lawrites

[lawrites]

Vampire Priest!Johnathan Crane x Plus Size!Fem Reader (NSFW)

Your priest has gone missing from Sunday mass. A storm is approaching, along with darkness and the scent of blood. Where is Father Crane? And how will you react to his new sacrament?

CW: BLOOD, BITING, he WOUNDS YOU AND DRINKS YOUR BLOOD and does NOT ask permission!!!!, heavy foreplay and kissing and groping, uhhhh, coersion on Cranes part for all of the above. Reader is low-key a monster fucker honestly. Religious imagery and thoughts and trauma. Cops! ACAB!

(is this because I really like Midnight Mass and think this Crane looks like Hamish? Yeah. So this is kinda a Midnight Mass! General Crane AU? Anyway ty @acapelladitty for beta reading 🙌🥹🫡)

A man clears his throat to your right, his arms crossed. He shakes his head and looks down to check his watch. To your left, an older woman tutts and turns to gossip to her friend. While you all stall by keeping yourselves entertained, it may be time to face the facts. The man of the hour, your priest, isn't attending Mass today by all appearances. A deacon and sacristan whisper in what they probably think is a lower register in the front pew, but you can hear their worried tones even from many rows back.

You suppose this could be inevitable when attending the only church for what feels like miles upon miles of flat plains and farmland. There are so few of you here, somehow it is a miracle that the priest hasn't missed a single day in the two years you have attended Sunday Mass. No illness, emergencies... nothing that you could think of.

But then, it is the only form of community this area has on offer, so there's motivation to make every one he can. Hard to be neighborly with houses that can't see each other across the sprawling landscape, but easier with people you know will be at the same spot every week.

A sigh escapes your lips, the uncomfortable pew refusing to give as you shift to find a better position. The people to each side of you use the window caused by your slight disruption to move a bit as well, possibly reminded that they've been sitting too long. It has been 30 minutes of the organist trying their best to play through the hymnal while people murmur to each other with low voices.

Some have already left. Some keep glancing at their watches like the man next to you. You've been doing your absolute best not to reach for your phone, trying to find entertainment by looking at the dust that falls through the multicolored sunbeams created by the stained glass.

Truth be told, you don't even know what's keeping you here, even when Father Crane is present. You grew up in religion, and the guilt is certainly still there, for you, but the belief? You're not so sure…at least not for a while, now.

Church attendance, in your mind, has become more of an opportunity to try and get out there. Maybe you could make friends or acquaintances at the least…a failure on all fronts it seems. The majority of the people who attend here are already friends with each other or seem to find something off about you when you attempt to talk to them. At this point, you wonder if you merely attend just to make sure that if you go missing, someone will notice other than your boss at work.

Though, a part of you doubts anyone other than the missing Priest himself would worry. He has seemed to take a liking to you from the moment you squeaked out your name upon introduction to him. His plain grin widened at your strained voice, his eyes almost shining as they took in your hands fiddling with the church bulletin.

“As quiet as a church mouse, aren't you?” You gave him a weak smile, nodding your assent silently. While in the comfort of your own home, or even at work where you have some authority, you feel confident and sure. But around strangers? Especially strangers that are more than willing to judge you at first glance? You have always found yourself speaking quietly...or not at all.

With a chuckle, he reached out to shake your hand, his solid grasp keeping you from your nervous fiddling. “A new face is always welcome. And nerves upon meeting new people can be expected. But you needn’t worry. I can do most of the talking, and you the listening.”

You quietly chuckled at his attempt at a joke, finding almost more amusement in his formal tone. His eyes, full of mirth still, seemed to focus solely on you for a moment, and you felt one of his fingers gently skim over your hand before he released his grip.

Some older ladies standing behind you in line whispered to each other, elbowing their husbands and immediately taking your place as soon as you vacated it. You walked away, but glanced back only to see the Father still looking to you, even as he was talking to Mrs. Flanagan.

What you consider to be a passing interest in a new member of the church has been interpreted as distinct interest by the elderly in the church. Of course, they don't blame the Priest, so they tend to avoid only you. A hierarchy should be followed, according to their whispered insults, and somehow you've upset it just by being shy on your first day.

Maybe they would rather it was you missing Mass today…but alas. You're here. And Father Crane is not.

So you sit, like everyone else. Waiting. Wondering if the man you all listen to each Sunday is okay. You do pray for him, silently, but with your wandering thoughts you highly doubt it’s productive in any sense.

…Your prayer is impeded by something else too, thoughts that creep in the back of your mind. The memory of your introduction plays, along with every other interaction. His thin but strong hands enveloping yours completely, his index finger skimming over your hand…his eyes meeting yours while he yells out a passionate plea to his congregation.

Your mind quickly jumps to the glimpses you've caught of him in his more casual attire, outside of his robes. His thin arms on display when he rolls his dark dress shirt up, and the surprisingly skinny jeans he prefers that highlight his long legs…spread in a casual pose on a chair during a church meeting…his hand resting on his thigh as he takes a sip of coffee…

You snap out of those thoughts quickly, or at least try to. These images are insignificant, and completely innocent in context. But maybe the whispers of the older members are true. Maybe they know your mind keeps them for those dark nights alone when the wind howls outside and you need a bit of…comfort to help you sleep soundly. A little attention can send a lonely mind reeling, and in those heated moments…you are sure that the Priest feels something for you too.

He seems to reserve a specific half-smile just for you, especially when the “flock” have had a few of their feathers ruffled. Whenever you approach, you've noticed he takes the time to run a hand through his thick, dark hair, almost nervously.

Maybe these little moments mean nothing. But you swear during those nights alone in the dark that his little nicknames mean more as well…you hear his deep voice in your ear, rasping them as you chase an infatuation you know you shouldn't have.

“....little Mouse? My little church mouse? Making these gorgeous sounds for me?”

His chuckle, usually light and airy in the church, will turn darker in your imagination, his eyes glinting like you've only seen happen in the height of his sermons.

“Let's see what we can do to make you scream.”

You find the guilt after your actions on those nights keeps you up longer than if you had never thought about the priest at all.

Sometimes avoiding thoughts will only make them more apparent…and maybe the same can be said for trying not to notice when someone is absent. You hope a blush isn't overtaking your face as these images you try to push away become even more present in your mind. Thinking these thoughts in God’s House? About his servant?

And you especially feel guilty, because with your plush body and wide hips, you already invite stares even when you wear appropriate dresses. You can't help that many clothes that are supposed to be modest end up being less so with your generous assets. What if you've been acting like this around the Father and it's made him uncomfortable?

A creak of a wooden pew grabs your attention and mercifully distracts you as the sacristan stands up. He hurriedly walks over to the organist, who nods and starts playing a slower, slightly quieter hymn.

Positioning himself in front of the dias, he claps his hands and takes a deep breath in. “...Well…it appears that Father Crane will not be making it today. He isn't answering his cell, so we will be having some members of the congregation check on him after we close up the church.”

He nervously wrings his hands together. “For now, let's just agree to meet next week. We will try to send out communications once we know more.”

Looking around for anyone who wants to argue, you can almost see the relief on his face when no one speaks up. He opens his arms in a spread pattern, more confident now, and says, loudly, “You are dismissed. But remember this is a Holy Day. Don't think this is an excuse to get out of the time you devote to God every week. We charge you to read Scripture and sing, still, today. And pray for Father Crane.”

His hands make a slight pushing motion, as if to say “go.” And then he quickly sits back down next to the deacon, the two of them conspiring on what is probably a plan to check on the missing Priest.

You managed to duck out of the small crowd gossiping with each other at the back of the church. Unsurprising, as most of them don't talk to you anyway, but still appreciated. At least you could get your car out of the parking lot without trouble.

At this time of year, you always roll down the windows and turn off the A/C. 65 degree weather with the sun shining through the trees, a light breeze running through your hair, and the scent of dust kicked up from your tires all combine to calm your worries over the Priest.

He should be okay. Maybe he's just sick and the Flanagan's checking on him should get him the help he needs. Or maybe he was just really tired and overslept. Either way, as he would say, it's in God's hands now.

Pulling off from the “main” road of this little country neighborhood and into your driveway, you park and gather your purse before heading inside, trying to figure out what to do with the extra time in your day.

You sigh, kicking off your church heels and dropping your purse on your entrance table with a “thud.” Not much happened while you were out, especially with Mass being cancelled, but you admit that the mental toll of being reminded that you are sinning against God by lusting after someone who has promised to stay calibate is…taxing to say the least.

A little voice in your head wonders if the fact that he's forbidden makes him more enticing, but you quickly stifle that as you hurry to your kitchen. Later, you will probably put together a nice, home-cooked meal of some kind to package up and use as lunches at work through the week. But for now, it's time for a simple peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

As you finish your sandwich, you yawn heavily. You truly are exhausted, and the one person you could confess your thoughts to is out of the question for multiple complex reasons. Maybe you could lie down, just for a bit.

—--------------------

You awake, startled, to a crash of thunder and lightning lighting up your now dark house. The power must have gone out after you collapsed onto the sofa for a nap. Throwing off the blanket you were cuddling with and rubbing the crick in your neck, you hurry to grab some candles and emergency flashlights. The plan was not to sleep until it was dark out, but you suppose you needed the rest.

Storms aren't uncommon, where you live. And you are generally prepared when they occur…but you swear that there was nothing slated in the forecast for storms when you checked earlier today.

You think you can move about your house without lights, or at least to get to the emergency stash of candles. Humming “It Is Well With my Soul” for comfort, you do manage to make it fairly far without incident. That is, until you bump your shin HARD against a chair and yell out a curse that might make you ask for forgiveness later.

Luckily, you manage to maneuver to the wooden chest where you keep your emergency supplies. Rustling around, you grab a flashlight, relief flooding you when it has enough juice to turn on.

You take the flashlight and look around your house, just needing to check that everything is in place for your sanity before you set out more light. Humming again for comfort, you slowly light up your kitchen, living room…and then inch around the walls as well. Okay. Everything is in place. Dresser, window, man in window.

Your heart clenches and you scream as you drop the light you were holding in shock. That had to have been the outline of a man, peering into your house. It couldn't be anything else.

Your eyes desperately look at the same spot, trying to see if there is anything there through the darkness. A flash of lightning provides very brief clarity…but there's nothing there. You only see the wooden slats of your porch fencing.

With a sign and a shake of your head, you gather up your flashlight. Your mind is probably seeing things because of the darkness, finding something to be afraid of in the shadows. Turning to, again, rustle around your supply of candles, you-

KNOCK KNOCK

Ice runs through your veins. You freeze. You swear that was your front door.

…It could be the wood bending against the wind…or a branch knocking against something. You don't want to consider the threat of a home invasion when you live here alone, so your thoughts are running wild with explanations.

But, again, you hear it. And this time, it's a familiar melody.

Knock knock knock-knock knock

A human had to have made that pattern. You quickly grab a more powerful light you can set up on your table, which bathes the majority of your house in a low light. And then, you run to the kitchen and grab your biggest knife, clinging to it until your knuckles turn white. You hope against hope that the knocking goes away. But your heart sinks when you hear it-

Knock knock

With a determined nod, and a new courage, you walk steadily towards your door. Hesitating, you yell out. “I have nothing for you here. And I'm armed.”

A raspy, deep, familiar voice answers back. “Little Mouse, would you not invite a friend in need into your home?”

You are taken aback. Your mind whirls with the need for explanation, and you finally peer out of the peephole in your door. Familiar black robes, the white collar, the glasses and crooked nose…the darkness outside makes the vision hazy, but it is him. Father Crane. What is he doing at your house?

“F-father Crane?” Your voice is not as sure now, but you still fumble to open the door. Part of your brain screams at you that his unexpected presence in such a storm is worrisome…the other half is entirely worried for him. He wouldn't harm you, you're sure of it…or at least part of you is. Maybe he got in a wreck nearby and just managed to limp over here…maybe he somehow got lost and was lucky enough to stumble by?

The door opens and you are taken aback by the power of the wind and the spray of the rain, a chill making you shiver. You see Crane on your doorstep, his robes and hair dripping wet, clinging to his long, lean limbs. Attempting to not stare is difficult, especially given the fact that anyone would be freezing in this situation, which means he must be terribly uncomfortable.

But he doesn't look miserable. His mouth is pulled into a smile, but his eyes aren't mirthful. They're almost placatingly empty, a far step from the usual Father’s deep, thoughtful eyes.

It does make you pause in stepping aside to let him in.

His grin deepens. “Oh, my dear, won't you let me in? I do apologize for imposing. You see, I had a bit of trouble nearby and your house was the closest I could see.”

You nod, mentally berating yourself for analyzing his expressions. The man was hurt or lost, and you were keeping him from shelter. Some Christian you are.

“Oh, of course, Father Crane. Please, come in.”

You see his body physically relax when the last words leave your mouth, and his grin does soften a little. “Oh, thank you, you have no idea how much you are helping me.”

He steps through the threshold and sighs as he gets out of the rain. You close the door behind him and then notice his clothes dripping onto your floor.

“Oh! My goodness. I apologize, Father. Please let me get you some towels and dry clothes. You must be freezing.”

You turn away, attempting to use the excuse of towels and fresh clothes to gather your thoughts, when you feel his thin fingers quickly wrap around your wrist. Looking back, you see his expression is guarded.

“Please, my dear. For now, you can call me Johnathan.”

You nod, uncomfortable with the idea but wanting to appease him for now, “Um…okay then, Johnathan, I will be back with some things that will hopefully help you warm up.”

With what seems to be hesitation, he nods back and releases the grip he had on your wrist. You scurry away, running first to get another flashlight, and then to your linen closet. You don't have a full set of clothes for a man, but you are soft and round and that man is so skinny. He can probably wear your clothes with no trouble if not for the length of them. You tuck the knife you were carrying safely into your side, hoping you won't need it.

Returning to him with your bounty, you smile as you hand over everything. “Here you are, Johnathan. You can change in my bathroom, which is there.” You point down the hall with the beam of light, centering it on the door in question. You quickly turn back, the light fully illuminating the Father in all his glory for only a moment before turning the handle towards him. And that's when you notice it.

All of this clothes are black. Black shirt, black pants, long black coat…all except for his white priest collar. Until now, you suppose you didn't notice it because of the low light. In that, the contrast between his dark clothes made his collar look the same as usual. But the split second of full illumination during the handoff of the flashlight clued you in. His usually bright white collar is pink.

A perceptive man, he must notice the slight confusion in your eyes. You aren't even sure what the pink collar could mean or if it wasn't just a trick of the light, so you aren't sure if there’s even a conclusion to come to. It's just…odd. His expression shifts quickly from a discomforting assessment of your observation to another smile.

“You know, you are the pinnacle of a good Samaritan right now. Taking me in at my worst.” His hand reaches out and wraps around your shoulder…you almost want to believe he is caressing it. “You are certainly in line for a reward.”

You blush, your mind immediately racing towards places it shouldn't thanks to the kind words and light physical contact. “I-it's truly no problem, Fath-John.” Your correction only makes his grin wider as he releases his hold. You attempt to give him an answering smile. “I am happy to help anyone in need.”

With his hand up, his response is halted thanks to the blaring sirens outside your house. First one…two…three cop cars blaze past your window, lighting up your entire house in bursts of blue and red flashes. Odd. You haven't seen even one police car in this area since you moved here.

His smile drops slightly, if only for a moment. But, he nods, almost as if acquiescing to your previous point to end the conversation, and then purposefully strides past you with dry clothes in hand. As soon as the bathroom door closes, you sigh, letting loose a breath you didn't know you were holding.

His stature and presence are intimidating in church, but here, in your little house, he basically owns the space even when in drenched clothes that would make anyone else curl in on themselves. You suppose part of your apprehension comes from your unreciprocated attraction to the man, but he just has an aura that has intensified since you last saw him. You shiver, remembering how he looked at you moments ago.

Never one to stay idle, you shake your head and scatter your unwanted thoughts. The man needed your help, not your frankly pitiful attempts at flirting. Your eyes settle on the puddle of water where the Priest had been standing, accumulating from his soaking wet coat. It is as good of a place to start as any if you need a task to occupy your mind.

A quick walk to the kitchen and back has armed you with a full roll of paper towels. You unwrap a decent amount, stacking them up before throwing them into the puddle and walking away, leaving them to do their job.

You didn't notice as the white towels turned pink behind you-as veins of deep, dark red spread from right where the priest stood. If only you had turned around.

Maybe you would have realized what blood looks like when it's mixed with water.

Instead, you busy yourself bringing more flashlights, battery powered lanterns, and candles out of storage. Debating with yourself, you decide to use the candles for now. Batteries are an expendable resource, and you may need them if this power outage is days-long.

Humming a familiar tune instinctually, you busy yourself with placing large candles at regular intervals, attempting to bathe your home in as much light as you can.

You hear a low chuckle, and turn to find Father Crane throwing away the soaked paper towels you had placed earlier. His eyes flash with something like mirth.

“You do have a lovely voice, little mouse.” You feel your face heating up, in spite of yourself. Disbelief, mainly, takes over your mind. The man is usually polite, but not complimentary.

“And that's why you were laughing at me, Father?” You attempt to scold him, placing your hands on your hips. His grin only grows wider. His eyes gleam in the low light.

“No offense meant, sweet girl.” Your face heats up even more, and you attempt to disguise it by turning your back to him and focusing on lighting a candle, ashamed at your reaction to his low cadence.

He takes measured, slow steps behind you, making his way gradually closer from what you can hear. “Your choice of song was just…inspired, my dear.”

You nervously chuckle, trying to diffuse the sudden tension brought on by his presence. Hands unsteady, you struggle to get the lighter to work. “W-what about my song choice interested you, Johnathan?”

He pauses, stilling almost entirely. It's eerie, how quiet he is able to be in this old house that creaks with the smallest movement. You allow the silence to stretch, finally getting the lighter to the candle right as a voice starts to sing directly in your ear.

“...Today the grave has lost its sting.”

You flinch, almost dropping the lighter. A firm grip steadies you, long fingers encircling your own as the flame on the lighter flickers off.

The yelp on your tongue is silenced as Crane keeps hold of your hand, his body turned so you can see him, now. His gaze is fully focused on you. Flames from the candles make dark and light bathe his angular face, painting an intimidating portrait even as his smile never wavers.

“Careful, mouse. Or you could be singing your last pretty chorus.”

Your traitorous body makes you shiver at his touch, even as your mind screams that this is too forward for the usually strictly professional Priest.

His expression shifts at your reaction, his hand taking the lighter and placing it on a table nearby. Your mind laser focuses on the fact that he still hasn't dropped your wrist. His touch is all you can think about.

And when he turns back, his gaze focused on you again, you find that his eyes almost entrance you.

You attempt to find a thought in your distracted mind. "T-thank you, Johnathan." Giving him a small smile to show your gratitude, you attempt to relax, which leads his eyes to darken even more.

"It does give me great pleasure to help you, dear."

You gasp as his other hand creeps over to settle at your side, long fingers leaving divots in your soft flesh. You attempt to say something, but the Priest, so talented with words, cuts you off.

"Pleasure. That word is something we deny ourselves, isn't it?"

He takes a step forward, which causes you to step back. But he follows you, keeping his grip on your flesh as he slowly backs you into a corner. Your heart beats with trepidation, and possibly a bit of hope that all of your secret dreams are coming true. A similar scene has played in your dreams before.

"Johnathan? Father Crane?"

You attempt to ply him by saying his name softly. Purposefully making your eyes bigger, you give off an expression of unease, hoping that it snaps the man out of whatever haze he is in.

"I-I don't think you want to do this? I mean…you made a vow and-"

He releases your wrist and cuts you off by quickly bringing a finger up to your lips, letting out a gentle comforting sound as he does. His other hand starts to move up and down your side…digging into the generous flesh of your hips.

"You flatter me. You must know of the glances I sent your way? Or the extra attention I couldn't help but give you?"

You shiver, realizing that your mind didn't make up a one sided relationship. The Father has been showing interest in you this whole time. Eyes unsure, you start to think through every small interaction with the man to affirm his claim.

But his hand moves from your mouth to your cheek, cupping the side of your face and gazing at you with reverence.

"Pleasure. Control of it is vital to being a Priest. We devote ourselves to a God that we are told won't allow us to feel it. Not truly. Not like we desire."

You whimper as he takes just one step closer, his thin legs now touching your plush ones. The hand that was on your side reaches down to settle on your thigh, and you gasp at his even more forward touch. This is really happening.

Shaking your head, you bring your hands up and cover your face, overwhelmed with the situation you find yourself in. With the suddenness at which you find an impossibility to be coming to pass...His own hand drops from your face, settling on the wall next to you.

You gaze up at him, wanting to try and talk some sense into the man as a last ditch try to keep your own sanity in check, "F-father Crane. I can't be the reason you give up your Holy Vows. I won't let it. Whatever I want doesn't matter and-"

He snarls, digging a hand into the wall next to you so hard that you can hear the drywall crack. A thrill of fear moves through you, but Johnathan takes advantage of your shock to push between your legs, slotting his thin hips between your plush thighs.

His face hovers right in front of yours, his crooked nose almost touching you. Gazing at you with what you can only describe as want, he rasps out, "What if I've already broken my vows, fisting my cock to the vision of you begging for me every night?"

You let out a whine as you feel his hardness grind against your center, just as his lips meet yours. He kisses hungrily, his tongue immediately bullying into your mouth and tasting what he can.

A sharp pain causes you to pull back, and you realize the Priest bit your lip enough to draw blood, the iron taste filling your mouth. His eyes widen in astonishment, and one of his hands releases your thigh to run one finger under your lip, gathering your blood.

You watch in confusion as he brings the blood soaked digit up to his face, gazing at it wonder. And then. Slowly. He brings it to his mouth…

His eyes roll back and he moans as the blood reaches his lips. You panic at his reaction, wondering why the usually caring Priest would not immediately stop at the sight of your wound. A sudden thought enters your mind. If he was hiding his attraction to you, who is to say what other thoughts he has been keeping from everyone this whole time.

Hips grinding against you, you involuntarily whimper in pleasure as you watch the Priest devour every last taste of blood from his hand. Your mind races, trying to come up with any explanation for the behavior, but unable to get your body to abandon the high of being with Johnathan.

Dazed, his eyes look back at your mouth, and you try to argue, worried about his behavior, but he moves fast. He is already back to kissing your lips, and you can feel his tongue tracing them, tracing your cut, almost purring as he continues to rutt against you.

You begin to feel something take over you. It could be pleasure, but you haven't felt it like this before. A boneless feel of your limbs, a heaviness…a voice saying "submit to me" enters your mind. It is hard to argue, truly. You find yourself giving in.

You throw your arms around the man, one hand digging into his dark curls as the other goes to his neck, nails slightly digging in to keep him against you.

It doesn't work, as the Father separates from you, panting. His eyes are desperate as he dives almost immediately to your neck. You whine as you hear him breathe you in, groaning and licking up the side.

Your ears pick up something. A mumbled prayer being said against your neck by the Priest.

"Whoso eateth my flesh, and drinketh my blood, hath eternal life; and I will raise him up at the last day. For my flesh is meat indeed, and my blood is drink indeed."

He shudders against you, and you can't help but run your fingers through his hair in comfort, wanting to help the man, somehow. He shouldn't feel too badly about wanting you as much as you want him. You are both being taken over by sin.

"It's okay, Father. I-I want this, too."

His whole body shakes, and you hear him mutter. "Father, forgive me."

And suddenly a sharper pain on your neck causes you to cry out, "Johnathan!" And you feel him desperately press his body against you as blood spills from your wound.

It takes you a moment to even register what just happened through your pain and pleasure in equal force, but once you figure it out, you hear something else. Something that chills you to the core. He is drinking from you. You can feel the long pulls of blood from your veins as he audibly slurps against your open, raw flesh.

It feels like time slows just as your heartbeat starts painfully speeding up. Maybe it's an override of whatever previously overtook you, your human instinct to survive pushing through the fog. But you truly realize what just happened. What IS happening.

The Priest is drinking from your neck. He is WILLFULLY deciding to damage your body for his own wants. Something is so obviously wrong you can barely even register it. Your instincts kick in, and you push against him, HARD.

You feel the dull pain as deep pulls of blood come from your veins, and he growls against your neck, his arms now banded around you like iron, keeping you in place. It's like he doesn't even register your attempt to flee. Your mind frantically screams at you to get out but you can't.

It should hurt, and it did in the beginning…but now you hear that voice…that pull, again. But it is even more seductive, this time. More personal.

You begin to feel lightheaded, and start to weaken, and you whimper once more. Human instinct and self preservation still cause you to push at the man with whatever strength you have left, pitiful though it may be.

"Submit. That's it, little mouse. Submit to me."

He takes one last pull, and you feel his body shake as he pulls back from you. But, with what seems to be great effort on his part, he does. You only see a slight hint of red around his dilated pupils, and his hand reaches up to gather some of the blood dripping from his chin, bringing it to his mouth and groaning as he closes his eyes in pleasure.

Mind racing once more now that you're out of active danger at least for a moment, you start to connect his changes in behavior. Red eyes. Drinking your blood, which should be unnerving enough on its own. But when combined with unnatural, sudden strength and speed…and you remember with a start that he needed to be invited into your home.

You desperately try to cover the wound on your neck with your hand, feeling the warm, wet blood leak out as you begin to cry, realizing that the man you once knew is probably gone. Stories that had been whispered over campfires late at night, Gothic Romance novels you secretly hid under your pillow as your parents swept your room… it seems impossible, and maybe he's just insane, but the only explanation you can come up with is…

"Vampire." You manage to sob out as you collapse against the corner. "You…you can't be! They don't exist!"

But what other explanation is there? A complete mental break? Psychosis? You don't think those things would cause this level of violence and what seems to be thirst. The Priest is obviously different, in a very visible way, now that you can see him fully.

The man leans down, and you move without thinking, your limbs trying to push him away again fruitlessly. But he glides towards you, not even slightly hindered by your desperate bid to free yourself.

His gaze snaps to your neck again, possibly drawn back by the sound of your voice. Your thoughts move from an explanation and back to survival. You freeze in terror, knowing that the creature before you can't be fought. Can't be escaped...maybe there's some part of him still in there.

"Johnathan, please, please don't, I can't take-"

He stops, right before he gets to your neck again, and he pulls back slightly. Your confusion causes you to stop pushing at him as he meets your eyes. His brow furrows and he lets out a comforting sound at your involuntary whimper of fear.

His eyes move back to your neck, and you tense, wondering if he just decided to lull you into a false sense of security before he ended his attack, but he doesn't bite you again. Instead, you feel a purr deep in his chest as he moves in, gently. Then, you feel a wetness against your wound that makes you flinch, the sting of it causing you to jump.

You feel the rough texture of his long fingers as he cups the side of your face again. You freeze, fight or flight put on pause as your instincts try to figure out what his plans are. Feeling his thumb slowly, soothingly, stroke your cheek, gathering your tears…you relax slightly.

But one of his hands reaches out to yours, linking them together as he continues to lick at your wound, greedily cleaning every hint of blood.

The pain is gone, you realize. He is somehow closing the wound. You stop pushing at him, realizing that whatever has happened…he won't kill you, at least not now. Maybe there is some of the Priest still in there.

He backs away from you, and you can tell it continues to take great effort on his part. But he gazes at you with a mixture of softness and desire that makes your thighs clench, even as his hands shake. After everything he just did, your body still responds to him instinctively.

His eyes sharpen, and he grins again. With grace, he lifts one hand and offers it to you, long fingers outstretched. An invitation.

"Something happened. It was last night. I woke up afraid of the light and hungry. Starving for…blood and flesh."

He looks down, arm still outstretched, but gaze unable to meet your eyes. "I was…so desperate once the Flanagan's arrived…I am afraid I drained them both. It was…messy. But my God, the power their blood gave me…"

You hear a rumble in his chest as he glances over you, taking in your shaking body. "I…I have always felt protective over my little church mouse. And if I had killed you…" he shudders again and closes his eyes…and you see a tear begin to fall.

Your mind races as he glances up at you, his eyes shining in regret and hunger. "I knew I had to taste yours as well. What would your sweet voice sound like as I drained you, how would your ambrosia taste as you cried out for me-" He cuts himself off, manic rambling ceased with a shudder.

He hesitates before speaking again. His voice is quieter, sounding more like his previous self. "I was unable to drain you. A fact I'm glad for."

It is despicable, how easily you are able to disregard his blatant confession to murder of the Flanagan's. You should be calling authorities instead of contemplating. That's what a good person would do.

You shiver, knowing this is wrong. It's so wrong. But you already feel deep down that you don't even care. You think you may have loved him for a while now, and to know that this affliction wouldn't even change your mind horrifies you. It goes against everything the both of you discuss in church, against even everything human.

And yet, his words and the words of the Lord ring in your mind.

You take a step forward. Gently, you take his hand, and you see his gaze immediately fix upon yours. He seems astonished. You softly recite, "Whoso eateth my flesh, and drinketh my blood, hath eternal life; and I will raise him up at the last day. For my flesh is meat indeed, and my blood is drink indeed."

And then, you step forward, into his arms once more. He lets out a whimper, this time, his long arms enveloping you as his hands dig into your hips. You feel his lips leave kisses all around your face, even on your soft chin, all as he desperately digs his hands into your flesh, begining to grind against you again.

His hands bring you forcefully against him as you cry out his name, his answering growl filling you with heat…but the loud, shrill sound stops you both dead in your tracks.

"I can't get enough" he pants out against your neck. "You're mine. My refuge. My joy."

He releases you, turning towards your driveway where the blue and red lights grow closer and closer.

Sirens.

Flashing you a grin, his eyes bright as his mind races, be hurriedly kisses you, stealing your breath. As he pulls back, he whispers against your lips, "Whatever happens. Stay safe. I will come for you, my love."

Just as quickly, he turns completely away from you and confidently strides towards the door, unafraid, just as a loud voice shouts, "Crane! Come out with your hands up! Leave the woman alone!"

You hurry after him, desperate to try and stop him, pulling at him with all your strength. But he continues on, until he reaches the door.

And then. He steps onto the porch. Before you can react, he grabs your arm, hard, and brings you in front of him. Your heart breaks, betrayed after everything, as he growls out, "Shoot me and you kill her."

He turns to you just as he reaches for the doorknob. "Trust me, mouse. The Lord has blessed me. I'll be back for you."

The officer yells. "You bastard. She's done nothing. You won't be getting out of here alive, you know. Lay a hand on her and we'll fill you so full of bullets-"

Johnathan cuts him off, lazy in tone, acting like he just wants to get on with it. "Perhaps you are right." He squeezes your hand just as he releases you, pushing you towards the police.

You turn back, unsure what to do, but he nods at you to go just as the police call your name. Turning towards the police, you hurry their way.

Just as you reach them, you look to Johnathan again only to see him lunge towards you. One of the cops yells. And you hear the deafening sound of bullet after bullet being shot, seeing them tear into his body as he falls to the ground.

A deafening scream reaches your ears, and you realize it's coming from you. A horrified wail of anguish leaves you as he completely stops moving.

Desperately, as soon as the bullets subside, you rush forward as tears stream down your face. Your mind is empty, so disjointed after every confession, every betrayal and wound. Did you ever truly know him? Were all of his words a lie to placate you? What was he thinking by getting himself killed?

Johnathan's body was wheeled into the ambulance that was called, covered in a cloth as your sobs could still be heard from the yard. A detective, Bruce, stayed behind to eventually collect your statement and ensure you received help, while the rest piled into their cars and the ambulance. It's business as usual for them, you suppose. But your world has ended.

You sob next to the body of the man you still love, somehow, through it all. Reaching for his cold hand, your mind tells you it isn't over. But you know it is just desperation, even coping with the fact that the one thing you wanted was given to you and stolen from you just as quickly.

Slowly, they pull away, beginning the long drive back to the nearest hospital and police station.

If only they hadn't covered his body in the cloth. Maybe they would have seen his hand begin to twitch.

------------------------------

Anywayyyyyyyy what did we think. Was this too indulgent? 😂

[lawrites]

Today the Grave Has Lost Its Sting

Vampire Priest!Johnathan Crane x Plus Size!Fem Reader (NSFW)

Your priest has gone missing from Sunday mass. A storm is approaching, along with darkness and the scent of blood. Where is Father Crane? And how will you react to his new sacrament?

CW: BLOOD, BITING, he WOUNDS YOU AND DRINKS YOUR BLOOD and does NOT ask permission!!!!, heavy foreplay and kissing and groping, uhhhh, coersion on Cranes part for all of the above. Reader is low-key a monster fucker honestly. Religious imagery and thoughts and trauma. Cops! ACAB!

(is this because I really like Midnight Mass and think this Crane looks like Hamish? Yeah. So this is kinda a Midnight Mass! General Crane AU? Anyway ty @acapelladitty for beta reading 🙌🥹🫡)

A man clears his throat to your right, his arms crossed. He shakes his head and looks down to check his watch. To your left, an older woman tutts and turns to gossip to her friend. While you all stall by keeping yourselves entertained, it may be time to face the facts. The man of the hour, your priest, isn't attending Mass today by all appearances. A deacon and sacristan whisper in what they probably think is a lower register in the front pew, but you can hear their worried tones even from many rows back.

You suppose this could be inevitable when attending the only church for what feels like miles upon miles of flat plains and farmland. There are so few of you here, somehow it is a miracle that the priest hasn't missed a single day in the two years you have attended Sunday Mass. No illness, emergencies... nothing that you could think of.

But then, it is the only form of community this area has on offer, so there's motivation to make every one he can. Hard to be neighborly with houses that can't see each other across the sprawling landscape, but easier with people you know will be at the same spot every week.

A sigh escapes your lips, the uncomfortable pew refusing to give as you shift to find a better position. The people to each side of you use the window caused by your slight disruption to move a bit as well, possibly reminded that they've been sitting too long. It has been 30 minutes of the organist trying their best to play through the hymnal while people murmur to each other with low voices.

Some have already left. Some keep glancing at their watches like the man next to you. You've been doing your absolute best not to reach for your phone, trying to find entertainment by looking at the dust that falls through the multicolored sunbeams created by the stained glass.

Truth be told, you don't even know what's keeping you here, even when Father Crane is present. You grew up in religion, and the guilt is certainly still there, for you, but the belief? You're not so sure…at least not for a while, now.

Church attendance, in your mind, has become more of an opportunity to try and get out there. Maybe you could make friends or acquaintances at the least…a failure on all fronts it seems. The majority of the people who attend here are already friends with each other or seem to find something off about you when you attempt to talk to them. At this point, you wonder if you merely attend just to make sure that if you go missing, someone will notice other than your boss at work.

Though, a part of you doubts anyone other than the missing Priest himself would worry. He has seemed to take a liking to you from the moment you squeaked out your name upon introduction to him. His plain grin widened at your strained voice, his eyes almost shining as they took in your hands fiddling with the church bulletin.

“As quiet as a church mouse, aren't you?” You gave him a weak smile, nodding your assent silently. While in the comfort of your own home, or even at work where you have some authority, you feel confident and sure. But around strangers? Especially strangers that are more than willing to judge you at first glance? You have always found yourself speaking quietly...or not at all.

With a chuckle, he reached out to shake your hand, his solid grasp keeping you from your nervous fiddling. “A new face is always welcome. And nerves upon meeting new people can be expected. But you needn’t worry. I can do most of the talking, and you the listening.”

You quietly chuckled at his attempt at a joke, finding almost more amusement in his formal tone. His eyes, full of mirth still, seemed to focus solely on you for a moment, and you felt one of his fingers gently skim over your hand before he released his grip.

Some older ladies standing behind you in line whispered to each other, elbowing their husbands and immediately taking your place as soon as you vacated it. You walked away, but glanced back only to see the Father still looking to you, even as he was talking to Mrs. Flanagan.

What you consider to be a passing interest in a new member of the church has been interpreted as distinct interest by the elderly in the church. Of course, they don't blame the Priest, so they tend to avoid only you. A hierarchy should be followed, according to their whispered insults, and somehow you've upset it just by being shy on your first day.

Maybe they would rather it was you missing Mass today…but alas. You're here. And Father Crane is not.

So you sit, like everyone else. Waiting. Wondering if the man you all listen to each Sunday is okay. You do pray for him, silently, but with your wandering thoughts you highly doubt it’s productive in any sense.

…Your prayer is impeded by something else too, thoughts that creep in the back of your mind. The memory of your introduction plays, along with every other interaction. His thin but strong hands enveloping yours completely, his index finger skimming over your hand…his eyes meeting yours while he yells out a passionate plea to his congregation.

Your mind quickly jumps to the glimpses you've caught of him in his more casual attire, outside of his robes. His thin arms on display when he rolls his dark dress shirt up, and the surprisingly skinny jeans he prefers that highlight his long legs…spread in a casual pose on a chair during a church meeting…his hand resting on his thigh as he takes a sip of coffee…

You snap out of those thoughts quickly, or at least try to. These images are insignificant, and completely innocent in context. But maybe the whispers of the older members are true. Maybe they know your mind keeps them for those dark nights alone when the wind howls outside and you need a bit of…comfort to help you sleep soundly. A little attention can send a lonely mind reeling, and in those heated moments…you are sure that the Priest feels something for you too.

He seems to reserve a specific half-smile just for you, especially when the “flock” have had a few of their feathers ruffled. Whenever you approach, you've noticed he takes the time to run a hand through his thick, dark hair, almost nervously.

Maybe these little moments mean nothing. But you swear during those nights alone in the dark that his little nicknames mean more as well…you hear his deep voice in your ear, rasping them as you chase an infatuation you know you shouldn't have.

“....little Mouse? My little church mouse? Making these gorgeous sounds for me?”

His chuckle, usually light and airy in the church, will turn darker in your imagination, his eyes glinting like you've only seen happen in the height of his sermons.

“Let's see what we can do to make you scream.”

You find the guilt after your actions on those nights keeps you up longer than if you had never thought about the priest at all.

Sometimes avoiding thoughts will only make them more apparent…and maybe the same can be said for trying not to notice when someone is absent. You hope a blush isn't overtaking your face as these images you try to push away become even more present in your mind. Thinking these thoughts in God’s House? About his servant?

And you especially feel guilty, because with your plush body and wide hips, you already invite stares even when you wear appropriate dresses. You can't help that many clothes that are supposed to be modest end up being less so with your generous assets. What if you've been acting like this around the Father and it's made him uncomfortable?

A creak of a wooden pew grabs your attention and mercifully distracts you as the sacristan stands up. He hurriedly walks over to the organist, who nods and starts playing a slower, slightly quieter hymn.

Positioning himself in front of the dias, he claps his hands and takes a deep breath in. “...Well…it appears that Father Crane will not be making it today. He isn't answering his cell, so we will be having some members of the congregation check on him after we close up the church.”

He nervously wrings his hands together. “For now, let's just agree to meet next week. We will try to send out communications once we know more.”

Looking around for anyone who wants to argue, you can almost see the relief on his face when no one speaks up. He opens his arms in a spread pattern, more confident now, and says, loudly, “You are dismissed. But remember this is a Holy Day. Don't think this is an excuse to get out of the time you devote to God every week. We charge you to read Scripture and sing, still, today. And pray for Father Crane.”

His hands make a slight pushing motion, as if to say “go.” And then he quickly sits back down next to the deacon, the two of them conspiring on what is probably a plan to check on the missing Priest.

You managed to duck out of the small crowd gossiping with each other at the back of the church. Unsurprising, as most of them don't talk to you anyway, but still appreciated. At least you could get your car out of the parking lot without trouble.

At this time of year, you always roll down the windows and turn off the A/C. 65 degree weather with the sun shining through the trees, a light breeze running through your hair, and the scent of dust kicked up from your tires all combine to calm your worries over the Priest.

He should be okay. Maybe he's just sick and the Flanagan's checking on him should get him the help he needs. Or maybe he was just really tired and overslept. Either way, as he would say, it's in God's hands now.

Pulling off from the “main” road of this little country neighborhood and into your driveway, you park and gather your purse before heading inside, trying to figure out what to do with the extra time in your day.

You sigh, kicking off your church heels and dropping your purse on your entrance table with a “thud.” Not much happened while you were out, especially with Mass being cancelled, but you admit that the mental toll of being reminded that you are sinning against God by lusting after someone who has promised to stay calibate is…taxing to say the least.

A little voice in your head wonders if the fact that he's forbidden makes him more enticing, but you quickly stifle that as you hurry to your kitchen. Later, you will probably put together a nice, home-cooked meal of some kind to package up and use as lunches at work through the week. But for now, it's time for a simple peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

As you finish your sandwich, you yawn heavily. You truly are exhausted, and the one person you could confess your thoughts to is out of the question for multiple complex reasons. Maybe you could lie down, just for a bit.

—--------------------

You awake, startled, to a crash of thunder and lightning lighting up your now dark house. The power must have gone out after you collapsed onto the sofa for a nap. Throwing off the blanket you were cuddling with and rubbing the crick in your neck, you hurry to grab some candles and emergency flashlights. The plan was not to sleep until it was dark out, but you suppose you needed the rest.

Storms aren't uncommon, where you live. And you are generally prepared when they occur…but you swear that there was nothing slated in the forecast for storms when you checked earlier today.

You think you can move about your house without lights, or at least to get to the emergency stash of candles. Humming “It Is Well With my Soul” for comfort, you do manage to make it fairly far without incident. That is, until you bump your shin HARD against a chair and yell out a curse that might make you ask for forgiveness later.

Luckily, you manage to maneuver to the wooden chest where you keep your emergency supplies. Rustling around, you grab a flashlight, relief flooding you when it has enough juice to turn on.

You take the flashlight and look around your house, just needing to check that everything is in place for your sanity before you set out more light. Humming again for comfort, you slowly light up your kitchen, living room…and then inch around the walls as well. Okay. Everything is in place. Dresser, window, man in window.

Your heart clenches and you scream as you drop the light you were holding in shock. That had to have been the outline of a man, peering into your house. It couldn't be anything else.

Your eyes desperately look at the same spot, trying to see if there is anything there through the darkness. A flash of lightning provides very brief clarity…but there's nothing there. You only see the wooden slats of your porch fencing.

With a sign and a shake of your head, you gather up your flashlight. Your mind is probably seeing things because of the darkness, finding something to be afraid of in the shadows. Turning to, again, rustle around your supply of candles, you-

KNOCK KNOCK

Ice runs through your veins. You freeze. You swear that was your front door.

…It could be the wood bending against the wind…or a branch knocking against something. You don't want to consider the threat of a home invasion when you live here alone, so your thoughts are running wild with explanations.

But, again, you hear it. And this time, it's a familiar melody.

Knock knock knock-knock knock

A human had to have made that pattern. You quickly grab a more powerful light you can set up on your table, which bathes the majority of your house in a low light. And then, you run to the kitchen and grab your biggest knife, clinging to it until your knuckles turn white. You hope against hope that the knocking goes away. But your heart sinks when you hear it-

Knock knock

With a determined nod, and a new courage, you walk steadily towards your door. Hesitating, you yell out. “I have nothing for you here. And I'm armed.”

A raspy, deep, familiar voice answers back. “Little Mouse, would you not invite a friend in need into your home?”

You are taken aback. Your mind whirls with the need for explanation, and you finally peer out of the peephole in your door. Familiar black robes, the white collar, the glasses and crooked nose…the darkness outside makes the vision hazy, but it is him. Father Crane. What is he doing at your house?

“F-father Crane?” Your voice is not as sure now, but you still fumble to open the door. Part of your brain screams at you that his unexpected presence in such a storm is worrisome…the other half is entirely worried for him. He wouldn't harm you, you're sure of it…or at least part of you is. Maybe he got in a wreck nearby and just managed to limp over here…maybe he somehow got lost and was lucky enough to stumble by?

The door opens and you are taken aback by the power of the wind and the spray of the rain, a chill making you shiver. You see Crane on your doorstep, his robes and hair dripping wet, clinging to his long, lean limbs. Attempting to not stare is difficult, especially given the fact that anyone would be freezing in this situation, which means he must be terribly uncomfortable.

But he doesn't look miserable. His mouth is pulled into a smile, but his eyes aren't mirthful. They're almost placatingly empty, a far step from the usual Father’s deep, thoughtful eyes.

It does make you pause in stepping aside to let him in.

His grin deepens. “Oh, my dear, won't you let me in? I do apologize for imposing. You see, I had a bit of trouble nearby and your house was the closest I could see.”

You nod, mentally berating yourself for analyzing his expressions. The man was hurt or lost, and you were keeping him from shelter. Some Christian you are.

“Oh, of course, Father Crane. Please, come in.”

You see his body physically relax when the last words leave your mouth, and his grin does soften a little. “Oh, thank you, you have no idea how much you are helping me.”

He steps through the threshold and sighs as he gets out of the rain. You close the door behind him and then notice his clothes dripping onto your floor.

“Oh! My goodness. I apologize, Father. Please let me get you some towels and dry clothes. You must be freezing.”

You turn away, attempting to use the excuse of towels and fresh clothes to gather your thoughts, when you feel his thin fingers quickly wrap around your wrist. Looking back, you see his expression is guarded.

“Please, my dear. For now, you can call me Johnathan.”

You nod, uncomfortable with the idea but wanting to appease him for now, “Um…okay then, Johnathan, I will be back with some things that will hopefully help you warm up.”

With what seems to be hesitation, he nods back and releases the grip he had on your wrist. You scurry away, running first to get another flashlight, and then to your linen closet. You don't have a full set of clothes for a man, but you are soft and round and that man is so skinny. He can probably wear your clothes with no trouble if not for the length of them. You tuck the knife you were carrying safely into your side, hoping you won't need it.

Returning to him with your bounty, you smile as you hand over everything. “Here you are, Johnathan. You can change in my bathroom, which is there.” You point down the hall with the beam of light, centering it on the door in question. You quickly turn back, the light fully illuminating the Father in all his glory for only a moment before turning the handle towards him. And that's when you notice it.

All of this clothes are black. Black shirt, black pants, long black coat…all except for his white priest collar. Until now, you suppose you didn't notice it because of the low light. In that, the contrast between his dark clothes made his collar look the same as usual. But the split second of full illumination during the handoff of the flashlight clued you in. His usually bright white collar is pink.

A perceptive man, he must notice the slight confusion in your eyes. You aren't even sure what the pink collar could mean or if it wasn't just a trick of the light, so you aren't sure if there’s even a conclusion to come to. It's just…odd. His expression shifts quickly from a discomforting assessment of your observation to another smile.

“You know, you are the pinnacle of a good Samaritan right now. Taking me in at my worst.” His hand reaches out and wraps around your shoulder…you almost want to believe he is caressing it. “You are certainly in line for a reward.”

You blush, your mind immediately racing towards places it shouldn't thanks to the kind words and light physical contact. “I-it's truly no problem, Fath-John.” Your correction only makes his grin wider as he releases his hold. You attempt to give him an answering smile. “I am happy to help anyone in need.”

With his hand up, his response is halted thanks to the blaring sirens outside your house. First one…two…three cop cars blaze past your window, lighting up your entire house in bursts of blue and red flashes. Odd. You haven't seen even one police car in this area since you moved here.

His smile drops slightly, if only for a moment. But, he nods, almost as if acquiescing to your previous point to end the conversation, and then purposefully strides past you with dry clothes in hand. As soon as the bathroom door closes, you sigh, letting loose a breath you didn't know you were holding.

His stature and presence are intimidating in church, but here, in your little house, he basically owns the space even when in drenched clothes that would make anyone else curl in on themselves. You suppose part of your apprehension comes from your unreciprocated attraction to the man, but he just has an aura that has intensified since you last saw him. You shiver, remembering how he looked at you moments ago.

Never one to stay idle, you shake your head and scatter your unwanted thoughts. The man needed your help, not your frankly pitiful attempts at flirting. Your eyes settle on the puddle of water where the Priest had been standing, accumulating from his soaking wet coat. It is as good of a place to start as any if you need a task to occupy your mind.

A quick walk to the kitchen and back has armed you with a full roll of paper towels. You unwrap a decent amount, stacking them up before throwing them into the puddle and walking away, leaving them to do their job.

You didn't notice as the white towels turned pink behind you-as veins of deep, dark red spread from right where the priest stood. If only you had turned around.

Maybe you would have realized what blood looks like when it's mixed with water.

Instead, you busy yourself bringing more flashlights, battery powered lanterns, and candles out of storage. Debating with yourself, you decide to use the candles for now. Batteries are an expendable resource, and you may need them if this power outage is days-long.

Humming a familiar tune instinctually, you busy yourself with placing large candles at regular intervals, attempting to bathe your home in as much light as you can.

You hear a low chuckle, and turn to find Father Crane throwing away the soaked paper towels you had placed earlier. His eyes flash with something like mirth.

“You do have a lovely voice, little mouse.” You feel your face heating up, in spite of yourself. Disbelief, mainly, takes over your mind. The man is usually polite, but not complimentary.

“And that's why you were laughing at me, Father?” You attempt to scold him, placing your hands on your hips. His grin only grows wider. His eyes gleam in the low light.

“No offense meant, sweet girl.” Your face heats up even more, and you attempt to disguise it by turning your back to him and focusing on lighting a candle, ashamed at your reaction to his low cadence.

He takes measured, slow steps behind you, making his way gradually closer from what you can hear. “Your choice of song was just…inspired, my dear.”

You nervously chuckle, trying to diffuse the sudden tension brought on by his presence. Hands unsteady, you struggle to get the lighter to work. “W-what about my song choice interested you, Johnathan?”

He pauses, stilling almost entirely. It's eerie, how quiet he is able to be in this old house that creaks with the smallest movement. You allow the silence to stretch, finally getting the lighter to the candle right as a voice starts to sing directly in your ear.

“...Today the grave has lost its sting.”

You flinch, almost dropping the lighter. A firm grip steadies you, long fingers encircling your own as the flame on the lighter flickers off.

The yelp on your tongue is silenced as Crane keeps hold of your hand, his body turned so you can see him, now. His gaze is fully focused on you. Flames from the candles make dark and light bathe his angular face, painting an intimidating portrait even as his smile never wavers.

“Careful, mouse. Or you could be singing your last pretty chorus.”

Your traitorous body makes you shiver at his touch, even as your mind screams that this is too forward for the usually strictly professional Priest.

His expression shifts at your reaction, his hand taking the lighter and placing it on a table nearby. Your mind laser focuses on the fact that he still hasn't dropped your wrist. His touch is all you can think about.

And when he turns back, his gaze focused on you again, you find that his eyes almost entrance you.

You attempt to find a thought in your distracted mind. "T-thank you, Johnathan." Giving him a small smile to show your gratitude, you attempt to relax, which leads his eyes to darken even more.

"It does give me great pleasure to help you, dear."

You gasp as his other hand creeps over to settle at your side, long fingers leaving divots in your soft flesh. You attempt to say something, but the Priest, so talented with words, cuts you off.

"Pleasure. That word is something we deny ourselves, isn't it?"

He takes a step forward, which causes you to step back. But he follows you, keeping his grip on your flesh as he slowly backs you into a corner. Your heart beats with trepidation, and possibly a bit of hope that all of your secret dreams are coming true. A similar scene has played in your dreams before.

"Johnathan? Father Crane?"

You attempt to ply him by saying his name softly. Purposefully making your eyes bigger, you give off an expression of unease, hoping that it snaps the man out of whatever haze he is in.

"I-I don't think you want to do this? I mean…you made a vow and-"

He releases your wrist and cuts you off by quickly bringing a finger up to your lips, letting out a gentle comforting sound as he does. His other hand starts to move up and down your side…digging into the generous flesh of your hips.

"You flatter me. You must know of the glances I sent your way? Or the extra attention I couldn't help but give you?"

You shiver, realizing that your mind didn't make up a one sided relationship. The Father has been showing interest in you this whole time. Eyes unsure, you start to think through every small interaction with the man to affirm his claim.

But his hand moves from your mouth to your cheek, cupping the side of your face and gazing at you with reverence.

"Pleasure. Control of it is vital to being a Priest. We devote ourselves to a God that we are told won't allow us to feel it. Not truly. Not like we desire."

You whimper as he takes just one step closer, his thin legs now touching your plush ones. The hand that was on your side reaches down to settle on your thigh, and you gasp at his even more forward touch. This is really happening.

Shaking your head, you bring your hands up and cover your face, overwhelmed with the situation you find yourself in. With the suddenness at which you find an impossibility to be coming to pass...His own hand drops from your face, settling on the wall next to you.

You gaze up at him, wanting to try and talk some sense into the man as a last ditch try to keep your own sanity in check, "F-father Crane. I can't be the reason you give up your Holy Vows. I won't let it. Whatever I want doesn't matter and-"

He snarls, digging a hand into the wall next to you so hard that you can hear the drywall crack. A thrill of fear moves through you, but Johnathan takes advantage of your shock to push between your legs, slotting his thin hips between your plush thighs.

His face hovers right in front of yours, his crooked nose almost touching you. Gazing at you with what you can only describe as want, he rasps out, "What if I've already broken my vows, fisting my cock to the vision of you begging for me every night?"

You let out a whine as you feel his hardness grind against your center, just as his lips meet yours. He kisses hungrily, his tongue immediately bullying into your mouth and tasting what he can.

A sharp pain causes you to pull back, and you realize the Priest bit your lip enough to draw blood, the iron taste filling your mouth. His eyes widen in astonishment, and one of his hands releases your thigh to run one finger under your lip, gathering your blood.

You watch in confusion as he brings the blood soaked digit up to his face, gazing at it wonder. And then. Slowly. He brings it to his mouth…

His eyes roll back and he moans as the blood reaches his lips. You panic at his reaction, wondering why the usually caring Priest would not immediately stop at the sight of your wound. A sudden thought enters your mind. If he was hiding his attraction to you, who is to say what other thoughts he has been keeping from everyone this whole time.

Hips grinding against you, you involuntarily whimper in pleasure as you watch the Priest devour every last taste of blood from his hand. Your mind races, trying to come up with any explanation for the behavior, but unable to get your body to abandon the high of being with Johnathan.

Dazed, his eyes look back at your mouth, and you try to argue, worried about his behavior, but he moves fast. He is already back to kissing your lips, and you can feel his tongue tracing them, tracing your cut, almost purring as he continues to rutt against you.

You begin to feel something take over you. It could be pleasure, but you haven't felt it like this before. A boneless feel of your limbs, a heaviness…a voice saying "submit to me" enters your mind. It is hard to argue, truly. You find yourself giving in.

You throw your arms around the man, one hand digging into his dark curls as the other goes to his neck, nails slightly digging in to keep him against you.

It doesn't work, as the Father separates from you, panting. His eyes are desperate as he dives almost immediately to your neck. You whine as you hear him breathe you in, groaning and licking up the side.

Your ears pick up something. A mumbled prayer being said against your neck by the Priest.

"Whoso eateth my flesh, and drinketh my blood, hath eternal life; and I will raise him up at the last day. For my flesh is meat indeed, and my blood is drink indeed."

He shudders against you, and you can't help but run your fingers through his hair in comfort, wanting to help the man, somehow. He shouldn't feel too badly about wanting you as much as you want him. You are both being taken over by sin.

"It's okay, Father. I-I want this, too."

His whole body shakes, and you hear him mutter. "Father, forgive me."

And suddenly a sharper pain on your neck causes you to cry out, "Johnathan!" And you feel him desperately press his body against you as blood spills from your wound.

It takes you a moment to even register what just happened through your pain and pleasure in equal force, but once you figure it out, you hear something else. Something that chills you to the core. He is drinking from you. You can feel the long pulls of blood from your veins as he audibly slurps against your open, raw flesh.

It feels like time slows just as your heartbeat starts painfully speeding up. Maybe it's an override of whatever previously overtook you, your human instinct to survive pushing through the fog. But you truly realize what just happened. What IS happening.

The Priest is drinking from your neck. He is WILLFULLY deciding to damage your body for his own wants. Something is so obviously wrong you can barely even register it. Your instincts kick in, and you push against him, HARD.

You feel the dull pain as deep pulls of blood come from your veins, and he growls against your neck, his arms now banded around you like iron, keeping you in place. It's like he doesn't even register your attempt to flee. Your mind frantically screams at you to get out but you can't.

It should hurt, and it did in the beginning…but now you hear that voice…that pull, again. But it is even more seductive, this time. More personal.

"Submit. That's it, little mouse. Submit to me."

You begin to feel lightheaded, and start to weaken, and you whimper once more. Human instinct and self preservation still cause you to push at the man with whatever strength you have left, pitiful though it may be.

He takes one last pull, and you feel his body shake as he pulls back from you. But, with what seems to be great effort on his part, he does. You only see a slight hint of red around his dilated pupils, and his hand reaches up to gather some of the blood dripping from his chin, bringing it to his mouth and groaning as he closes his eyes in pleasure.

Mind racing once more now that you're out of active danger at least for a moment, you start to connect his changes in behavior. Red eyes. Drinking your blood, which should be unnerving enough on its own. But when combined with unnatural, sudden strength and speed…and you remember with a start that he needed to be invited into your home.

You desperately try to cover the wound on your neck with your hand, feeling the warm, wet blood leak out as you begin to cry, realizing that the man you once knew is probably gone. Stories that had been whispered over campfires late at night, Gothic Romance novels you secretly hid under your pillow as your parents swept your room… it seems impossible, and maybe he's just insane, but the only explanation you can come up with is…

"Vampire." You manage to sob out as you collapse against the corner. "You…you can't be! They don't exist!"

But what other explanation is there? A complete mental break? Psychosis? You don't think those things would cause this level of violence and what seems to be thirst. The Priest is obviously different, in a very visible way, now that you can see him fully.

His gaze snaps to your neck again, possibly drawn back by the sound of your voice. Your thoughts move from an explanation and back to survival. You freeze in terror, knowing that the creature before you can't be fought. Can't be escaped...maybe there's some part of him still in there.

"Johnathan, please, please don't, I can't take-"

The man leans down, and you move without thinking, your limbs trying to push him away again fruitlessly. But he glides towards you, not even slightly hindered by your desperate bid to free yourself.

He stops, right before he gets to your neck again, and he pulls back slightly. Your confusion causes you to stop pushing at him as he meets your eyes. His brow furrows and he lets out a comforting sound at your involuntary whimper of fear.

You feel the rough texture of his long fingers as he cups the side of your face again. You freeze, fight or flight put on pause as your instincts try to figure out what his plans are. Feeling his thumb slowly, soothingly, stroke your cheek, gathering your tears…you relax slightly.

His eyes move back to your neck, and you tense, wondering if he just decided to lull you into a false sense of security before he ended his attack, but he doesn't bite you again. Instead, you feel a purr deep in his chest as he moves in, gently. Then, you feel a wetness against your wound that makes you flinch, the sting of it causing you to jump.

But one of his hands reaches out to yours, linking them together as he continues to lick at your wound, greedily cleaning every hint of blood.

The pain is gone, you realize. He is somehow closing the wound. You stop pushing at him, realizing that whatever has happened…he won't kill you, at least not now. Maybe there is some of the Priest still in there.

He backs away from you, and you can tell it continues to take great effort on his part. But he gazes at you with a mixture of softness and desire that makes your thighs clench, even as his hands shake. After everything he just did, your body still responds to him instinctively.

His eyes sharpen, and he grins again. With grace, he lifts one hand and offers it to you, long fingers outstretched. An invitation.

"Something happened. It was last night. I woke up afraid of the light and hungry. Starving for…blood and flesh."

He looks down, arm still outstretched, but gaze unable to meet your eyes. "I was…so desperate once the Flanagan's arrived…I am afraid I drained them both. It was…messy. But my God, the power their blood gave me…"

Your mind races as he glances up at you, his eyes shining in regret and hunger. "I knew I had to taste yours as well. What would your sweet voice sound like as I drained you, how would your ambrosia taste as you cried out for me-" He cuts himself off, manic rambling ceased with a shudder.

He hesitates before speaking again. His voice is quieter, sounding more like his previous self. "I was unable to drain you. A fact I'm glad for."

You hear a rumble in his chest as he glances over you, taking in your shaking body. "I…I have always felt protective over my little church mouse. And if I had killed you…" he shudders again and closes his eyes…and you see a tear begin to fall.

You shiver, knowing this is wrong. It's so wrong. But you already feel deep down that you don't even care. You think you may have loved him for a while now, and to know that this affliction wouldn't even change your mind horrifies you. It goes against everything the both of you discuss in church, against even everything human.

It is despicable, how easily you are able to disregard his blatant confession to murder of the Flanagan's. You should be calling authorities instead of contemplating. That's what a good person would do.

And yet, his words and the words of the Lord ring in your mind.

You take a step forward. Gently, you take his hand, and you see his gaze immediately fix upon yours. He seems astonished. You softly recite, "Whoso eateth my flesh, and drinketh my blood, hath eternal life; and I will raise him up at the last day. For my flesh is meat indeed, and my blood is drink indeed."

And then, you step forward, into his arms once more. He lets out a whimper, this time, his long arms enveloping you as his hands dig into your hips. You feel his lips leave kisses all around your face, even on your soft chin, all as he desperately digs his hands into your flesh, begining to grind against you again.

"I can't get enough" he pants out against your neck. "You're mine. My refuge. My joy."

His hands bring you forcefully against him as you cry out his name, his answering growl filling you with heat…but the loud, shrill sound stops you both dead in your tracks.

Sirens.

He releases you, turning towards your driveway where the blue and red lights grow closer and closer.

Flashing you a grin, his eyes bright as his mind races, be hurriedly kisses you, stealing your breath. As he pulls back, he whispers against your lips, "Whatever happens. Stay safe. I will come for you, my love."

Just as quickly, he turns completely away from you and confidently strides towards the door, unafraid, just as a loud voice shouts, "Crane! Come out with your hands up! Leave the woman alone!"

You hurry after him, desperate to try and stop him, pulling at him with all your strength. But he continues on, until he reaches the door.

He turns to you just as he reaches for the doorknob. "Trust me, mouse. The Lord has blessed me. I'll be back for you."

And then. He steps onto the porch. Before you can react, he grabs your arm, hard, and brings you in front of him. Your heart breaks, betrayed after everything, as he growls out, "Shoot me and you kill her."

The officer yells. "You bastard. She's done nothing. You won't be getting out of here alive, you know. Lay a hand on her and we'll fill you so full of bullets-"

Johnathan cuts him off, lazy in tone, acting like he just wants to get on with it. "Perhaps you are right." He squeezes your hand just as he releases you, pushing you towards the police.

You turn back, unsure what to do, but he nods at you to go just as the police call your name. Turning towards the police, you hurry their way.

Just as you reach them, you look to Johnathan again only to see him lunge towards you. One of the cops yells. And you hear the deafening sound of bullet after bullet being shot, seeing them tear into his body as he falls to the ground.

A deafening scream reaches your ears, and you realize it's coming from you. A horrified wail of anguish leaves you as he completely stops moving.

Desperately, as soon as the bullets subside, you rush forward as tears stream down your face. Your mind is empty, so disjointed after every confession, every betrayal and wound. Did you ever truly know him? Were all of his words a lie to placate you? What was he thinking by getting himself killed?

You sob next to the body of the man you still love, somehow, through it all. Reaching for his cold hand, your mind tells you it isn't over. But you know it is just desperation, even coping with the fact that the one thing you wanted was given to you and stolen from you just as quickly.

Johnathan's body was wheeled into the ambulance that was called, covered in a cloth as your sobs could still be heard from the yard. A detective, Bruce, stayed behind to eventually collect your statement and ensure you received help, while the rest piled into their cars and the ambulance. It's business as usual for them, you suppose. But your world has ended.

Slowly, they pull away, beginning the long drive back to the nearest hospital and police station.

If only they hadn't covered his body in the cloth. Maybe they would have seen his hand begin to twitch.

------------------------------

Anywayyyyyyyy what did we think. Was this too indulgent? 😂

[lawrites]

These are the vibes for anyone interested. 🙂‍↕️💙

Finished the Johnathan Crane Vampire Priest fic today! Pretty proud of the tone and such. Trying to find a beta reader before I release it soon!

[lawrites]

Finished the Johnathan Crane Vampire Priest fic today! Pretty proud of the tone and such. Trying to find a beta reader before I release it soon!

[lawrites]

: ̗̀➛ But he doesn't like me, does he?

ㅤㅤ     ㅤ  ₊✩ˎˊ˗ Clark Kent x Reader

synopsis : There was one thing you knew for sure, absolutely certain: Clark Kent didn’t like you. Not in an angry or rude way, he was still polite, still himself. But you could feel it. His body language and attitude gave everything away. Your coworkers kept insisting you were wrong, but then why did he keep avoiding you?

cw : smut, unprotected sex, coworkers to lovers, idiots in love, insecurities, height difference, chubby reader. (david!clark kent) words : 12.7k

ㅤㅤ     ㅤ  masterlist ⋆ ao3 ⋆ more

It was no secret at the Daily Planet that Clark Kent was a gentleman. His coworkers liked to joke that his mama raised him right—but if only they knew, it was actually his pa who was the emotional one.

Still, the truth stood : Clark Kent had been raised right.

He brought coffee to his colleagues in the morning, at least when he wasn’t running late. If someone forgot their wallet, he’d quietly pick up the lunch tab, never expecting to be paid back. He always volunteered for the articles no one else wanted to write, the stories everyone avoided.

That’s just Clark. A pleaser, through and through.

It did wonders for the office. You hadn’t met a single person who didn’t like Clark, he made it so easy to appreciate him. A gentle, big man with a heart of gold, who could hate that? You certainly didn’t. But still, you couldn’t shake the feeling that he didn’t like you.

Every time he walked past your desk, he avoided your gaze, eyes low and fixed on the floor, hiding his face from you. Sure, he never left you out of his little acts of kindness, bringing your favorite vanilla latte to your cubicle next to Jimmy’s with that soft, polite smile, but he never lingered. Not the way he did at other people’s desks.

At first, you chalked it up to being the new hire. But as the months slipped by, you started to realize, he just didn’t like you all that much. Which was a shame, really, considering the rather enormous crush you’d developed on the man.

You had done a marvellous job of hiding it. You were always polite with Clark, but you never stared too long, never asked your coworkers about him, never lingered by his desk longer than necessary. Still, every time he was near, your heart would pound like crazy, ready to burst right out of your chest. It was ridiculous.

Almost 26, and you still had crushes like you were in high school. You’d thought you were past all that, especially after enduring so many terrible dates. Maybe the problem wasn’t you, maybe it was the men of Metropolis. Because you seemed to have no trouble falling for a man from a small town lost somewhere in Kansas.

“Hello!” snapped you out of your daydream, along with fingers flicking in front of your face. “Have you even been listening to me?” Jimmy asked, exasperation written all over his face.

Obviously not. You hadn’t heard a word.

“Of course, Jimmy,” you said quickly, looking him in the eye.

You’d been staring at the empty coffee cup on the corner of your desk, the very one Clark had brought you that morning. You grabbed it hastily and tossed it into the trash. It had been sitting there like a quiet taunt, mocking you with the reminder that you could never have the one man you actually wanted.

Jimmy frowned at your abrupt action but quickly moved on, picking up where he'd left off with his story about his latest date. You loved him—really, you did—he was one of your favourite coworkers. But god, did he talk a lot. And since your desks were practically conjoined, you were the default audience for all of his dating escapades.

It had been a long day.

You’d spent it covering yet another political scandal, this time in Gotham City. Something about the Mayor being killed. The details were murky, grim, and far too much for a Wednesday. You couldn’t help but wish the day would just end already.

Dropping your head onto your arm, you let out a groan as you remembered the errands still waiting for you. If you didn’t get to the store soon, you’d be dining on water and regret. If Jimmy noticed you disinterest in the conversation, he didn't act on it as he kept yapping about the girl he had seen the night before. 

And to top it all off, you needed a new perfume, your old one was currently sitting in the bottom of your trash can, shattered into a hundred glassy pieces. Just one more little tragedy in a day full of them.

From the moment you woke up, it had been that kind of day. And you couldn’t wait for it to be over.

“Care for a drink tonight?” Lois’s voice cut through the room like a whip, barging in out of nowhere, and mercifully putting an end to Jimmy’s endless rambling.

Normally, grabbing a drink with coworkers would’ve sounded nice. Fun, even. But not tonight.

Your head was pounding, a dull, throbbing ache that had been building for hours. That’s when you realized, you hadn’t had any water today. Just coffee. So much coffee. And now exhaustion clung to you like the plague, dragging you down like a ball and chain around your ankle.

“Not for me…” you mumbled, face buried in your arms. “My head’s killing me, so… no drinks tonight.” 

After a few worried words from Jimmy, which you quickly brushed off, he went right back to talking about his date. This time, to Lois. Which, unfortunately, meant he started the entire story over again from the beginning.

You sat up with a quiet groan, realising you still had about two hours left at work. Deciding to make good use of the time, you started preparing questions for your next interview, then moved on to editing your article about the Gotham City scandal, scheduled to run the next day.

Once you were fully immersed in your work, the background noise faded. Jimmy’s voice, Lois’s witty remarks, none of it registered anymore. It was peaceful, being tucked away inside your own head, fingers dancing across the keyboard with purpose.

Unfortunately, that peace did nothing for your pounding headache, especially since your glasses were currently sitting on your coffee table at home, forgotten yet again.

The voices around you quieted when a bottle of water appeared on your desk, followed by a single aspirin. They had been placed gently on the wood, carefully set down so as not to disturb your focus. It was a quiet, thoughtful gesture, tender in a way that caught you off guard.

Looking up, you found yourself met with soft blue eyes, warm and filled with concern.

“For your head,” Clark said simply, before turning back to his own desk under the watchful gaze of three stunned coworkers.

How had he known?

He’d been at his desk the whole time. When you mentioned the headache, your voice had been muffled into your arms, barely audible even to Jimmy and Lois, who were sitting right beside you. 

But Clark? Clark had heard you all the way across the room?

You couldn’t begin to figure out the logistics of it, but your heart didn’t care. It tumbled over in your chest, stuttering at the unexpected sweetness of it all. 

What you didn’t see, because his back was turned, was the small, knowing smirk tugging at the corner of Clark’s mouth as he sat back down.

When you turned your eyes back to your coworkers, both Jimmy and Lois were looking at you with raised eyebrows and matching, knowing smiles.

Jimmy had been teasing you about Clark ever since he caught you blushing the first time Clark brought you coffee. And Lois? She never missed a chance to mention the "energy" she claimed she could feel between the two of you, whatever that meant.

“Oh, fuck off,” you muttered, ducking your head and returning to your article as you twisted open the bottle of water. You popped the aspirin and took a long sip, trying to drown the heat rising in your cheeks.

For someone who didn’t seem to like you very much… Clark was oddly caring. 

But that was just Clark. He cared about people, that’s who he was. Thoughtful, selfless, kind to a fault. You were part of his daily life, part of the Daily Planet team, and even if he didn’t like you that way, he would still care.

That’s just how he was. Clark Kent had been raised right. There was no denying that.

A few days later, it was your turn to be late to the Daily Planet. It was rare for you, almost unheard of, but some alien had decided to crash-land on Earth the night before, and the resulting battle with Superman had wrecked part of your subway line.

You’d ended up walking twenty minutes to the office, arriving late, sweaty, and just in time to miss the morning meeting. Your punishment? Covering sports for the day. Fantastic.

You hated sports. Ironic, really, considering some of your old dates used to joke about how unathletic your body looked. Those assholes.

When you finally made it to your desk, your usual iced vanilla latte was already waiting for you, right next to a fresh bottle of water. God. Did he have to be this thoughtful?

It made everything worse. Or better. You weren’t sure anymore. All you knew was that you liked him even more now, which was exactly the problem.

“Thought you were dead,” Jimmy said the second you dropped into your chair. “Was gonna swing by your place tonight and steal your vinyl collection.”

You shot him a flat look. “Yeah, well, if Superman hadn’t turned half the N line into a pile of concrete, I wouldn’t have had to walk twenty minutes to get here.” You groaned and took a sip of your coffee. 

Sweet, cold, just how you liked it. The smallest part of you hated how good it tasted, because it meant he remembered exactly what you liked. Again. And of course, he’d made sure it was iced, the summer heat had already started hitting Metropolis like a brick wall.

Jimmy giggled beside you like a child. You glanced over to see him diving into his assignment, politics, the lucky bastard. He had a long day of work ahead, while you were stuck with nothing interesting. Groaning under your breath, you reached into your bag and pulled out your glasses, resigning yourself to a long, boring day. You already knew you were going to hate it.

“Hey.” A soft voice called from behind you.

You turned, half-expecting it to be someone asking for a stapler or sticky notes. But it was Clark. You offered him a polite smile, assuming, like usual, he was there to talk to Jimmy. You were already halfway turned back toward your screen when you noticed something strange : his eyes were still on you.

You raised a brow, unsure. “Hello,” you replied, voice cautious, heart beating fast. He looked like he was fighting back a smile.

God. That little almost-smile. Your heart tripped over itself. How could someone that big be so ridiculously cute? It made no sense. None at all.

“I know you’re not a fan of sports,” Clark began, his tone gentle, “and I got stuck with local news today… which I also know you like.”

Your heart stuttered. You didn’t even need to look, Jimmy was absolutely staring at the two of you, probably wearing that smug told-you-so smirk he always pulled when it came to Clark. He’d insisted for months that you were wrong, that Clark did like you.

“He’s just polite,” you used to argue. 

“He’s polite to everyone,” Jimmy would say. “But with you? He’s thoughtful.”

And damn it, now it was starting to look like Jimmy might’ve been right.

“I asked Perry, and he said as long as we’re both okay with it, he doesn’t see any problem with us switching—” Clark stopped mid-sentence. 

He’d stepped a little closer to your desk, his expression soft and earnest… but then something shifted. His brow furrowed slightly, as if catching something out of place. “You changed your perfume?”

Oh.

You had. The other night, when you finally made it to the store, they’d been out of your usual scent. You’d spent a good hour testing every bottle on the shelf until you found one you liked, something softer, quieter. No one else had noticed the difference.

But of course Clark did.

You blinked, caught off guard. He wasn’t even that close. You weren’t wearing much of it. How did he notice? You felt your heart knock hard against your ribs. There it was again, that strange awareness. Like he saw and heard and felt things other people didn’t.

“Yeah,” you said, keeping your voice casual even as your pulse betrayed you. “Just trying something new.”

Clark didn’t say anything right away. His gaze lingered a little longer, thoughtful, before that small, secret smile tugged at the corner of his lips again. You didn’t know what that smile meant. But you were starting to want to.

“Anyway,” he said quickly, as if realising how odd his comment about your perfume might’ve sounded. “I figured you might want local news. I really don’t mind sports.”

He offered a soft smile as he handed you the annex documents.

“Oh, thank you so much, Clark,” you said, relieved and maybe a little too enthusiastic, swapping him the sports documents in return.

Your fingers brushed, just barely, and it sent a shiver down your spine. He was warm. Of course he was. He looked like he gave the best hugs. The kind you could melt into and forget the world existed for a little while.

You shook your head subtly, trying to knock the thought loose.

Now was not the time to imagine Clark Kent curled around you in bed during the dead of winter, holding you close while snow fell outside. Not the time to picture flannel sheets and his soft breath against your neck. Those kinds of thoughts were supposed to stay in your bedroom, late at night, when the lights were out and your imagination ran free. 

Not in the middle of the office. Not in the middle of the day. And definitely not while standing in front of the actual man who starred in every single one of those fantasies.

You cleared your throat, eyes darting anywhere but his. “You’re a lifesaver.”

Clark gave you a look you couldn’t quite read, something quiet, maybe a little amused, but he didn’t press. Just nodded gently and stepped back toward his desk. And damn it, there went your brain again. Right back to flannel sheets and the curve of his smile.

“Girl, you are down bad,” Jimmy snorted from behind you, pulling you right out of your spiral.

Without even looking, you grabbed the first thing within reach, a ruler, and threw it at his head. It hit him square on. “Worth it,” he laughed, rubbing the spot before turning back to his screen.

You huffed and tried to do the same, shaking off the embarrassment and diving into your article. What you didn’t catch, too flustered and too focused on pretending not to care, was the quiet laugh Clark let slip from his own desk.

Soft. Low. Amused. Like he’d heard the whole thing… 

You’d never been particularly fond of walking home.

The streets of Metropolis were always crowded, day and night, and ever since Superman had wrecked part of the N line, your commute had grown by twenty exhausting minutes each way.

Why was it so easy to smash half the city every month, but fixing it always took forever?

So you walked. Again. Winding your way toward the still-functioning stretch of the N line, where you could finally hop on a train for the last ten minutes of your journey. You were just passing a little corner restaurant when you heard your name.

Your full name. Spoken in a voice you’d come to recognize far too easily.

Clark.

Your heart jumped. Turning around, you caught sight of him instantly.

He looked the same as he had in the office, same button-up shirt with his sleeves now rolled up to the elbows, but somehow, he also looked softer. His hair had loosened in the summer humidity, and a single curl had fallen down across his forehead.

He looked good. Too good.

“Oh, hi, Clark,” you said, inwardly cringing at how small and soft your voice came out.

He smiled, warm and easy, walking toward you. “Didn’t expect to see you here. Never caught you around this part of town before.”

You shrugged, trying to keep things casual despite the way your stomach flipped. 

“Oh, yeah, no, um…” You stumbled over your words, eyes flicking to the restaurant window behind him like it might save you. “Superman destroyed the N line near the office, so I have to walk all the way to the library station to catch the part that wasn’t damaged.”

Clark winced sympathetically. “Right. The whole N line mess.”

He’d been different with you lately.

Not dramatically, not enough to confirm anything, but just enough to keep your brain in a constant, swirling fog. He talked to you more. Not just about assignments, but about music, coffee, the weather, small things, personal things. His eyes stayed on you when you spoke, warm and focused. He lingered at your desk a little longer than he used to. Not like he did at Lois’s desk, all easy banter and playful grins, but still. It was something.

A start.

And right now, with his sleeves pushed up and that single rogue curl falling onto his forehead, it was definitely doing something to your heartbeat.

There was a pause, not uncomfortable, but charged, and you scrambled to keep the moment going.

“What about you?” you asked, voice softer. “You grabbing dinner?”

Clark nodded, smile easy. “Yeah. I like this place. It’s quiet, kind of tucked away. Close to home.  Good food. I come here sometimes after work. Helps me think.”

His voice was slower now, more casual than at the office. The city buzzed around you, horns in the distance, the hum of summer heat, but this little moment between you felt strangely still.

“Have you eaten?” “Well, have a good night.”

You both spoke at the same time, the words overlapping, catching you off guard.

Laughter bubbled out from both of you, soft and awkward, as you stood there on the sidewalk, caught in that strange, fluttery space between goodbye and something more.

You were so drawn in by him, his eyes, his voice, the quiet warmth he carried, that you didn’t hear the teenager barreling toward you on a skateboard until it was too late. But Clark did.

Before the kid could slam into you, his hand wrapped around your forearm, firm, steady, warm, and in one smooth, instinctive motion, he pulled you into him.

The strength of it startled you. You knew Clark was strong, he was tall, broad-shouldered, always lifting stacks of paper like they weighed nothing, but this was different. He’d pulled you so quickly, so easily, it knocked the breath out of you. You stumbled forward, colliding with his chest, hands instinctively pressing against him to keep balance.

Solid. Warm. Safe.

Before you could even register how close you were, before you could say something awkward to ruin the moment, Clark gently let go of your arm, only after making sure you had your balance again.

“Want to grab some dinner with me?” he asked, like it was the most natural thing in the world. And really, how could you say no to that?

What you expected to be a quick dinner between coworkers turned into something else entirely, something easy. You shared the food you ordered, Clark was right: the place was good. Casual, quiet, with a back booth tucked away from the crowd where it was just the two of you and the low hum of the city outside.

You talked. About your lives. Childhood memories. Favorite music. Silly stories from high school. Your mutual hatred for Metropolis sports coverage when he told you he actually didn't like covering sports.  

It wasn’t forced. It wasn’t awkward. There were no strained silences, no moments where you felt like you had to fill the space. The conversation simply flowed.

And for the first time in forever around him, your heart was quiet. Not because the feelings were gone. But because they finally felt safe.

Of course, Clark being Clark, he insisted on paying and walking you home, or at least to your subway station. He argued it was late, that the streets weren’t safe, as if you lived in Gotham City. That made you laugh. Ever the gentleman, he made sure to walk on the side closest to the road and even offered to carry your bag.

You had refused, obviously. Walking next to him felt strange. For one, he was so much taller than you, fitter, broader. Beside him, you almost looked like a child in comparison. You’d put on your nice skirt that morning, the one that made your ass look great, but it came with downsides, especially after meals.

Your stomach stuck out, bloated from the food, and with the heat, you hadn’t brought a jumper to hide it. That’s why you insisted on keeping your tote bag, slinging it on the side he was walking on, using it to shield your stomach from his view.

What you didn’t know was how Clark couldn’t help his eyes from drifting downward every time he fell a step behind you on the street, not on purpose, of course. But he couldn’t look away from the bounce of your ass, the way your thighs moved with each step. It was mesmerizing to him.

Finally, you reached the subway station. A bit too soon for your liking, it almost felt like you’d just been on the best date of your life. But it wasn’t a date, and Clark was still that coworker who, as far as you knew, didn’t like you all that much. Even if it didn’t truly feel that way anymore.

Maybe Jimmy was right?

“Well, you get home safe, alright?” Clark said, a small, knowing smirk playing at his lips. Knowing of what, you couldn’t quite figure out.

“Yeah, hopefully Superman took the night off,” you joked.

The smirk faded from his face, just a little, but enough. Maybe you shouldn’t have said that. You knew he and Superman were... friends, sort of. Clark was, after all, the only reporter in the city who ever got interviews with him.

Your subway ride was filled with secondhand embarrassment as you replayed everything you’d said tonight. You’d been awkward, not really that funny, and, overall, it felt like you’d talked way too much. But Clark had brought up topics you were passionate about, and once that happened, well... you yapped.

You shook your head, trying to shake off the uncomfortable weight of cringe. You’d apologize tomorrow morning, just to be safe. No need to give Clark another reason to like you even less.

Once you arrived home, you looked up at the sky, drawn by strange noises echoing above the rooftops. There he was, Superman, fighting off another threat from outer space. The battle was so close to your building you could see the entire scene unfold with startling clarity. That gave you an idea.

You made your way up to the rooftop, sat down, and pulled out your little notebook. You started writing it all out like a novel : vivid descriptions of the fight, the way Superman moved with precision, doing everything he could to avoid causing damage to the city. You noted how he kept trying to push the alien threat higher into the sky, away from civilians, careful not to hurt the beast more than necessary.

Perry would love these notes. Maybe he’d even let you cover the attack for the paper tomorrow. You kept writing, capturing everything, even the moment the Justice Gang showed up to help contain the creature, working together to finally subdue it.

The air up on the roof was lighter, breezier than the stifling heat you’d endured all day, and it made you want to stay. So you fetched your laptop, opened a blank document, and started shaping your article. Even if you hadn't officially covered the attack, yet, Perry would greenlight it, he always did when your writing spoke for itself.

You lost track of time, deep in your work, until a soft cough interrupted your flow… from the sky?

You looked up quickly, startled, and there he was. Superman himself. You’d never met him in person, but then again, who hadn’t seen him? Everyone knew that face. You knew him even better than most, thanks to Clark, who was always going on about him, especially after those exclusive interviews.

“Well, hello, Miss,” he spoke first.

You snorted softly, eyes still on your laptop screen. Not exactly ignoring him, but definitely unimpressed. Typing away, you mumbled a half-hearted, “Hey.” Maybe you were still a little petty about the N line being down.

“You shouldn’t have stayed outside during the fight,” he continued, landing gently on the rooftop and staying a respectful distance away. “It got a bit too close to your building.”

“Hm?” you murmured, barely looking up. “Oh, yeah. I’ll be alright.” You waved off the concern, trying not to sound as dismissive as you felt.

But you could feel his confused gaze on you, lingering, slightly thrown off. Clearly, he wasn’t used to being ignored. That might do him some good. Might help deflate that ego a bit. You kept typing, your fingers flying across the keyboard, but a small part of you couldn’t resist. He was standing right there. And, honestly, he could be useful.

“So, would you say you were a little in over your head before the Justice Gang showed up?” you asked, voice casual, laced with dry sarcasm. “Because it kinda looked like it from here. The alien was clearly kicking your ass for a minute.”

You didn't mean it cruelly, just honest observation. He had looked a little overwhelmed at first.

Superman blinked, clearly not expecting that kind of feedback. His brow arched, just slightly.

“Is that your professional opinion?” he asked, his voice smooth but amused. “From the rooftop press box?”

You shrugged, not looking up from your screen. “Hey, I had the best seat in the house. Front-row view.”

He chuckled softly, the sound low and surprisingly human. Almost familiar. “I’ll admit, he had a few unexpected tricks. But I had it under control.”

“Oh, sure, no doubts,” you said, finally glancing up. “Right up until the part where you got slammed into a billboard. Very graceful.”

He smiled, wry, almost humble. “That was... tactical repositioning.”

You snorted. “Is that what you call getting launched like a ragdoll now? Tactical.”

“Well,” he said, folding his arms, cape fluttering just slightly in the breeze, “you’re welcome for the save.”

“You didn't exactly save me,” you teased, then added with a touch more bite, “Though I will say, I’m glad you didn’t take out the rest of the N line this time.” Your fingers hovered above the keys as you shot him a pointed look. “I wouldn’t have been nearly as nice in the article otherwise.”

Superman’s lips twitched, like he was fighting back a laugh, or a wince. “I see. So your forgiveness is tied directly to public transport?”

“Absolutely,” you replied. “I can forgive a lot, but making me walk fourty minutes everyday? That’s borderline villain behavior.”

He laughed, shaking his head. “Noted. I’ll add subway lines to the list of things to protect at all costs.”

“Good,” you said, returning to your typing. “Now if you don’t mind, I’ve got an article to write. Since I know you only give your interviews to Mr. Kent.”

You didn’t even try to hide the edge in your voice. Petty? Maybe. Deserved? Also maybe. 

There was a pause. Then, with a teasing voice, Superman spoke again. “Jealous of Clark?”

You scoffed without looking up. “Please. I’m just saying, he gets exclusives, I get the N line destruction and a rooftop cameo.”

Another pause. A longer one this time.

“You know,” he said thoughtfully, “I’ve read your articles.”

That made your fingers freeze for just a second. You had written about Superman before, here and there. Not often, mostly because your beat was international politics. But he’d made waves recently with the Boravian government, and you couldn’t not cover it.

Unfortunately, you hadn’t exactly been... gentle.

“I don’t think you like me very much,” he said, laughing softly. Not defensive. Not wounded. Just amused.

“It’s not you,” you said quickly. “It’s your actions. You act like you’re above the law, above international conflict and diplomacy. It was just an objective piece, you know? Freedom of the press.”

You tried to keep it light. You really weren’t in the mood to argue with the most powerful metahuman on Earth.

“I’ve never doubted your objectivity,” he replied, his tone teasing. “You’re with the Daily Planet, after all. Home of the most brutally honest reporters in Metropolis.”

That earned a small, reluctant smile from you. But still, something nagged at you. The way he looked at you. The way he spoke, gently, like he already knew how you thought. The rhythm of his voice. That soft smile.

It felt like you knew him.

Not just in the he's a global figure kind of way. But personally. Intimately.

Your brows furrowed slightly as you stared at him. It was so familiar, and yet your brain couldn’t quite latch on to the why. You blinked and shook the feeling off, typing again. Maybe you were just tired. Or maybe Clark had spent too much time talking about this guy.

But the thought lingered.

“Anyway,” you said, stretching your arms with a dramatic sigh, “I’d better get back to my flat. Long day tomorrow, got to write about all the money your heroics cost the city. Call a few insurance companies… you know, the fun stuff.”

You flashed him a teasing grin as you gathered your things.

Superman chuckled. “Sounds thrilling.”

You headed toward the rooftop door, hand on the handle, but paused to glance back one last time. “Goodnight, Superman,” you said, softer this time. Genuine.

“Goodnight,” he replied, already turning slightly as if ready to take off, then paused. “Oh, and… I’m sorry about the N line. I’ll keep an eye on the tracks next time. Promise it won’t get destroyed again ma'am.”

There was a grin on his face as he said it, wide, smug, just a little too pleased with himself. A shit-eating grin. Then he was gone, vanishing into the sky with a gust of wind and a blur of red and blue. You stood there for a second, squinting up at the empty sky.

That grin. You knew it. You’d seen it before, up close, maybe even across the office.

But where?

After that night, Clark started acting... different.

Not in a dramatic way, he was still the same with everyone else. Polite, calm, a little awkward in the way only Clark could be. But with you, something had changed. He was more open, more playful. The teasing started subtly, soft jokes at your expense, quick little comebacks. Nothing cruel. Just familiar. Comfortable.

He stopped watching his feet every time you walked into the room. Stopped leaving the break room the moment you stepped in. And he actually talked to you now, full eye contact, even smiling sometimes like he meant it.

It was whiplash, honestly. Not that you didn’t like it, you did. You just couldn’t figure out why he’d changed his opinion of you so suddenly. 

You hadn’t even had time to apologize for being a little too awkward during dinner that night, before he’d smiled and told you he’d had a great time. Then he suggested doing it again, once a week, until the N line was repaired.

Like a standing dinner appointment. A kind of compensation, he’d said. As if he had been the one who destroyed it.

Of course you’d agreed, on one condition: you got to pay next time.

He’d agreed, smiling that soft, unreadable Clark Kent smile. But it had been three weeks now. And somehow, you still hadn’t paid for a single meal. He never let you.

It was a weird dynamic.

Every dinner with Clark felt like a date. The kind Jimmy wouldn’t shut up about, candlelit, good food, long conversations full of smiles and eye contact. You didn’t really talk about them at work. You mentioned them here and there, but you stayed discreet.

Mostly because you were convinced you were overthinking them.

Clark was one of the kindest, most genuine men you knew. Gentle, respectful, always listening, he asked about your opinions, remembered little details you'd said in passing. And he looked at you like what you were saying mattered. Like you mattered. 

But you couldn’t help but feel it was just friendliness. Nothing more.

Lois and Cat, of course, completely disagreed. They kept telling you you were letting your insecurities cloud the obvious. “He likes you. Like, actual likes you, likes you.” But no matter how many times they said it, the thoughts wouldn’t leave you alone.

Clark was beautiful, annoyingly so. Funny, in that dry, awkward way. Clumsy, in a way that made him human. And strong in a way that made your brain short-circuit if you thought too hard about it. He could have anyone in Metropolis. Girl, boy, model, athlete—you name it.

And still, your coworkers were convinced he wanted to date you. It didn’t make sense.

You weren’t ugly, at least, you didn’t think so. You just weren’t remarkable either. Mundane, maybe. And yeah, you were overweight. You knew it, even if you tried to act like it didn’t matter. But somehow, when Clark looked at you during those dinners, smiling like you were the best part of his evening, it truly felt like it didn’t matter.

And with every passing week, the dinners lasted longer. 

Shaking your head, you looked down at your watch. 

Right now, you were sitting in City Hall, waiting for your interview with the Mayor. You were investigating LuthorCorp and its suspicious investments in political campaigns and city projects as well as foreign politics. It wasn’t the first time you’d tried to dig into Lex Luthor’s operations, but every attempt had ended the same way.

He was too powerful. Too calculated. And absolutely unafraid to bribe, threaten, or manipulate any institution that stood in his way.

You’d already been waiting for hours, juggling other article drafts, answering Perry’s increasingly impatient calls every hour about your progress with the Mayor. Which, so far, was absolutely nonexistent.

It was getting dangerously close to the end of your workday—and the end of the Mayor’s. You could already feel the familiar sting of a wasted afternoon.

Looking up from your laptop, you spotted the Mayor’s secretary walking toward you. The expression on his face told you everything before he even opened his mouth. You sighed, here we go.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice syrupy-smooth in a way that only made it more irritating. “But the Mayor won’t be able to meet with you today.”

You almost admired the effort he put into sounding polite, almost. But you knew the truth : everyone in this building hated reporters. Especially the ones who asked the kind of questions you did.

“Tell him he won’t be able to avoid reporters forever,” you said, not bothering to hide the edge in your voice. “And to stop wasting people’s time.”

You shoved your things into your bag with practiced frustration, snapping your laptop shut and slinging the strap over your shoulder. You stormed out through the main doors, the late afternoon sun catching in your eyes as you stepped onto the front steps of City Hall.

You didn’t get far.

An unfamiliar voice called your name from behind you. You froze mid-step, your stomach already sinking. Turning around, you found yourself face-to-face with none other than Lex Luthor himself, stepping smoothly out of the building like he owned it, which, in a way, he probably did.

“I’m quite sorry you couldn’t meet with the Mayor,” he said as he approached, that infuriatingly calm smirk playing on his lips. “We had a lot to discuss.”

You scoffed, lifting your chin to meet his gaze without flinching. His eyes held no remorse, no real apology, only calculation.

“It’s fascinating,” you said coldly, “how every time I have an appointment with the Mayor, you just happen to show up, Mr. Luthor.”

Lex’s smirk deepened, a flash of amusement passing through his eyes like he was genuinely enjoying himself.

“Well,” he said smoothly, clasping his hands behind his back, “some would say great minds tend to orbit the same circles.”

You raised a brow, unimpressed. “Others would say it’s suspicious."

It was his turn to scoff.

You weren’t impressed by Lex Luthor, not like half the city seemed to be. To you, he was just a man. A rich one, yes, with a dangerous amount of power and polish, but still just a man.

For years, every reporter at The Daily Planet had tried to land an interview with him. None succeeded. Lex was meticulous about his image, controlling every frame, every word. He only appeared on talk shows where he could steer the conversation, only issued carefully worded statements, and never, not once, allowed a journalist past the doors of LuthorCorp.

This wasn’t your first interaction with him. But it was the first time you thought you might have a shot at playing the game differently.

“I thought reporters loved suspicious,” he said, stepping closer. Not enough to invade your space, but just enough to remind you of the power he wielded. Political. Financial. Personal. “It’s almost like you enjoy sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.”

You crossed your arms, meeting his gaze without flinching. “You make it easier than most, Mr. Luthor. Corruption has a way of attracting unwanted attention.”

His smirk deepened, sharp and knowing, like he was starting to enjoy the direction this was heading.

“Ah,” he said, tilting his head as though you'd just handed him a compliment. “Still, I admire your persistence. Most people back down after one roadblock. But not you. Or your little friends at the Planet.” He spat the word like it tasted rotten, the disdain unmistakable.

“Yeah, well,” you said, eyes narrowing slightly, “we’re not most people, I guess.”

You saw it then, a flicker of something behind his eyes. Anger. Not loud or unhinged, but tightly coiled, controlled. He was a master at that. Lex Luthor didn’t explode, he simmered, he plotted, he waited.

And so you shifted. Softened.

“But I must say, Mr. Luthor…” you added, letting your voice drop just slightly, almost shy, almost deferential. “You impress me too.”

That caught him. His gaze sharpened, not with suspicion, not yet, but with curiosity. You saw the faintest hitch in his breath, the flick of calculation behind his polished exterior. This was unfamiliar territory. Praise wasn’t your usual currency with him, and he knew it.

You smiled, just enough. Meek. Disarming. Let him take the bait.

“You look surprisingly well, considering how much you’re handling these days,” you said, voice casual, light. “Must be exhausting, juggling all those city contracts, private acquisitions… and now all this quiet financing of the Boravian conflict.”

His smirk faltered. Then vanished completely. Silence.

You could almost hear the gears grinding behind his eyes. Then, there it was, the slip.

“How do you know about that?” he snapped, the chill in his voice a sudden, biting thing. “There’s been no official statement.”

Got him. You smiled slowly, the kind of smile that didn’t bother hiding the satisfaction underneath.

“I didn’t,” you said simply, reaching into your jeans pocket. The small recorder glinted in your hand as you held it up between you. “But thank you for the confirmation.”

He stiffened. You stepped back.

“You’ll be hearing from us soon, Mr. Luthor, but I know you won't answer anyway,” you added smoothly. “Have a good evening.”

Then you turned, walking away before he could gather himself enough to spin it back in his favor. Your heart was pounding in your ears, adrenaline surging. You had a lead. You had a quote. And Lex Luthor had finally made a mistake.

Still riding the high of your small victory, you left the City Hall behind in a rush, already pulling out your phone to call Clark. It was supposed to be dinner night, but this couldn’t wait, you needed to tell him what had just happened.

Sure, it hadn’t been entirely ethical. But Lex Luthor never played by the rules, so why should you?

An hour later, you sat across from Clark at your shared table, half-typing, half-talking, your food long forgotten as you recounted every detail of the encounter. He listened patiently, his plate nearly empty, while yours remained untouched, your fingers dancing across the keys in a blur.

“So, let me get this straight…” Clark said, a warm laugh slipping out as he leaned back in his chair. “You didn’t actually record him?”

“Of course I didn’t,” you muttered, not looking up, still deep in the rhythm of your draft. You grabbed a quick bite, chewing fast before continuing, “Why would I have been recording him? It's not like I knew he was gonna talk?”

Clark shook his head, eyes soft, amused. “Not exactly your most ethical moment,” he teased, the smile tugging at his lips belying any real disapproval.

You shot him a look, playful and unrepentant. “Yeah, well, ethics get a little blurry when you're up against a guy who treats international conflict like a business expense.”

He grinned, taking another bite, still watching you like you were the most fascinating thing in the room.

“You know,” he said after a beat, “Perry’s going to lose his mind when he reads this.”

You smirked, finally pausing to glance at him. “Good. Finally got my front page.”

You looked up, and froze for just a second. He was staring at you with the kindest eyes you’d ever seen. Unwavering. Soft. Like you were something rare and remarkable. Like he saw all of you and still chose to look that way.

Your chest tightened unexpectedly. No one had ever looked at you like that. Not like you were just a reporter chasing a story, but like you were everything worth watching. Right on cue, your heart skipped. Flustered, you stabbed another bite of food with your fork and went back to typing, willing the blush from your cheeks.

Eyes still on your screen, you asked, trying to sound casual, “What? Do I have something on my face?”

He let out a quiet laugh, warm and low. “No. I’m just… proud of you,” he said, like it was the easiest truth in the world. “Even if it was a slightly debatable trick.”

You allowed yourself a small smile, hidden by the screen. “Slightly? You’re going soft on me, Kent.”

“Only with you.” He winked, finishing his own food. 

That made you stop typing. Just for a beat. Then, you swallowed once, quietly, unsure if it was the food or the flutter in your chest, and resumed typing, pretending like the world hadn’t just shifted a little between you.

You spent the rest of the night writing, the soft clack of your keyboard mixing with Clark’s quiet commentary as he leaned over your shoulder. He offered suggestions here and there—cleaning up a sentence, pointing out a stronger lead, helping shape the tone without ever overshadowing your voice.

It was nice. Sweet, even.

You weren’t used to this kind of collaboration, gentle, unhurried, easy. The back and forth between you felt natural, like you'd been working this way for years.

Sometimes your hands would brush when you passed him your laptop, or when you reached over, completely shameless, to steal a bite of his second dinner. He gave up trying to stop you after the third attempt and just started ordering extra. 

He was eating a lot. A lot. But then again, with a body like his, it made sense. Tall, broad-shouldered, solid in a way that felt permanent. You figured all that muscle had to be maintained somehow.

Still, every now and then, you’d glance at the empty plates piling up and mutter, “Where does it all go?”

He’d just grin, dimples and all, and say, “Good metabolism.”

You didn’t believe that for a second. But you didn’t press it either.

The article was nearly done. You were both full, him more than you, and the restaurant had settled into a comforting silence broken only by quiet conversation, shared glances, and the hum of the city through your open window.

Somewhere between line edits and midnight, you realized something dangerous.

You didn’t just like working with Clark Kent. You liked being with him. What had started as a small, harmless crush had grown into something massive, and dangerous.

It crept in quietly at first. But now? It lived in every glance he gave you. Every time his soft, thoughtful smile found you across the table. Every time his hand gently reached out to stop yours from biting at your nails when stress took over. Those small, careful gestures chipped away at your resolve until your heart ached just from being near him.

So when he walked you to the subway that night, the city glowing gold around you both, and pressed a kiss—soft, lingering, infuriatingly gentle—to your cheek… your heart nearly gave out. It thumped wildly in your chest, loud enough to drown out the world for a moment.

You knew you were playing with fire. But God, you longed to get burnt.

You smiled as you descended the stairs into the subway, clutching your bag a little tighter. Hope curled in your chest like something too bold to name.

Maybe, just maybe, one day he’d feel the same way.

Sitting at your desk, you stared at the front page of the freshly printed Daily Planet.

Lex Luthor Admits to Financing International Conflicts

Your name sat proudly beneath the headline.

Perry had been thrilled with the article, grinning like a madman when it hit print, puffing his chest as he waved the paper around the newsroom. The Daily Planet's lawyers, on the other hand, were already on their third round of phone calls before noon. Emails, threats, cease-and-desist letters, they were pouring in from every direction courtesy of LuthorCorp’s legal team.

But Perry had your back. He stood behind the article, behind you, citing freedom of the press with fire in his voice and a cigar practically dangling from his teeth. You hadn’t seen him that fired up in years.

Still, even with the rush of adrenaline and pride, you couldn’t quite relax. You stared at the bold headline again, heart pounding. You’d done it.

You’d poked the beast, and it had roared. But you didn’t regret it. Not even a little.

And just when the nerves started to crawl in again, a gentle tap came on the edge of your desk. You looked up to see Clark standing there, holding two cups of coffee. One was already missing a sip, his.

The other? Yours, just the way you liked it.

“Front page, huh,” he said softly, eyes warm. “Welcome to the club.”

You took the cup, fingers brushing his. That look was back in his eyes again, that same quiet pride from a few nights ago, the one that made your heart trip over itself.

“Thanks,” you said, your voice lower than you meant. 

He smiled again before making his way toward his own desk. 

You felt so proud of yourself. You couldn't help but smile for the rest of the morning, having a hard time focussing on your work for today. Your eyes always lingered back toward the newspaper lying on your desk. All your team had made sure to congratulate you, filling your heart with warmth. 

“Drinks tonight, you can’t say no. We are celebrating you!” Lois’s voice shot across the bullpen like a bullet, barely giving you time to blink before she was already halfway to Perry’s office, heels clicking with authority.

You looked up from your monitor. “I didn’t even say anything yet!”

And she was right, you couldn’t say no. It was Friday night, and you had nothing better to do. You weren’t behind on work, the fridge was stocked, the laundry was done. You had no excuse. And you had made the front page! It was a thing to celebrate. 

And maybe it would help taking your mind of Clark, and your not real dates. 

They were fun, too fun, really. Liberating in the moment, like you could breathe around him. But afterward? The crash was brutal. Your brain wouldn’t stop spiraling, overthinking every word, every glance, every little laugh. It hurt. Even when it shouldn’t.

That’s how you found yourself, hours later, sitting at a sticky table in O’Sullivan’s, Metropolis’s finest pub, surrounded by your favorite coworkers. Clark and Cat were deep in a heated debate about Superman’s very questionable sense of style, while you, Lois, and Jimmy were somehow talking about... toes?

Jimmy had started it. He always did. The man had a gift for derailing any normal conversation within five minutes.

Oh, and Steve was there too. He hadn’t said much, but he was sipping his beer like a man who had no idea how he’d ended up in a conversation about capes and toes.

As the night wore on, everyone was getting progressively more affected by the alcohol. Everyone but one.

Clark.

He was weirdly good at holding his drinks. Thinking about it, you couldn’t recall ever seeing him drunk. You were fairly sober yourself, a little tipsy, pleasantly warm, but nothing like Jimmy and Cat, who were currently butchering We Will Rock You on karaoke with the absolute confidence of people who had forgotten shame existed.

“How come you’re not drunk?” you shouted over the noise, leaning in a little closer. 

He turned away from the chaos, and those soft, annoyingly kind eyes landed on you. Paired with that specialty Clark Kent smile, gentle, quiet, and somehow entirely his, it sent a sudden jolt of heat straight between your legs.

“It’s simple,” he said, holding up his beer. “I didn’t drink that much.”

Sure enough, he was still nursing his first beer, half-full. Meanwhile, the table had gone through at least four rounds.

You stared at the glass, distracted now by the way his fingers wrapped around it, long, strong, careful. The glass looked small in his hands. Like a toy. And for some reason, that sent another ripple of heat through you.

“You seem a little out of it,” Clark added, that soft smirk playing at his lips again, just this side of teasing, but still warm.

You blinked, realising you’d been staring. Hard.

“Oh no, I’m good,” you said, far too loud, and threw both thumbs up in an awkward gesture that immediately felt like a mistake.

Had you been sober, you might’ve cringed. Hard. But right now? Cringing wasn’t on the menu. Not when your brain was soft and hazy, and your eyes were locked on his mouth, on that smirk.

You’d seen it before, of course. He was your colleague, your friend, and Clark smiled all the time. But there was something different about this smile. Something tucked just behind it, something unspoken, almost amused. It tugged at the edge of your memory. Familiar. Too familiar. But just foreign enough to slip out of reach.

Your brows pulled together, the confusion settling in your expression before you could hide it. He tilted his head slightly, watching you. Curious. Patient. Like he knew something. Almost amused. 

“Tell him!” Lois’s voice rang out far too close to your ear, snapping you miles away from your little internal investigation. “Tell him about the little cute alien that was glued to your window for days!”

You blinked, turning to find her grinning like a devil, eyes glassy from one too many drinks. Beside her, Steve looked unsure, eyebrows raised, clearly bracing for whatever bizarre story was about to unfold.

They were both watching you. Waiting.

It was a silly story. Embarrassing, even. But one you liked telling, so you did just that. Animated and loud, hands waving around as you launched into the tale.

What you didn’t notice, though, was the way Clark let out a quiet sigh as you turned away. The tension in his shoulders softened, his body subtly relaxing now that he was no longer under your scrutinising gaze.

The hours passed in a haze of laughter, bizarre stories, and absolutely butchered karaoke performances. It had been a long time since the Daily Planet crew had spent a night like this, no deadlines, no looming crises, just fun.

You felt good. Sobered up completely now, like most of the group, except Jimmy, who was still riding whatever chaotic, alcohol-fuelled high had taken hold of him three hours ago.

Thankfully, he lived near the bar, just a few blocks from Lois and Cat. The two women, still giggling, promised to get him home in one piece. You watched them chase after him with fond amusement as they all disappeared into the night.

Yeah. Tonight had been good.

“Fuck,” you muttered under your breath as you checked the time. No way you were making the last subway, especially with the fifteen-minute walk to the nearest working station.

“Everything okay?” Clark asked beside you, concern laced in his voice as his gaze dropped to your phone.

You sighed, trying to wave it off. “I missed the last metro,” you said, almost sheepish. Then, looking up at the soft, quiet summer night around you, you added, “But it’s fine. It’s a good night for a walk.”

“I’ll walk you home,” he said simply, firmly. The kind of tone that left no room for argument.

So, after a quick wave and a goodnight to Steve, you found yourself on the sidewalk beside him, heading off into the quiet streets. Of course, you did try to protest. You told him, more than once, that you were fine walking alone, that he really didn’t need to go all the way to your place when he lived so close to the bar.

But he waved off every concern without missing a beat. 

“I’m not letting you walk home alone at nearly 1 a.m.,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “My ma would kill me if she found out.”

You laughed, shaking your head, but secretly? You were glad he insisted.

The thirty-minute walk flew by in what felt like seconds. One blink, and suddenly, you were home.

Conversation flowed effortlessly, like it always did since that first dinner. Comfortable. Familiar. He still walked on the side closest to the road, like always. But tonight, he was a little closer than usual. Just enough that your fingers brushed now and then, barely there, featherlight, but every time, your heart skipped like it hadn’t quite gotten the memo to stay calm.

You didn’t say anything about it. Neither did he. And neither of you moved away, either.

You joked about Jimmy and Cat’s drunken rendition of classic rock songs, gently mocked Steve for always looking like he’d wandered into the wrong timeline, and even admitted that you agreed with Cat about Superman’s questionable taste in suits.

Clark had laughed at that, a soft, genuine sound that made something warm bloom in your chest. And just like that, you were standing in front of your building. The night felt too short. The goodbye, too soon.

Standing on the stairs just before the front door of your building, you found yourself eye-level with Clark, a rare occurrence, given the fact that the man was a literal giant. Something in his eyes, in the way his body leaned ever so slightly closer to yours, in the quiet reluctance on his face, as if he, too, was a little sad the walk had ended, pulled the words from your lips before you could second-guess them.

“Wanna come upstairs?” you asked, the question barely louder than the breeze. A whisper, almost lost to the wind.

But Clark heard you. Of course he did.

Not just because he was standing close, but because it was your voice. A voice he would pick out in a sea of thousands. A voice he'd hear anywhere, no matter how far. Though you didn’t know that part.

He nodded, barely, a quiet “Yeah” slipping from his lips like a promise.

It wasn’t long before your back hit your front door, upstairs, his body pressing gently, but undeniably, against yours. His lips found yours with the kind of urgency that had clearly waited too long. Soft, but certain. Gentle, but wanting. The kiss was rushed, but not careless. It felt like everything you’d both been holding in, months of glances, of almost, of quiet moments too full to name.

This wasn’t a kiss just for the sake of kissing.

You kissed him harder, pushing up on your toes to meet him, trying to say with your mouth what your heart had never dared to voice. That you liked him. That you had for so long. That you hadn’t imagined any of it.

Clark groaned softly into the kiss, lowering himself just enough until, without warning, his arms swept around you, lifting you with an ease that felt unfair. You wrapped your legs instinctively around his waist, breath catching in your throat as he deepened the kiss. He let you no time to protest. 

His mouth moved against yours, tongue seeking, exploring, like he had something to say too. Something he hadn’t found the words for yet. And you let him say it this way.

His hands slid under your thighs, pulling you closer until your bodies were flush, his warmth seeping through your clothes and setting your skin on fire. You wrapped your arms tightly around his neck, anchoring yourself to him as if you might float away otherwise.

The kiss deepened, slow and searching, a conversation without words. His tongue traced yours, tentative at first, then more sure, like he was learning the shape of you, committing every detail to memory. 

Finally leaving the front door, Clark walked inside your flat with the ease of someone who belonged there. Without hesitation, he made his way to the couch and sank down with a quiet groan, the sound thick with relief.

You settled on his lap, feeling the solid weight of him beneath you. At the noise he made, you instinctively tried to shift, to sit beside him instead, worried you might be too heavy. But Clark’s hands found your hips, gripping firmly, holding you in place.

“No,” he murmured, voice low and urgent, his fingers tightening just enough to pull you closer. You froze as his lips found yours again, this kiss deeper, more demanding. You barely had time to protest before his arms wrapped around you, anchoring you to him.

Your breaths tangled together, your heart pounding in a wild rhythm that echoed his own. You felt it under your fingers. Time seemed to stretch, the world outside shrinking until it was just the two of you, suspended in this moment where everything finally made sense.

When he pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes were dark, shimmering with something raw and real. “I’ve wanted this for so long,” he murmured, voice low and rough. “More than I knew how to say.”

Frowning, you let out a confused sound. "I thought you didn't like me." 

Now it was his turn to look confused. Clark blinked, his eyes narrowing slightly as he tried to process your words. Then, slowly, a genuine smile spread across his face, followed by a laugh, deep, sincere, and filling your flat.

“Is that why you always looked so gloomy around me?” he asked, the smile still lingering.

“You avoided me, Clark. All the time. Watching your feet whenever I was near, never talking for more than a minute, never lingering at my desk unless it was necessary…” you said, a hint of frustration creeping into your voice at his teasing. “How the hell was I supposed to know you liked me?”

“I bring you coffee,” he said matter-of-factly, as if that explained everything.

“You bring coffee to everyone,” you shot back, deadpanned, rolling your eyes.

Clark chuckled, shaking his head with that familiar, easy grin. “Yeah, but I always made sure you got the good stuff. Overly sugary milk with a bit of coffee.”

You raised an eyebrow, skeptical, but couldn’t hide the small smile tugging at your lips. His lips trailed softly from your cheek to your jaw, then down to your neck. He lingered over your pulse point, as if savouring the gentle thrum beneath his touch.

“Just know,” Clark murmured, his head still resting against your neck, “I’ve always appreciated you.”

Before you could respond, his lips found yours again, silencing any argument with a tender, insistent kiss.

The kisses felt euphoric, as if time itself had slowed to stretch them out for hours. With Clark, everything was effortless and unhurried. Unlike your past lovers, there was no rush, he moved as if he had all the time in the world, and right now, so did you.

His hands explored your body with tender care, caressing softly, never demanding, always gentle. He asked before slipping your shirt off, waited for your consent before removing your bra. Once you were bare, he peeled off his own shirt, never making you feel vulnerable or exposed.

His touch was intoxicating, as soothing as his lips. You melted under the weight of his hands, large, warm, and perfectly fitting as they cupped your breasts. His fingers toyed with your peaked nipples, alternating between soft caresses and gentle pinches, an unspoken apology woven into each movement. Paired with his lips tracing your neck and lips, it was utterly overwhelming.

Without even realising it, your hips began to move, grinding softly against him, responding to the slow, delicious tension building between you.

He chuckled softly against your lips as your covered core pressed against his already hard length. It was one of the hottest sounds you’d ever heard, a breathless, teasing laugh that sent shivers straight through you. Jimmy had been right, you were absolutely down bad.

“Keep going,” he groaned into your ear, his voice thick with need, just as you paused to rest your forehead on his bare, warm, and slightly sweaty shoulder.

His breath fanned over your skin, warm and steady, grounding you in the moment. You lifted your head slowly, eyes meeting his, dark, intense, and full of something deeper than desire.

His hands found your waist again, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you. The heat of his body seeped into yours, setting a slow, steady rhythm as your hips moved against him. Every touch, every brush of skin, was electric, soft, like he was memorising every curve, every inch of you. You felt safe, wanted, and adored in a way you hadn’t known you needed.

You felt how wet you were, and judging by the hard length pressing against you, you knew he was just as affected as you were. It felt incredible to be wanted by Clark—needed, desired. For months, you had told yourself you were too plain, too overweight, too annoying. But it turned out he liked all of that about you.

You rocked your hips again, frustrated by the layers of clothing between you. Without thinking, you stood up and hurriedly peeled off your pants and panties in a clumsy, rushed way, like the fabric was burning your skin.

Standing naked before him, you noticed the effect it had on Clark. He froze, almost like his brain had short-circuited, not quite processing the very clear message you were sending, that you wanted him naked too. Instead, he simply admired your body, his eyes tracing you slowly and thoroughly, over and over.

Taking matters into your own hands, you knelt in front of him, fingers already fumbling with his belt buckle. That seemed to snap him back to reality. He gently took your hands in his, kissed your fingers softly, then stood up, pulling you to your feet with him.

After slipping off his pants and briefs, he sat back down on the couch and pulled you back onto his lap.

Your breath hitched as his warm hands settled on your hips, grounding you against him. His gaze roamed over your bare skin, eyes filled with awe and something soft, like he was seeing you in a way no one ever had.

You leaned into him, your hands resting lightly on his broad shoulders, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath his skin. The weight of him was comforting, a promise of care and tenderness.

Slowly, carefully, his lips traced a path from your neck to your collarbone, each touch igniting sparks along your skin. You sighed, the tension of months of self-doubt melting away under his gentle attention.

"You're so fucking beautiful," he murmured between kisses.

You gasped, eyes wide as a teasing smile tugged at your lips.

"Did Clark Kent just swear?" you teased, knowing full well his reputation at the office for a gentle, swear-free vocabulary. The fact that he’d let loose like this on your skin made your heart swell with warmth.

He playfully nipped at the skin of your breast before his lips closed over your nipple, while his fingers danced teasingly on the other. Your hips began their slow rocking again, finally satisfied by the warmth of his skin pressed against yours.

You felt him twitch against your stomach, biting your lip at the raw desire radiating from him. It had been far too long since you’d felt this wanted.

“Clark,” you moaned softly.

“Hm?” He lifted his head from your breast, eyes searching yours, waiting.

“I need you,” you whispered into his ear, voice tender and full of longing. “Please.”

How could he ever say no when you sounded that sweet?

Clark’s breath hitched, a low growl vibrating in his chest as he pulled you tighter against him. His hands slid down your back, fingers tracing the curve of your spine with a reverence that made your skin tingle.

Without breaking eye contact, he gently tilted your chin up and kissed you deeply, slow and deliberate, like he wanted to memorise every inch of you. His warmth seeped into you, grounding you in this moment where nothing else mattered.

His hands gently lifted your thighs, easing them onto his lap just enough to draw himself closer to your warm entrance. He paused, holding you there, then looked at you through his glasses, silent, searching, asking without words if this was truly what you wanted. You nodded and pressed a soft kiss to his lips.

With utmost care, he began to lower you onto his length, inch by inch, never rushing, always attentive to your reactions. The warmth and pressure were overwhelming, but not in a painful way more like a delicious surrender. You should have known, it's always the quiet, nerdy, clumsy ones who surprise you by being big.

Finally settling back onto his lap, you needed a moment to catch your breath. You slumped against him, your head resting in the crook of his neck, your hands gripping his shoulders tightly. His hands were steady and soothing, tracing gentle circles along your back, cupping the nape of your neck with tender care. His soft voice whispered warmth directly into your ear, telling you how good and warm you felt.

He urged you to take your time, to never rush, he could wait as long as you needed, even the whole night. But you didn’t need time. You needed to move. So, slowly and hesitantly at first, you began to rock your hips, a gentle, tentative motion.

It felt good, so good. He was reaching places no one else ever had, not even your toys. The sensation was unfamiliar, almost overwhelming, but far from unwelcome. You kept rocking against him, and each pass of his pelvis against your clit made your breath catch in your throat. It was breathtaking... but soon, it wasn’t enough.

Lifting your head from the crook of his neck, you looked up at him, really looked. You wanted to see his face, his expression, as you began to bounce on him. It started softly, tentative, testing the limits of what your body was discovering. But the more you felt, the bolder you became—and so did he.

His hands found your hips again, guiding them with more purpose, lifting and pressing you down onto him in a steady rhythm. But even that didn’t satisfy him for long. Soon, his hips began to thrust up to meet yours, strong and fast, until his pace overtook yours and all you could do was hold on.

Moans, grunts, whines, and gasps filled the room, raw, honest sounds tangled together with the sharp rhythm of skin against skin. Sounds that had never once filled this flat before Clark.

After a few minutes of his relentless rhythm, you felt your orgasm building, close, achingly close, but just out of reach, like it was trapped behind a wall of glass. You let out a soft whine directly into Clark’s ear, trying to rock your hips in rhythm with his, but you couldn’t keep up. He was too fast, too deep, too much.

But he noticed. Of course he did. The way you whimpered, the way your body tried to move, it told him everything. And he felt it too, in the way your pussy tightened around him with desperate pulses, clenching so hard it almost made him see stars.

He smiled, just a little. His girl only needed a bit more.

His hand slipped between your bodies, fingers sliding down to where you were joined. At first, he just teased, letting his fingertips brush lightly across your skin. It earned him another needy whine, one that made him chuckle softly against your shoulder.

Greedy little thing you were.

And he adored you for it. Clark would give you anything.

Without holding back any longer, his fingers found your clit, circling it in slow but steady motions, firm, grounded, perfect. The added pressure sent shocks of pleasure through you, colliding with the rhythm of his hips pounding into you. Your toes curled. Your hands dug into his shoulders. It was all too much.

And then it happened, your release crashing over you, breathtaking and unstoppable. The moans caught in your throat, your body trembling as wave after wave of pleasure consumed you.

Clark wasn’t far behind. The sound of your climax, the way your body tightened around him like a vice, it pushed him over the edge. With a groan that rumbled deep in his chest, he came hard, spilling into you, filling you with warmth.

Even as the last waves of your orgasm pulsed through you, Clark didn’t stop. His thrusts slowed just enough to keep from overwhelming you, but they were still deep, intentional. He stayed hard inside you, your slick heat coaxing him to keep moving, to draw every last ounce of pleasure from your spent body.

Finally, after a few more thrusts, he stilled remaining inside you.  A golden, heavy quiet filled the room, broken only by the sound of your ragged breathing and the gentle thump of his heart against your chest.

Clark didn’t move right away. He just held you. One arm wrapped securely around your waist, the other stroking your back in slow, grounding circles. His lips pressed soft, breathless kisses against your temple, your cheek, your shoulder, everywhere he could reach without letting you go.

“You okay?” he murmured, voice low and careful.

You nodded against him, too dazed to form words just yet. He smiled softly and shifted just enough to grab the blanket off the couch, wrapping it around your back without slipping out of you. He stayed seated, still joined, still holding you close like he couldn’t bear to let you go.

Getting up with you still in his arms, his softening cock still nestled in your warmth, he carried you gently toward the bathroom. He turned on the water, letting it warm up for the both of you, steam already beginning to rise and curl around the tiles.

He set you down carefully on the counter, your body pliant in his arms. Your head came to rest against the cool mirror behind you, eyes half-lidded, lips parted in a dazed smile. Clark let out a quiet chuckle at your blissed-out expression, brushing his fingers tenderly across your cheek.

“I’m gonna pull out now, okay?” he said softly, voice full of care, not wanting to startle you or cause any discomfort.

“Yeah…” you mumbled, barely coherent, too tired and thoroughly spent to say more than that.

The shower was quick, quiet, and sweet. Clark was gentle with every touch, washing your body with thoughtful care, making sure not to linger too long or overstimulate your already-sensitive skin. He moved with reverence, like tending to something precious.

When it was over, he didn’t bother trying to dress you. Instead, he wrapped a towel around your damp body, gently patting you dry before scooping you back up into his arms.

He didn’t go back to the living room for his briefs, didn’t bother with anything else. All that mattered was getting you comfortable.

He carried you straight to your bed, settling you down with the same tenderness he’d shown you all night. Then he climbed in beside you, pulling you into his arms like you belonged there, like you always had.

The soft throw blanket he’d grabbed on the way to the bathroom now covered both of you, a light layer against the summer night. The duvet was folded off to the side, too heavy, too much, especially with Clark radiating warmth like a human furnace.

You let yourself melt into him, safe, warm, held.

You felt like you were on another planet, drifting through the best dream of your life, half-convinced you’d wake up any minute. Needing to make sure he was real, solid and warm beneath you, you clung to him. One leg curled possessively around his waist as you lay nearly fully on top of him, your bodies still bare, still close.

His semi-hard cock rested dangerously close to your still-sensitive cunt. It was a risk… but one you welcomed. A game you were more than willing to play again if it led to the same beautiful consequences.

Your fingers traced idle shapes along his chest, feeling the slow rise and fall of his breath. When you looked up, you found him already watching you, glasses still perched on his nose.

Weird.

Had he even taken them off in the shower? You couldn’t quite remember. Your brain had been hazy, your body boneless, your mind confused, but you were almost certain he’d kept them on the whole time. Just like he was keeping them on now, even though you both clearly had no plans of moving anytime soon.

You brushed it off, figuring he just wanted to see you clearly. Maybe it was a comfort thing. Maybe it was just Clark.

The silence stretched for a few more moments, soft and content, until you broke it with a rasping whisper. “You know I had the biggest crush on you for months?”

His lips curved into that smug, infuriatingly cute grin. “Oh yeah. I know,” he said, teasing deep in his voice.

You squinted at him, suspicious. “What do you mean, you know?”

Still grinning, he added—without thinking, way too casually. “I could hear how fast your heart was beating.”

Silence. Your brain stalled.

“You could… what?”

His smile faltered. Fuck. Clark had a lot of explaining to do.

©sillyswriting 2025

im so obsessed with this man i wrote this in two days...

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it is so stupid and evil that you cannot romance the spider

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Had the day off, drew a wizard :>

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Wait but does this unlock something in anyone else's brain of Mr. Terrific going about dressed in punk clothes with eyeliner and such to disguise the black lip stain? Because I think he could pull it off in attitude absolutely 🙂‍↕️. The man went and saved Superman just to piss Guy off, AND because it was the right thing to do. He's punk rock too.

So I understand now that Mr. Terrifics mask is molecularly bonded to him and can come and go whenever he wants. And probably for design and filming designs they split it so he can talk and the black lips are actually just the molecular mask

But I like to imagine he's just committed enough to use a really good black lip stain

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why did we ever get rid of letter columns

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this one is 4 my good buddy who does not frequent tumblr. wing time

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take a break

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this guy

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In honor of Guy Gardner having Fat Bottomed Girls on his official playlist, I have made an abomination

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doing my level best to be extremely normal about how much i love the stories my friends make

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Ditty I am screaming and begging and pleading for some Hector smut! Tell me how obsessed he is with his owner. I NEED

Summary - Hector thinks about his love and all the time that they spend together. All the time that he spends showing her his love.

Link to AO3 ☆ Fic Masterlist ☆ Ko-Fi

She was beautiful and she was his.

No one else understood her like he did. No one else took the time to understand her needs. But he had. Every little part of her day routine was seared into his memory with just as much strength as the firm hinges which kept the doors to his chest tightly closed.

To follow her though the vents was his purpose and he fulfilled his role with a painful devotion, every satisfied sigh as she enjoyed the chilled or heated air which he provided feeling like a victory which brought the odd tear to his eye. He had achieved that. He had brought those feelings. That pleasure.

And he always knew the difference.

Like when she drifted through the front door into her living room, tired from the long work day that has stolen her from him. In the evening light, where the sun was already disappearing, she was often in desperate need for a little hint of warmth in her bones.

He gave her that.

Twisting the dials which sat heavily on his chest, he provided the gradual increase in heat that allowed her to remove her clothing in that flawless, sensual way which never failed to drive him wild and leave his hands trembling against the grate.

But she didn't always love that same heat. No. She was brilliant, multifaceted, and understood that sometimes the cold was just as necessary.

He gave her that.

Switching out the warmth for a chillier air, one which ghosted along her skin, he watched as it caused her nipples to peak beneath the thin fabric of her shirts. She liked the cold, usually preferred it, and that was all the clearer on those unforgettable nights where she threw caution to the wind and gave him a show he could barely believe.

It was always the same routine as he craved it as deeply as she craved his air. Her gaze locking on to his grate as her dainty fingers plucked the clothing from her body and dropped it all to a messy heap on the floor as she slowly revealed herself to him. The swell of her breasts was almost enough to leave him in bliss, but no, she always gave him more, her generosity limitless.

Her hands would slip down, past her rounded stomach to rest atop her groin, fingers teasing along the pubic hair as they delved between her slickened folds in a way that had his hands shifting between his own thighs; jerking his cock to whatever rhythm she wanted to set as he whimpered out his adoration.

He would drink it in. Every sigh. Every little twitch of her limbs. Every little patch of gooseflesh which the cool air he blew at her with reverence forced on her skin. It took everything, every ounce of his self-restraint to keep that air cold as it ghosted across her body, it's impact all he could manage from his hidden away positioning.

He would come with her name on his lips as his release spattered across his shaking hands. Every whisper of her a spoken prayer which make his spine curl and his cock ache with overstimulation as he kept stroking it to the point of discomfort; never once stopping before she was ready and lost in her own release. Her pleasure giving him the permission to stop.

Once she had even rewarded him with her touch after her release had passed. Her fingers had crept up to link with his own trembling digits as they pressed through the grates. The scent of her arousal had overpowered him as it clung to her fingers and passed to his own, a visibly glistening mess which made him wish he could fit his tongue through the grate and clean them off properly.

But no, she had given him more.

Heat, the likes of which he hadn't felt before, spread through his veins like liquid fire as she willingly brought his fingers to her lips despite the need which utterly gutted him at her touch. She was soft, warm, perfect in every way and he couldn't even pretend to hide the way that his breathing quickened, blowing frantically low gusts of cool air through the vent as she pressed the pads of his fingers to her warm mouth.

So perfect; he wasn't even ashamed when his cock spasmed and a fresh release spread messily within the confines of his pants as she pulled his finger past her lips and wrapped her tongue around it, sucking him into her wet heat like he actually deserved it.

One day he feared that she would want more, want to see him in a way that he wasn’t sure he was ready to face. But if it would make her happy then he would consider it. Even if it meant having to face his own shame and allow her to make that choice.

She was beautiful and he was hers.

[lawrites]

been thinking about them recently