let it slide, allowing an instant quip to smooth out on your tongue. You wouldn’t start anything; not now.

He still realizes what he’s said, and mutters another stream of haphazard ‘I’m sorry’s.’ You just stroke at his collarbone with your thumb and shake your head, dismissing his fears.

You speak again after a moment of peace, the only sound being his clock ticking and the rustle of the covers from him shifting around, soft groans accompanying his change. "What hurts?"

He laughs, a deep tenor you had once heard in the shell of your ear and between your legs, and coughs, "The question really is: What doesn't?" It makes you furrow your brows and give him a pitiful look. He hated it, he always had. The look you gave him when he'd come home from a fight. You looked like you'd taken every single hit with him, and your eyes reflected the pain of every punch.

You always felt guilty, as if you'd held him a little longer, massaged his muscles a little harder, it wouldn't have hurt him so badly. Your empathy was your greatness weakness.

"'m so sorry, Clark," you breathe, voice laced with desperation. He shakes his head, "No. No, sweetheart. This ain't about that." It makes you immediately hush, nodding and trying to swallow down the pain you still long to express. He notices your retreat, and reaches out a hand, catching yours. "What I mean is... I wish I hadn't. I-" he pauses, flashing you a quick look of hesitation, and his Adam's apple bobs up and down.

"I never should've walked out of that door. I never should've pushed you away. I thought I-I was protecting you." He mumbles, words shattering the fragile veil of certainty, head tilted down in shame. Everything was up for question now. You gasp sharply and your face scrunches again, tears coming close to erupting.

He watches with a sick look on his face, swallowing down his own sorrow. You reach for his jaw with your palm, fingers spreading across the familiar dimple on his cheek. You dip the tip of your thumb into it on instinct. "I should've fought more for you." You whisper quietly.

His chest quivers, and his hand curls up around yours, grounding you.

"I can't keep pretending like I'm half the man I was when I had you."

You both let the words sink in, and you just stare. His face looks tired, lonely. The apologies promise more hope than either of you had been able to manifest. But there was still hurt, so, so much hurt.

But now... You each let it hurt. You take the first step towards acceptance. As a team.

You stand, and paddle over to your bag, reaching for the one thing you'd brought to lighten the mood. Clark breathes in an awkward laugh, "You didn't."

You smile at him, and for a second he remembers just how truly beautiful your smile is. You look perfect like this, messy hair and sore eyes. You had never needed to be anything but yourself for him to fall on his knees for you.

"I did. Always for you, Clark."

He frowns, and a tear spills over his cheek.

"I don't deserve it."

You sigh, and rub at your eye. "You don't decide that, Clark."

You sit back down, this time on the edge of the bed. The springs creak in protest, almost as if to say, "Really? You too?" But you pay them no mind.

In the silence of the dusty childhood bedroom. You raise a brownie to Clark's lips. As always, he takes a timid first bite, letting the flavor hit his tongue with a groan. You smile, he smiles back.

The pair of you still, and finally enjoy each other's presence. The moment is nothing solid; it flows like water, unsure and without balance. But it flows all the more, running over into every harsh moment alone, and flooding them into oblivion.

There is no promise of something future, no guarantee of something grand and romantic, no sign that leads to a full recovery. But for now, you're just happy to be with him again.

Your Clark.

Your love.

Your husband.

In sickness, in health.

In hurt, in heartbreak.

"I missed this," one of you whispers, the other nodding.

"Me too."

THANK YOU FOR READING!!!! This is my baby. I hope you enjoyed.

Please consider reblogging 💌

[heartfullofamor]

Evening Shadows and You

you got out of the shower, drying your hair and body before going to the closet in you and elvis’ bedroom, changing into a matching cotton pajamas set—soft shorts and a top.

after brushing your hair and teeth, you wandered through the quiet house, searching for elvis. “el?” you called out to no answer, humming as you heard the faint strum of guitar strings.

you went to the front door, peeking out of one of the windows to see elvis on your front porch swing, strumming his guitar lightly as he stared into the moonlight.

you open the door and step out, shivering as the cold breeze hits your bare arms, the sound of the door opening and closing catching elvis’ attention. “hey mama” he says softly.

“hi” you say quietly with a smile. “c’mere” he says, you nod and go over to the swing, sitting down next him, smiling as he moves to lay his head in your lap, your hand finding home in his jet black hair.

“play me something” you say, earning a low chuckle and nod. “what do ya wanna hear?” he asks.

you think for a second. “my happiness” you say, earning a nod before he messes with the tuning pegs and starts playing it.

“Evening shadows make me blue

When each weary day is through

How I long to be with you

My happiness” he sings softly. your fingers drifted through his hair as you watched him sing

“Whether skies are grey or blue

Any place on earth will do

Just as long as I'm with you

My happiness” he sings softly, playing the last few strings before you look back down at him.

“i love you” you say softly. “i love ya too baby” he retorts, grabbing your free hand and pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles.

“can we go inside? it’s cold” you say, shivering a bit as the breeze hits you again, he chuckles and nods. “yeah” he says, getting up and holding out a hand to help you up.

you take his hand and go inside with him. as the door closed behind you, you glanced back at the swing, already missing the music, the moonlight, and the way he sang for you only.

[heartfullofamor]

hey I absolutely love your work and I was hoping that you could do a request ?! Here it is : elvis x reader’s wedding day and I was hoping that maybe they were doing their first dance (or whatever you think is better ) and they like escaped to go outside and stuff. Overall it’s extremely cute and romantic. 💕

I tried my best , I hope you like it! 🥰

Warnings: just fluff 💕

WC: 1,4K

Now and forever

The car pulls up in front of the church, and your heart is pounding so hard it feels like it might leap out of your chest. Your hands tremble as you smooth the delicate lace of your wedding dress, an elegant design that hugs your curves and flows into a train that seems to float. You glance out the window, nerves buzzing, until the door opens and your father offers his hand with a warm smile. “Ready?” he asks, and his voice grounds you for a moment.

Stepping out of the car, camera flashes explode like shooting stars, blinding you. The crowd cheers, reporters clamor for a shot, but it all feels distant, like you’re caught in a dream you don’t want to wake from. The air smells of spring, and the murmur of the crowd fades as you take one step, then another, toward the church doors.

Your father guides you, and as you cross the threshold, the dimness inside envelops you. The contrast with the flashes outside is so stark that for a second, everything seems dark until your eyes adjust. The soft sound of a string quartet begins to fill the air, playing a melody you recognize instantly—one of the songs Elvis insisted on for today. The scent of white roses and candle wax wraps around you, warm and intoxicating.

As you round the corner, the church reveals itself in all its splendor: millions of white roses adorn every nook, their petals glowing under the flickering light of hundreds of candles. The pews are filled with smiling faces—some familiar, some strangers, but all beaming with joy. Your heart races, threatening to overflow with love and nerves.

At the end of the aisle, at the altar, there he is. Elvis. Your Elvis. He’s standing with his head bowed, hands clasped in front of him, clearly nervous. He’s dressed in an impeccable groom’s suit: a black tuxedo that fits him perfectly, with peak lapels and a crisp white shirt that highlights the tan of his skin. A black bow tie sits neatly knotted, and his hair, styled in that signature way of his, gleams under the light. Joe Esposito, his best man, stands beside him and gives him a subtle nudge when he spots you.

Elvis looks up instantly, and the world stops. His eyes—those blue eyes that have always undone you—lock onto you like you’re the only thing in existence. A traitor tear slips down his cheek, though he tries to hide it with a shaky smile. He looks at you like it’s the first time, as if every detail of you—the dress, the veil, the way the light catches you—is a revelation.

Clinging to your father’s arm, you walk down the aisle. Each step brings you closer to him, and it feels like the floor might vanish beneath you. When you reach the altar, your father hands you over with a gentle squeeze of your hand and a kiss on your cheek. Elvis takes your hands, his fingers warm and steady, and murmurs in that deep voice that always melts you, “You look beautiful, honey.”

His words make you blush, and the ceremony begins. The priest speaks, but his words are a distant echo. All you can feel is Elvis’s gaze, intense and full of love, as if the rest of the world has faded away. His hands never leave yours, and each time he gives them a soft squeeze, it feels like he’s promising you the universe.

The moment for the vows arrives. The priest asks, and Elvis, his eyes shining, says in a voice that carries through the church, “I do.” His tone is steady but brimming with emotion. When it’s your turn, your voice wavers, but you manage to say, “I do.”

The church erupts in applause, and the guys from the MM, seated in the front pews, let out whoops and whistles of celebration. Elvis leans in, and his kiss is everything you dreamed it would be: soft at first, then deep, passionate, like he wants to etch this moment into his soul. His hands cradle your face, and the world vanishes as you lose yourself in him. When you part, your foreheads touch for a moment, and he whispers, “Now you’re mine honey, and I’ll be yours forever.”

The reception is a burst of joy. The tables are adorned with centerpieces of white roses and candles, and the food is a Southern feast that smells like home. Laughter fills the air, and guests clink champagne glasses. Suddenly, the band starts playing, and a soft, romantic melody floods the room. You look up to find Elvis standing before you, holding out his hand with that mischievous smile that stole your heart. “Shall we dance, Mrs. Presley?” he asks, his voice like an intimate whisper amid the noise. You take his hand, and he leads you to the dance floor.

You sway slowly, your arms around his neck, his hands on your waist, and the world shrinks to just the two of you. The guests watch, smiling, but for you, there’s only him.

When the song ends, Elvis leans in, his lips brushing your ear. “Come with me, I wanna show ya somethin’,” he whispers, his tone carrying that hint of secrecy that always intrigues you. He guides you away from the noise, through doors that open onto a grand balcony.

The cool night air wraps around you, and the sky is dotted with stars that shine like diamonds. Before you, a vast lake reflects the full moon, creating a silver mirror that feels infinite. Elvis wraps his arms around you from behind, his chin resting on your shoulder. The warmth of his body against yours is a perfect contrast to the breeze. “Look at it, honey,” he murmurs, his voice deep and warm. “All this is nothin’ compared to you.”

You turn in his arms, the lace of your dress brushing against his legs. His eyes gleam with a mix of tenderness and mischief, lit by the moonlight. You smile, raising an eyebrow. “What’s with those words? A little cheesy, don’t you think?”

Elvis lets out a soft laugh, that laugh of his that makes you weak inside. “Cheesy? me?” he says, feigning offense, pressing a hand to his chest like you’ve wounded him. “Honey, I just married the most beautiful woman in the world.”

“I’m gonna think you rehearsed all this with the guys,” you tease, narrowing your eyes.

He bites his lip, holding back a grin, and suddenly leans in, peppering your neck with playful little kisses that tickle. You laugh as you try to push him away, until you press a finger to his lips, still shaking with giggles.

He takes your hand, kissing it slowly, his lips warm and soft against your knuckles. The tenderness of the gesture disarms you, and his voice drops to a more intimate whisper.

“Mrs. Presley” he says, stepping so close you feel his breath on your skin, “I can’t wait to make love to you as my wife under these stars.” His words ignite a fire in you, and he, ever playful, nibbles your ear, making you let out a small squeal of surprise.

“Elvis!” you give him a gentle shove, though your voice trembles with excitement, your cheeks burning. “We’ve gotta wait till the party’s over.”

He laughs, that deep laugh that resonates in your chest, and lets go of your hand only to wrap you in his arms. “Alright, alright,” he says, pretending to relent, though his eyes sparkle with mischief. “But I ain’t promisin’ to behave all night.”

“You’re impossible,” you say, laughing as you shake your head, but your heart races at the promise of what’s to come.

You sit together on the edge of the balcony, legs dangling over the quiet garden below. The lake shimmers like liquid glass, and the air smells of jasmine and night. You rest your head on his shoulder, and he wraps an arm around you, his thumb brushing your skin absently.

In the stillness, he looks at you with an intensity that steals your breath. “You know,” he says, more serious now, “I can handle anything in this world, as long as I have you by my side. I love you.”

Your eyes well up, and you cup his face in your hands, feeling the warmth of his skin under your fingers. “And I love you, Elvis. You’re my safe place.” He leans in, kissing you with a slowness that melts you, a warm, deep kiss that marks the start of something wonderful.

[heartfullofamor]

clark kent using his x-ray vision while he fucks you <3

clark kent x fem! reader

minors dni, 18+!!

you could feel it in the way clark gripped your waist as he pressed into you, hips rolling with a slow, steady force. the pads of his fingers dug into your skin deep, no doubt leaving marks after. his light moans perfectly in tune with his thrusts, eyes half lidded behind his fogged glasses that had slid down a little. but his gaze was locked on you regardless, like he couldn’t look anywhere else— he wasn’t allowing himself to. he was lost deep into your body beneath him.

oh god, and he felt deep, too. feeling him stretch you in such a way, like he was buried into your core. he snapped his hips into yours with a sudden movement, causing you to dig your fingers into his shoulders, dragging them down his toned back. “oh my..clark, it’s— you’re so deep..”

he pulled out just enough to make a noticeable difference for when he slid back into you. you whined at the sensation of being full again, causing his breath to hitch. you took him so well.

“you okay, baby?”

you nodded, faster than you would’ve liked, arching your back. “i.. yeah.. i can.. oh god i can feel you in my stomach,” you moaned out, words faltering in pleasure.

clark slowed his thrusts to almost a stop, heart racing at the thought. his voice was deeper than you’d heard before. it was rougher, laced with lust.

“i know. i can see it. i can see me in your stomach.”

your eyes fluttered at his words. you barely had time to process before his hand left your waist to grab the hand you still had piercing into his back. he put your hand onto your stomach and placed his own overtop. he pulled out, pressed your hand against your skin, then pushed back in, forcing you to feel it. your whole body tensed at the feeling.

“what?”

“x-ray,” he said, his tone simple but weak, like he didn’t want to admit it, “right now, i can see just how deep i am.”

he pressed your hand into your stomach more as his pace picked up, hips rolling harder into you, pulling a moan from deep within you.

“oh, clark, it’s so..”

“right there, sweetheart. you feel that?,” he breathed, looking down at your stomach, eyes faintly glowing, “you’re taking all of me... good girl.”

that damn near killed you, wrecking you completely. you needed him faster than before, needed to feel him hitting as deep as he can, as fast as he can. you wrapped your other hand around his neck, pulling him down until his forehead was pressed against yours. “f-faster please.”

“yes, ma’am,” and with that he obliged, hips snapping quicker as he buried himself to the hilt. both of your breathy, raw moans filled the room, echoing off the walls. he couldn’t hold back anymore, he didn’t want to. not with how wrecked he had his girl underneath him. his hand never let go of yours, holding you down to feel just how full he can make you feel.

“look at you, clenching around me like that. wish you could see it, too.”

oh fuck. you couldn’t hold back anymore. your normally sweet, gentle boyfriend using his superpowers against you in the bedroom was enough, but hearing such filth come from his mouth? it’s enough to send you over the edge.

he tilted his head, lips brushing over your ear, “i can see you coming around me from inside.”

the second he said “i can see you coming”, you were done in. you moaned his name, just short of a scream, legs locking around his waist as the walls of your core clenched tight around him. he gasped as his own release surged through him, hitting him just as hard as your own did, watching himself spill into you as your slick leaked out.

never once did his hand leave your stomach as you came, now locking his fingers with yours over the top of your hand. his breathing was heavy against your neck, voice quiet and softer as he pressed light kisses to your jaw and cheek. “that’s it.. that’s my girl.”

your legs were still wrapped around him, though the tension in your body began to ease. after a few minutes of catching your breath, he raised up and let go of your hand, placing both beside your head. “you okay? it wasn’t.. too much, was it?”

you were quick to shake your head no, a laugh leaving you, “no, never. though, you seeing me come through my stomach was.. a lot. but in a good way.”

he smiled, kissing you lightly. “it’s.. it’s something else, i’ll tell you that. and i meant it, i could see every single bit of it. it’s beautiful. you’re beautiful. how perfect you take me, how your body holds onto me when you come.. most beautiful thing i’ve ever seen.”

[heartfullofamor]

Excalibur (1981) dir.: John Boorman

[heartfullofamor]

rafe wants you to move in with him

you’re sitting criss-cross on your pink silk bedspread, still in your tiny nightgown and fuzzy socks. the scent of your vanilla cupcake body spray lingers in the air.

rafe is standing in the doorway of your childhood bedroom, arms crossed, wearing that smug smirk like he already knows you’re gonna give in.

“you can’t live here forever, baby,” he says. “come to tannyhill, alright? let me take care of you.”

you blink up at him, lashes clumped from the half-done mascara, lip gloss glimmering.

“rafe, i’m eighteen.”

“and I’m not waitin’ another year to fall asleep with you in my arms every night.”

you swallow hard, glancing at the baby-pink walls and the framed family photos.

“you know my mom would lose her mind.”

“your mom’s a bored and drunk golf lady who thinks sugar-free jello counts as dinner,” he snaps.

“well, she- she says you’re too… intense.” you say embarrassed

rafe shrugs, stepping into the room.

“maybe... but I’m the only one who actually gives a damn about you, in this house at least”

your silence is telling, you know he’s right. rafe comes closer, kneeling in front of you, pressing his forehead to yours like it’s something sacred.

“bunny,” he whispers, “i already built the closet for you. pink velvet hangers... room just for your shoes… clawfoot tub and a vanity. i’ll get you a puppy if that’s what it takes.”

and you laugh softly, this was very tempting. but he’s dead serious.

“i don’t want you playin’ house here anymore. you’re mine, move in. you already know our plan.”

and when you hesitate again, all doe-eyed and unsure, he cups your chin and says

“you wear my ring, you sleep in my bed… that’s just how this works, baby.”