Lust in Legal Gray Areas

📂 Michael Bluth (Arrested Development) └─ Series: 𝘊𝘰𝘯𝘧𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘙𝘰𝘰𝘮 #2   • 18+   • Complete

  ↳ Chapter 1   ↳ Chapter 2   ↳ Chapter 3   ↳ Chapter 4   ↳ Chapter 5   ↳ Chapter 6   ↳ Chapter 7   ↳ Chapter 8   ↳ Chapter 9   ↳ Chapter 10

🦸‍♂️ Clark Kent (DCU) └─ One-shots:   • Bitten · 18+   • Supes’ First Play · 18+   • Brushstrokes and Whimpers · 18+

  • First of All · 18+

<3

Michael Bluth x Reader tags: Slow burn, Office tension, Smut, P in V, make out, Drug use, Oral Fem reciving. Minors DNI.

POV: Reader's POV

Rating: 🔥 (18+)

Summary:

The audit is almost finished. The tension is not. A night that was supposed to be about closing a file becomes about everything they’ve been avoiding—unspoken wants, careful restraint, and the kind of connection that refuses to stay professional.

Authors notes: The end of this story is here. This was super fun to write. Sorry to the couple of you I had worried this would never be finished. Here it is the spicy finish like always please enjoy.

The final night came upon us quicker than I expected. As I got ready for work, I found myself reaching for my best shoes, a skirt that hugged me just right, a matching set—like I was anticipating something, even if I wouldn’t admit it.

I waved off the thought that I was dressing up for Michael. I told myself I just wanted to look nice. Presentable.

But for what?

The question made a small smile tug at my lips. I flushed at the thought of his mouth, his hands, the way he pressed close when we connected. My body reacted before my mind could catch up, a shiver running through me.

By the time my alarm rang, I was already slipping on my shoes and heading out the door. I’d miss these night hours. There was something grounding about sleeping in and working in an empty office—space to think, to focus. And having Michael mostly to myself was not something I was ready to admit I cared about.

Outside my apartment, a raindrop hit my cheek. The air was cold and damp, my breath visible as I exhaled. It was going to be a chilly day.

When I arrived at work, the quiet hit me immediately—too quiet. The uncomfortable kind. The elevator ride felt louder than it should have, the ding echoing as it carried me from the lobby to our floor.

When the doors opened, I became acutely aware of myself. My heart thudded in my ears. Heat crept up my face as I stepped forward, my lingerie shifting against my thigh.

Each step felt clumsier than the last. As I neared the shared office Michael and I had occupied for the past month, my legs seemed determined to betray me. I almost tripped over nothing—just air. Luckily, no one was there to see it.

I opened the office door.

Michael, as always, didn’t look up.

The silence settled between us, thick and irritating.

“It’s pouring out there,” I said, shrugging off my damp jacket. Strands of hair clung to my forehead.

“Hmm.” He nodded, eyes still on the papers in front of him, like they held the answers to everything. Something about it annoyed me more than it should have.

Normally, I would’ve pushed. Instead, I suddenly felt too self-conscious for our usual banter.

“Okay then,” I said, sarcasm slipping through despite myself.

He finally looked up. “Is there a problem?” His head barely lifted, but his eyes locked onto mine.

“Of course not.” I smiled tightly as I pulled out my things. “Just glad to be done with this.” I dropped a binder onto the table, snapping it open. “Yep. Pretty glad,” I muttered.

Michael exhaled and dragged a hand over his face. “Alright. There’s obviously something wrong,” he said, looking at me properly now—controlled, but not unkind.

“Nope. Nothing at all.” I sneezed immediately after, a shiver following close behind.

Without saying anything, he stood. Another quiet sigh, then he took his dry jacket and draped it over my shoulders.

“Fine. Just don’t get sick.” His hand lingered there for a moment. “I don’t want to finish your screw-up alone.” He gave my shoulder a brief squeeze before heading back to his desk.

“Excuse me?” I smirked. “That was our mistake. Don’t forget that, Mr. Perfect.”

He smiled. Finally.

Wrapped in his jacket, surrounded by the scent of oak and sandalwood, I felt warmer than I should have. For the next hour, focusing was nearly impossible. Heat kept rising to my face. I tried not to look at him—but I failed.

I stared shamelessly.

“What?” He caught me and laughed softly. “You’re gonna poke a hole.” He smirked and went back to work.

Then he did the thing.

He bit his pen—not enough to damage it, just enough to be deliberate. Slow. Thoughtful.

Entirely unfair.

Did he not know you weren’t supposed to make biting a pen hot?

I watch him nibble at the pen and immediately think it would be better if it were something else he had between his teeth. I catch myself and take a slow breath, grounding it back down.

“I think I need a bathroom break,” I say, already standing. It’s not really a question—just a statement.

“Okay, I’ll see you—”

I don’t hear the rest. The door closes behind me before he can finish, and he still hasn’t looked up from his papers.

The bathroom lights buzz to life as I flip the switch. I stare at myself in the mirror.

What am I doing?

I press my hands to my face, trying to calm the rush under my skin. I turn on the sink, hoping cold water will help. It doesn’t. If anything, it only makes the contrast worse—cold hands, flushed cheeks, heat I can’t explain away.

After a few minutes, I finally leave.

When I get back to the office, Michael isn’t in his chair. My first instinct is to go looking for him. I barely have time to argue with myself before I hear the men’s bathroom door down the hall.

So. He took a break too.

I force my attention back to work. The papers on the desk are scattered, completely out of order. I know how much Michael hates that. Against my better judgment, I start organizing them—partly to be helpful, partly so I can throw it back at him later.

I’m so focused that it slips my mind what I’m wearing. Bent over the desk, the edge of lace is visible if you’re looking closely enough.

Someone clears their throat.

I glance back. Michael is leaning against the doorframe. I don’t straighten up right away.

“Oh, hey,” I say casually. “You’ve got quite the mess here. One might think you’re messy by nature.”

Before I can finish the sentence, his hand plants on the desk beside mine. Then I feel his weight—not crushing, not rushed—just enough to make his presence undeniable. He leans in, his nose tracing slowly along my neck. His voice is low when he speaks, close to my ear.

“What exactly do you think you’re doing?”

His hand inches closer to mine, just enough that our fingers brush. I bite my lip to keep myself quiet.

“What?” I manage. “What are you talking about?”

I shiver as his breath ghosts my skin.

“I’m not spelling it out,” he says calmly. “I’m not a teenager. I know what you’re doing. I’ve known for weeks.”

There’s a brief pause. Then a soft, almost amused breath of a laugh.

“If you don’t stop,” he continues, “I’m not sure I’ll be able to keep playing nice.”

He straightens, stepping back completely—controlled, composed, himself again.

“If I’m messy,” he adds, eyes lingering on me a second too long, “that’s what I have you for.”

The smile he gives me is disarming. Heated. Familiar.

And I can’t tell if this is just Michael being Michael—or something entirely new.

I swallow and straighten, forcing a laugh even though I can still feel the ghost of him behind me.

“I’m more than just an organizer, you know,” I say, grasping for banter, trying my best to pretend that didn’t just shake me to my core.

He only smiles, a short huff of amusement escaping him as he turns back to his work.

I can’t focus after that. Numbers blur together. Auditing feels impossible. I cross my legs, hoping it’ll settle me, but it only makes things worse. Having his jacket draped over me—his scent lingering—doesn’t help either.

All of this, and all we’ve ever done is kiss.

Somehow, I push through my tasks, using the excuse of making copies every so often just to breathe—to escape his lingering looks and my own wandering eyes.

When I make my final copy, I glance at the time and realize I’ve reached the end of the file. The last page slides into view, and something tightens in my chest as it lands in the tray.

Once I hand this in, once he signs off, that’s it.

The late nights. The banter. The tension. All of it ends. I go back to being just another faceless office assistant at Bluth.

I grip the stack, crumpling one corner before catching myself and smoothing it out. Then I head back to the office, half-expecting Michael to be exactly where I left him.

He is—but he’s stretching now. Arms raised, back arching just enough that his shirt comes untucked, exposing a strip of toned stomach and a lazy trail of hair disappearing south. My eyes follow before I can stop them.

“I’m back with the last batch,” I say, setting the papers down. “After this, we’re done.”

“That’s it?” He smiles. “Wow. One hell of a file.”

“That’s an understatement.” My nerves get the better of me, words coming out flatter than I intend.

“Let’s take a break,” he says, turning toward me.

“Huh?” I blink. “Didn’t we just—”

“Come on.” He’s already moving, heading toward that spot—the one where we kissed, where everything shifted, where I used to avoid him.

“I thought you didn’t—”

He grabs my hand before I can finish.

“Today’s a special case,” he says, leading me up the stairs and through the rooftop door, never letting go.

Once outside, he releases my hand only to reach into his pocket. He pulls out a joint and a lighter.

“It’s my way of paying you back,” he says, wearing the most unconvincing smile I’ve ever seen on him.

I laugh. “And where did a square like you get this?”

“I have my resources,” he says, trying—and failing—to sound cool.

I look him dead in the eye. “It was Gob, wasn’t it?”

He shakes his head. “Nope. Got this one all on my own.”

“Yeah, right. Seriously—where?”

He sighs. “Fine. Tobias.”

I laugh again. “Of course.”

“I told him I needed flowers,” Michael adds. “This is… not exactly what I had in mind. But it works.”

I stop short. “Wait—you wanted to get me flowers?”

“I never said that,” he replies quickly. “They were for someone else.”

The lie is terrible.

I step closer, lifting the joint to my lips. “Got a light?”

“This time, I do.”

He flicks the lighter, shielding the flame from the wind with one hand as he leans in, lighting it for me with the other.

“That lie was terrible,” I say after taking my first puff.

Before I can take a second, Michael plucks the joint from my fingers.

“If I’m such a bad liar,” he says casually, “then I guess I’ll keep it all to myself.” He settles the joint between his lips and crosses his arms, clearly enjoying himself.

I try to reach for it, but the height difference makes that harder than expected. I make a few small hops, the sound of my heels tapping against the rooftop after each failed attempt.

“That’s not fair,” I protest. “Sharing is caring.”

He laughs as I try again.

“Here.”

He steps closer, close enough that I stop moving altogether. His hand comes up, fingers tilting my chin until I’m looking up at him.

“Open your mouth.”

I do.

He takes a measured puff, then leans in, exhaling slowly—his lips brushing mine just barely as the smoke leaves his mouth. When he pulls back, all I see is that infuriating, satisfied smirk.

I smirk right back.

“When did you learn that?” I ask, his hand still resting under my chin, his mouth only inches from mine.

“I told you,” he says lightly. “I was a bit of a rebel in college. Shotgunning’s a basic stoner skill. How else was I supposed to impress women?”

“Well,” I say, inching closer without thinking, “you definitely impressed this one.”

He places the joint back against my lips.

“Your turn.”

I inhale, then follow his lead—exhaling slowly, straight toward his mouth, watching his expression shift just slightly as the smoke curls between us.

His gaze softens as it drops to my lips. I hold my breath and close my eyes, waiting—hoping—for something to happen. Nothing does. The silence stretches, long enough to feel endless.

When I finally open my eyes, he’s pulled back. His smile is different now—quieter, sadder—as he lifts a hand and gently strokes my face.

“What?” I ask, trying to read him, trying to catch up to whatever’s happening behind his eyes.

“I just…” He stops, exhales, then tries again. “I’ll miss this.”

There it is. The thing I didn’t want to hear—didn’t want to admit I was afraid of.

“This?” I step closer, closing the distance he created. My hand comes up to his, cupping it as I lean into the touch. “What even is this?” I ask, bracing myself for the answer anyway.

He takes a deep breath and pulls me in, his other hand settling around my waist.

“This is…” He pauses, then smiles like he’s found the perfect escape. “This is an HR violation.”

I hit his arm lightly. “I’m serious.”

“When are you ever serious?” he jokes, but his grip tightens, like I might drift away if he lets go.

“Okay, fair. But seriously—what’s with you today? You’re being all mysterious.” I don’t mention the almost-kiss, though it keeps replaying in my head.

“Is it really that bad that I’m being nice to you on our last day?” he says, his thumb brushing my cheek.

“It’s not bad,” I admit. “Just scary. What happened to the sarcastic, closed-off Michael?” I slide my hands up and gently squish his face, making us both laugh. Somehow, we settle back into something familiar.

“It’s still me,” he says. “Unless…” He pauses, thinking. “Nope. Definitely still me.”

That smile is disarming. I laugh—and before I overthink it, I lean in and kiss him. It’s light, barely there, more a brush than anything else.

He freezes, clearly stunned, which surprises me—we’ve kissed before. But this time, his gaze shifts, heat replacing the softness.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” he murmurs. “HR would definitely disapprove.”

Then his lips crash into mine.

My hands slide up to his neck, pulling him closer. He lets the joint fall away, both arms wrapping around my waist to keep me steady, pressed to his chest. One hand trails up my back, fingers tangling in my hair as he cradles my head.

It feels more intimate than it should—for only a second kiss.

Our kiss only deepens, our mouths falling open as our tongues tangle together. He’s more insistent than I imagined—and a very good kisser, I realize distantly as he nibbles at my lower lip before finally pulling back so we can breathe.

There’s so much desperation in it that it almost overwhelms me. We stare at each other, chests rising and falling, both of us still catching our breath. Without a word, Michael moves again—this time to my neck—pressing us back against the wall for support.

His lips trail from my ear downward, a slow line of kisses all the way to my collarbone. Each one is deliberate, each carrying its own bite or nibble. Every time a sound slips from me and my eyes flutter open, all I find is his gaze.

It’s the kind of gaze that could melt the Arctic. I feel like a meal in front of the hungriest man alive.

“You really are a tease,” he murmurs against my skin. “You know that, right? Wearing things like this to work. I might have to file an HR report.”

I’m not usually one for dirty talk, but after everything that’s happened recently, my mind follows him there anyway.

“What would you say?” I ask softly, breathless.

“In the report, I mean.”

He bites my skin—not enough to hurt or bruise, just enough to make me gasp.

“Well,” he says slowly, “I’d have to start with conduct. Very disobedient. Sometimes difficult to work with.” His mouth lingers, his voice low. “Mostly because she’s incredibly distracting.”

His hands come up, gripping my breasts through the thin fabric of my blouse, fingers teasing over it. I can’t help the small whimper that slips out, a shiver running through me at his touch.

“I could probably write two full pages just about your clothing,” he continues, tugging at my buttons as his mouth returns to my neck, relentless. “How inappropriate it is.”

I tug lightly at his hair and clamp a hand over my mouth to keep myself quiet.

“These flimsy blouses, buttons ready to pop,” he murmurs. “Those tight skirts that leave nothing to the imagination. But today… today you crossed a line.”

His fingers finish undoing my shirt, pulling it open. My chest is fully exposed, the black lace bralette I chose cupping me perfectly. The cool night air brushes my skin, slowly tinting it pink.

Michael looks up at me with a smirk. “This is incredibly inappropriate,” he says. “Definitely not work attire.”

One finger hooks into the lace, tugging it down until my breasts spill free. He watches my face as he plays with one nipple, my expression giving me away as I bite my lip to stay quiet.

“God,” he murmurs. “What am I going to do with you? You look so—”

He doesn’t finish the sentence before taking one breast into his mouth, teasing with his teeth while his other hand works the one he’s left behind.

“M—Michael…” I breathe, barely managing the sound as heat coils tighter and tighter in my core. I press my legs together, desperate for friction. “I don’t… think we should… here.”

He pulls back, nodding, breathless too. “Look at you,” he says softly. “Maybe you do have a good head on your shoulders.”

“Maybe I’m just scared of that HR report becoming real,” I joke weakly, trying to recover—until he pinches one nipple between his fingers, making me gasp.

“What a shame,” he says as his gaze holds mine. “But if not here… then where?”

My brain lags, still caught on the way his fingers keep teasing. “M—my place?” I manage.

He considers it, still torturing me with slow, deliberate touches. He keeps pulling and pinching at the poor nipple, never hurting but definitely teasing. “That could work.”

“Yeah,” I add breathlessly, “no George Michael at my place—unless you count a CD.”

His mouth twitches. “Very funny,” he says, smoothing my bra back into place, buttoning my shirt like this is all perfectly normal. “Wouldn’t want anyone hearing you say my name all night.”

Then he checks his watch—like we weren’t just pressed together moments ago.

“Well,” he says lightly, “look at that. It's almost time to go.”

He turns and heads back downstairs, leaving me standing there, stunned.

This is Michael—the same man who just made my knees weak like it was nothing.

The drive to my place is quiet in a way that feels deliberate. Michael follows me up the stairs without touching me, without saying much at all. The distance feels louder than anything he could’ve done.

Inside, I flick on the light and immediately regret how small the space feels. Too intimate. Too lived-in. My shoes are kicked off near the door, a throw blanket draped over the couch like it’s been waiting to witness something.

“Sorry,” I say automatically, gesturing vaguely. “I didn’t really plan for company.”

He hums in acknowledgment, eyes moving slowly around the room, taking it in the same way he studies files—quiet, observant, unreadable. “It’s fine,” he says. “Feels… like you.”

That does something to me.

I set my bag down, suddenly hyper-aware of my own movements, of how close he is behind me now. Not touching. Just there. The air feels thicker, warmer, like it’s holding its breath.

“So,” I say, turning halfway to face him, already knowing how inadequate the word is. “This is where I live.”

He meets my gaze, something softer creeping into his expression—something less guarded than before. “I know,” he says quietly. “That’s why I’m being careful.”

The weight of that lands heavier than anything else tonight.

I blush and look away, suddenly unsure what to do with my hands. “Um—do you want water? Juice? Wine?” I open the fridge, scanning it like it might save me. “Oh. There’s no juice. I can run out and get some—it’ll only take a second.” I reach for my coat again, flustered.

His hand closes around mine, stopping me mid-movement.

“I don’t want juice.”

That look again—the one that makes my thoughts scatter.

“Oh. Okay.”

I let go of the coat and let him guide me closer, his hand still holding mine, his eyes never leaving my face.

“I just want… you,” he says softly, pressing a kiss to the top of my head.

I look up at him and rise onto my toes, meeting his lips. When we kiss again, it feels different—quieter, steadier, like something settling into place. My body responds instantly anyway, warmth blooming under my skin. My hands slide up around his neck as his settle at my waist, pulling me in.

The kiss deepens, slow and unhurried this time, the earlier hunger tempered into something heavier. He lifts me with ease and carries me a few steps to my bedroom, setting me down on the bed like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

He kneels in front of me, gaze steady, unbreaking, and presses a line of kisses along my legs. Even through the fabric, every touch feels intentional—measured. Like he’s learning me. Watching me.

He notices everything. Where I tense. Where I react. Where my breath catches just a little too sharply. He returns to those spots without hesitation, and I have to grip the sheets to keep myself still, to keep myself quiet.

The patience in it is almost unbearable.

It feels electric, sending shivers up my spine that pool low in my belly. His lips trail higher, the warmth of his breath seeping through the thin fabric of my skirt, teasing the sensitive skin beneath. I can feel the rough stubble on his jaw brushing against my thighs, a delicious contrast to the softness of his mouth, and my breath hitches as he pauses, his hands sliding up to grip my hips with a gentle but insistent pressure. 

There's a quiet intensity in his eyes when he looks up at me, as if he's memorizing every reaction, every subtle shift in my expression, and it makes my heart race faster than the physical sensations alone.

“Mm Michale..” is all i can say most of the time as he explores my body. 

“I knew you would be saying my name..” he says between kisses with a cocky tone in his voice.

He doesn't rush; instead, his fingers find the hem of my skirt, inching it upward with deliberate slowness, exposing more of my skin to the cool air of the room. The anticipation builds, a throbbing heat between my legs that I can't ignore, and when his lips finally press directly against the inside of my thigh, bare and unfiltered, I gasp softly.

“So sensitive..” he teases before biting the plump soft skin of my inner thigh.

 His tongue flicks out, tasting me, and I feel myself growing wetter, my pussy aching for more as he nuzzles closer. Michael's hands move to part my legs further, his thumbs tracing circles on my inner thighs, and the way he looks at me—hungry yet reverent—stirs something deep inside, a mix of vulnerability and desire that makes me arch toward him. He murmurs my name against my skin, the sound vibrating through me, and I thread my fingers into his hair, pulling him closer as the world narrows to just this moment, this connection.

As he shifts higher, his mouth hovering over the damp fabric of my underwear, I feel the first real wave of surrender. 

“ you have no idea .. how long .. ive wanted .. to do this” he says as his tongue makes contact with the wet fabric. “You are a mess down here.. Maybe you thought about it too..” he trails a dinger down my core and close to my entrance. “Maybe more than once?” he asked, looking up.

I nod,desperate for more contact.

He hooks his fingers into the waistband and slides them down, revealing me fully, and the cool air hits my exposed folds, making me shiver. His gaze locks on mine for a heartbeat, filled with that same careful intensity, before he leans in, his tongue delving into my slick heat with a slow, exploratory stroke. 

The sensation is overwhelming—wet and warm, his lips and tongue working in tandem to tease my clit, sending jolts of pleasure through my body that make my breasts heave with each ragged breath.

He pulls back slightly for air. “What gives.. You taste so sweet” he says between pants as he sucks and nibbles at your skin. You almost think he is hungry for real. My head falls back while I feel his tongue expertly lick between my folds to find my clit and begin a relentless attack on the little nub of nerves. 

He starts by sucking on it lightly, almost waking it up. Then he proceeds to give open mouth kisses while slowly adding pressure from his tongue. The slow and deliberate movements had me nearing the edge of pleasure; each kiss had me shivering and gasping at the sensation. Without warning he began to suck on the ball of nerves. This caused me to pull away to push him off from the overwhelming sensation. He did not budge, instead he was determined to ruin me. 

He responds by slipping a finger inside me, curling it just right to hit that sensitive spot, all while his mouth continues its relentless, devoted rhythm. It's not just the physical bliss; it's the way he seems to savor every sound I make, every twitch of my hips, as if this act is as much about cherishing me as it is about the raw, building ecstasy threatening to consume us both.

His fingers curl deeper inside me, stroking that sweet, hidden spot with a rhythm that's both tender and insistent, as if he's unraveling me layer by layer, drawing out every hidden desire I've kept buried. My hips buck involuntarily, seeking more of that exquisite pressure, and I feel the slick heat of my arousal coating his hand, my pussy clenching around him in greedy waves. 

“You close..” he says as he looks up at me. I can't help but nod and reply “yes” in a breathy voice.

Michael's mouth never leaves my clit, his tongue swirling with renewed fervor, alternating between firm laps and gentle flicks that send sparks of fire racing through my veins. The room seems to fade away, leaving only the sound of my ragged breaths mingling with his low, appreciative groans, the air thick with the musky scent of our shared passion. It's intoxicating, the way he worships me—his free hand sliding up my body to cup my breast, thumb brushing over the hardened nipple through my shirt, amplifying the pleasure until I'm a trembling mess beneath him.

Yet, even in this haze of bliss, I sense his restraint, his desire to prolong this moment, to make it last. He slows his pace slightly, his fingers pumping with deliberate languor while his lips trail lower, tasting the essence of my arousal with a hunger that feels almost primal. It's not just about the physical release; it's the way he makes me feel seen, cherished in my most unguarded state, turning this act into a dance of mutual surrender that binds us tighter with every shared breath.

As the tension builds, coiling tight in my core like a storm about to break, I arch my back, my fingers tightening in his hair, urging him on without words. He responds by adding a second finger, stretching me just enough to heighten the fullness, his movements synchronized with the relentless tease of his tongue.

He hums against me, the vibration pushing me closer to the edge. My body responds in kind, thighs quivering around his shoulders, the building ecstasy threatening to shatter me into pieces.

My orgasm overflows. I shiver as the waves of pleasure wash over me. My hips buck upwards to his mouth. 

He finally pulls away. He pulls his fingers out of me and sucks them clean, while some of my arousal still drips on his chin. 

“Well this sure was not very appropriate of us” he teases with a smirk. “The report will be 5 pages long if we add this incident, and how you couldn't stop shouting my name” he teases. 

I gather my breath slowly “ so cocky for someone .. so turned on” i use my leg to press on his hard on. This makes him wince at the sudden friction. He grabs my leg to stop it but with zero conviction.

He smirks at me “can you blame me.. When I have you like this in front of me” he teases what's left of your lingerie. 

“Guess not .. very inappropriate behaviour from both our parts wouldn't you think so sir” it slips out not because i was trying to be sexy i got caught up in the whole office scenario. The moment I said it I could see it affected him.

His grip on my thighs tighten. He maneuvered one of my legs away from his crotch with ease. 

“Come again?” he says with a grin on his face that is almost annoying if you don't find it cute. 

“Notning” i say a little shy trying to pretend I didn't just say what I did.

“Oh no, come on” he says, grinding his clothed hard against my sensitive exposed clit, making me gasp again.

“I didnt say .. ah .. anything” I doubled down. He continued to grind relentlessly.

“Yes you did, you say too much actually” he teases. The grinding is driving me insane. It's enough friction and not enough all at the same time.

“Go on, say it. I know you want to” he pressed.

“Fuck … fine … please .. fuck me .. sir” I say a little emberassed to be this turned on. 

“Request approved” he said leaning down to kiss me hard again this time hungry like before. Nipping and bitting at my swollen lip. 

He shifts his weight, his body sliding up along mine with deliberate grace, the hard length of his cock pressing against my thigh through the fabric of his pants, a tantalizing reminder of what's to come. His fingers, still slick from my arousal, trace lazy patterns on my hip, igniting fresh sparks of need as he whispers against my lips, "I want to feel all of you," his voice a husky vow that sends a shiver through me, amplifying the ache in my core.

With a smooth, unhurried motion, he pulls his shirt over his head and lets it fall aside. The defined planes of his chest are revealed, along with a dark trail of hair that disappears beneath the waistband of his trousers. I stare—long enough that he notices.

“There you go,” he says, amused. “Burning holes again.”

My eyes move over him shamelessly now, taking in details I’ve only ever caught glimpses of through fitted office shirts. Lean muscle, solid and practiced. A body shaped by time, not vanity—broad where it counts, worn in the way that comes from living a full life.

The line of hair down the center of his chest thins as it spreads outward, imperfect and natural. There’s nothing polished about him, nothing manufactured—and that’s exactly what makes it so compelling, so attractive, so Michael.

This is a man who’s lived. Who’s loved. Who’s weathered things.

And somehow, standing here with me now.

 As his cock springs free, thick and veined, pulsing with the same urgency I feel, he positions himself between my thighs, the head of it brushing against my soaked folds in a teasing glide that makes me gasp and arch toward him.

His face is flushed as he looks at me. “You ready?” he asks even before being fully aligned to come inside. 

 He pauses then, his hand cupping my face with surprising tenderness, his eyes searching mine for that final affirmation, and in that moment, the emotional weight of our connection hits me like a wave—it's not just lust, but a profound trust, a shared vulnerability that makes every touch feel sacred.

I nod my head and kiss his hand by my face.  

Slowly, he pushes inside, filling me inch by inch, the stretch of my pussy around his cock both exquisite and overwhelming, drawing a moan from deep within as our bodies finally join in that perfect, rhythmic union.

He stays still for a moment, not moving, as if giving himself time to adjust—to the closeness, to the weight of being connected to me. We hold each other’s gaze, and in that quiet pause, everything that led us here flashes through my mind all at once.

He smiles. “You’re so beautiful,” he says softly, then kisses me. The words—and the way he says them—make me blush, and I don’t even notice my body tense in response.

“Whoa,” he murmurs with a faint laugh as he pulls back slightly. “Easy there. You’re getting too tight.”

“Sorry,” I whisper, my voice barely there.

He shakes his head. “No. It’s okay,” he says gently. “Just… warn me next time.” He exhales, steadying himself. “You think I can move now?” There’s tenderness in his voice, a quiet check-in that makes my chest tighten.

I nod.

He moves slowly—very slowly—and leans down again, capturing my lips in another kiss, just as careful, just as deliberate.

The pace builds gradually, his thrusts deep and measured at first, each one hitting that sensitive spot inside me while his hands roam to my breasts, thumbs circling my hardened nipples with a pressure that sends jolts of pleasure straight to my core. 

I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, our skin slick with sweat and desire, the air filled with the erotic symphony of our gasps and the wet sounds of our bodies moving together. Michael's breath is hot against my neck as he murmurs words of praise, his voice laced with emotion.

“God,” he breathes, voice rough, restraint finally fraying. “I held back for so long. You have no idea how hard that was.”

His pace shifts—firmer, more intentional—and then he stops, holding me right there, letting the pressure speak for him.

“Who do you answer to?” he asks, low and deliberate, like he already knows the answer.

“You,” I whisper, the word pulling something deep and aching from me.”you .. sir”

A slow smile curves at his mouth. “That’s right,” he murmurs. “You’re mine.”

The possessiveness in his voice sends a sharp thrill through me, his control unmistakable, chosen—not forced.

His speeds up but the intensity of each thrust stayed the same. Every time he thrusted inside me I could see stars. Slowly inching closer to my climax.

“You’re all mine.”

The words, paired with the mix of physical intensity and something deeper, tip me closer to the edge. Everything builds at once, tight and inevitable, binding us together in that shared moment.

“I’m… close,” I manage, my voice unsteady.

He nods. “Me too.” His grip tightens on my thighs—firm, grounding. I know I’ll feel it later.

We stay there for a few more breaths, chasing it together, until we finally reach it at the same time. I pull him into a kiss instinctively, clinging to him as the aftershocks roll through me. He softens into it, letting his weight settle as the last of it passes.

When he finally pulls back, he stays close. “You okay?” he asks, brushing damp hair away from my face with surprising tenderness.

I nod, smiling. “Yeah. I’m okay.”

“Good.” He leans down and kisses me again, slower now.

When he pulls back, I can’t help myself. “I had no idea audits were so hot.”

He laughs, shaking his head at the terrible joke.

“You never stop, do you?” he says, smiling as he settles beside me, his fingers threading through mine.

it’s the bot authored by @_FightC1ub_ on c.ai

sorry to bother! i just wanted to make sure you were aware in case your work was being plagiarized

I do not and I think I found what your taking about. I really hope they this is just a coincidence cuz if they just straight up stole my story that’s gonna make me very upset. For now for my sanity I’ll just say it’s a coincidence.

Fic idea: I kind of want to write a clark sick fic where he catches some weird alien cold and you nurse him to health.

Fandom:James gun superman Character(s):College AU Clark kent POV: Reader POV Rating:🔥18+ Tags:desperate clark, first time, teasing Summary:Post-breakup comfort spirals into a friends-to-lovers first time, shy, respectful Clark becomes hungry.Friends to lovers with a twist of virgin clark. Consent checks, tenderness, and a second round to make sure the data’s “conclusive.”

Authors notes: Another long one. I like writing banter sue me. Well enjoy this mess and if you want more always let me know.

The door slammed so hard your picture frames rattled. Clark stumbled in, shoulders tense, jaw locked, looking nothing like the polite farmboy you’d grown up with. He tossed his backpack onto the floor and collapsed onto your couch like the weight of the world had just pinned him there.

“She just—” His voice cracked, rougher than usual. “She just dumped me. Said Paris was calling her, and long distance wasn’t worth it.” He dragged his hands down his face, muffling the next part. “What am I supposed to do, huh?” He peeked at you through his fingers, looking like a wounded puppy.

“She did? …Well, why don’t you just go after her?” you teased, handing him the controller as you stood to grab a snack. Friday nights always looked the same—games, dumb jokes, and you half-heartedly swiping through your phone between rounds. But not tonight. Tonight Clark looked wrecked.

“I can’t. Mom and Dad already gave me the speech—‘no flying across the Atlantic, young man.’” Clark wagged a finger in perfect imitation of his mother, and you couldn’t help but laugh.

“Wow. Flying boy grounded. Tragic,” you teased, poking his side as you handed him the popcorn when you returned.

“Yeah, they’re afraid I’ll get lost,” he deadpanned. Which was ridiculous, considering he’d flown halfway across the world just to bring you candy once.

“That makes no sense,” you snorted. “Can’t you just keep going in one direction? Worst case, you end up in Tokyo again.”

Clark laughed too, the heaviness slipping for a moment.

“I guess they never thought of it that way,” he grinned, shoving popcorn into his mouth.

“So what are you gonna do now?” you asked, stealing some from the bowl.

“I don’t know. That’s why I came here. To ask my dear, dear, dear friend for help.” With every “dear,” he nudged you harder with his arm until you shoved him back.

“Stop! You don’t realize your own strength anymore,” you complained, clutching your arm with exaggerated drama. But when your hand wrapped around his bicep, you froze. Hard muscle flexed under your palm, solid and warm. When had he turned into this?

Not long ago, Clark was all bad hair and awkward height. Now his broad shoulders, smooth skin, and those massive arms made it impossible to ignore what he’d become.

“What, have I really gotten that strong?” Clark flexed one of his arms in front of your face. If it were anyone else, you’d swear he was showing off on purpose.

“Okay, okay, Mr. Muscles.” You shoved his arm away with a grin. “But seriously—what now? Gonna pine for her forever, or actually move on?”

Clark leaned back into the couch, sighing like the word itself hurt. “No. It’s over. Over over.” He shut his eyes. “She even cried.”

Then, out of nowhere, he smiled. “Is it weird I think it’s funny? She dumped me, but she was the one crying.”

You burst out laughing, and his deep laugh followed, warm and contagious.

“It’s not weird. It’s hilarious.” You popped more popcorn in your mouth. “Man, the dick must’ve been so good.”

The joke landed like a brick. Clark went still, his face flushing crimson. He gave a weak laugh, scratching the back of his neck. “Yeah, uh… not exactly. We never actually… you know… did it.”

Your head snapped toward him. “Wait. You mean you never fucked?”

The words were blunt, louder than you meant, but the shock was real. Clark Kent? Gorgeous, loyal Clark Kent? No way.

He winced, dragging a hand down his face. “Don’t say it like that—it’s embarrassing. She wanted us to wait. To be each other’s first.” His voice softened, cheeks burning.

You gaped. “Clark… are you actually still a—”

“Don’t.” He pointed at you, groaning. “Don’t make it a thing.”

“Oh my god.” You couldn’t stop the smirk. “The hottest guy on campus, and you’re telling me you’re still—”

“Drop it,” he groaned, tipping his head back.

You laughed, but underneath the humor something twisted hot in your stomach. “I’m not saying it’s bad, Clark. You’re just too innocent for your own good. I’m sure she gave you signs she wanted to be… intimate.”

He groaned again. “That’s worse. Don’t say it like that.”

“Well, you don’t like ‘fuck,’ so what do you want me to say? Mister Prude?” You squeezed his arm again, enjoying how tense he got.

He looked you dead in the eye. “What about… making love?”

You blinked. He wasn’t joking. A real blush crept up his neck. Of course Clark Kent would say that.

“Clark, that’s ridiculously sweet,” you giggled, though the sound caught in your throat. “And very on brand for you.”

“Well, I thought she wanted that. But… she didn’t.” His voice dipped.

“You mean to tell me—after all the kissing, the lap-sitting, the pickup lines, all of that—you never even—” You lowered your voice wickedly. “Did the whole ‘fuck her in the air’ thing?”

“[Y/N],” he groaned, glaring at you, but his ears turned red. “You really can’t help yourself.” His eyes locked on yours, intense, blue and burning. “We never even made out like a real couple.”

You stared at him. “Why not? She was your type, wasn’t she? Most guys would be counting down the days to lose it.”

“I was scared I’d be bad at it.”

The room went quiet.

“Bad at it?” you echoed.

“All of it,” he admitted, burying his face in his hands. “Back in high school—remember when I was in band?”

You grinned. “The tallest clarinet player alive.”

“Yeah. There was this girl. A senior. She kissed me once in her car. But then I… uh… got excited. Too excited.” He muttered into his palms. “Finished in my pants.”

You laughed, gentle this time. “Clark, that’s not bad. That’s just being seventeen.”

“She never spoke to me again,” he said miserably.

“Clark.” You touched his arm. “That doesn’t make you bad at it. It makes her an asshole.”

He looked up, and for a second you didn’t see shame anymore—you saw heat.

Your chest tightened. You shoved down every filthy thought clawing at your brain.

Still, your voice came out softer. “You’re not bad at it. You’re just… untested.”

He smiled faintly. “So what are you then? My therapist?”

You smirked. “More like your physical therapist. And with what you’ve got going on, that’s a whole different job.”

For a moment, you both laughed nervously. But neither of you looked away.

“Yeah, different profession,” he said, sneaking a look at you from the corner of his eye.

“At least my patient satisfaction score is unbeatable,” you said, bumping his knee.

“Really?” His grin widened. “Think you fit the requirements for that job?”

You swallowed, heat creeping up your neck. “Let’s just say I’m overqualified.”

He nudged you back, but his gaze lingered. “One day, I might need to see that expertise in action.”

You held his eyes, pulse kicking. “Then maybe…” The words slipped before you could stop them. “…I could help you. For practice.”

Clark stilled. His laugh died in his throat. He didn’t look away.

“Practice, huh?” His mouth tugged into something dangerously close to a smirk.

“Would it really be so weird?” you whispered. “We’ve been friends forever.”

He tilted his head, studying you, voice lower now. “It’d prove I’m not as bad as I think.”

“Exactly.” You matched his gaze. “And with me, it’d be comfortable.”

His jaw flexed. “Comfortable sounds nice. But are you sure this isn’t… too weird?”

You bit your lip to keep from blurting no. “I don’t mind teaching you, Clark. Just like I taught you Spanish.”

You smile but it soon turns to a smirk without your knowledge. You nervously look around not sure what to do with all the tension you just made.

“I was very bad at Spanish,” he joked, sliding his arm closer—this time on purpose.

 “Yes, you were. Couldn’t roll your r’s,” you murmured, drifting your hand toward his until your fingertips grazed.

 “Yeah… worst student,” he said, voice dropping—warm, almost sinful. “Truly ter—rr—rible,” you teased, rolling the r just to torment him.

Your eyes caught and held. The space between you shrank, breath by breath.

 “Ter…rr…ible,” he tried again, then huffed that soft, disarming laugh, smile bright and helpless.

You gave up pretending and tugged him in—finally closing over the kiss that had been hovering between you for far too long.

You kiss him softly at first, then deepen it—teasing a quick, mean little nibble to his bottom lip that’s been torturing you all night. He gasps into your mouth. The sound knocks through you. You’ve never seen Clark like this.

You keep kissing. One of his hands finds your waist and tugs you closer; the other slides up to tuck your hair behind your ear—sweet, careful, unbearably gentle.

You break for air but don’t give him space—your mouth trails to his jaw, then his neck, then the shell of his ear. Clark tries to keep it together. “That… was… mmm—very good,” he manages between uneven breaths.

Every kiss, every scrape of teeth, wrings something out of him—soft noises, cut-off groans—and the thrill of it hits you hard. This isn’t weird at all. It’s perfect.

He lifts you like you weigh nothing, settling you on his lap, facing him. “Here. More comfortable,” he murmurs, leaning back and tilting his head to offer his throat again.

That’s all the invitation you need.

You keep kissing “i never pegged you for a lover of neck kisses” you tease as the kisses become softer.

“Well… my ex never really… mmhh… did that,” he breathed, hands locked tight on your hips, not daring to slip lower. Classic Clark—good-natured to a fault, even now.

You giggled against his skin.

“What?” His voice pitched high, almost panicked. That girl really had done a number on him.

“Nothing,” you said, smiling as you slid his big hands down to cup your ass. “You’re just so damn cute. And so… innocent.”

Clark’s blush deepened, but he obeyed your guidance, squeezing cautiously like he was afraid you might laugh at him. “This is just… different. You’re my friend. I wanna be… res—respectful—oh, man…” His words broke into a groan as your mouth found his neck again. “I can’t even think when you’re doing that.”

“There’s such a thing as being too respectful.” Your lips dragged back up to his. “Besides… who said I wanted you to be able to think?”

Your smirk barely had time to register before Clark lifted you like a ragdoll and laid you back against the couch, pinning you there.

“You are very cocky,” he muttered, and this time there was an edge to his voice—a flash of something new.

You grinned up at him, heat curling low in your belly. “I guess I am. So what are you gonna do about it, Kent?” You rubbed your legs against his thighs, taunting.

He froze, the flush in his cheeks climbing to his ears as his brain scrambled. Watching the gears turn was almost as hot as anything else—this giant of a man, flustered and desperate.

You decided to toss him a lifeline. Mouthing the words slowly, you whispered, “I’ll show you.”

It took a second for him to catch on, but when he did, his lips parted. “U-uh… I’ll show you,” he echoed, voice trembling with nerves but carrying a raw, desperate heat that went straight through you.

You bite back a laugh and hook two fingers under the hem of his T-shirt, giving the laziest little tug—move it along, Smallville. He gets it; he always does. Clark pulls the shirt over his head, and the breath you were holding abandons ship. He’s all clean lines and honest strength, the kind of body that makes strangers murmur god and makes you inconveniently agree.

“Clark… I’m sorry, but when did you get this cut?” You mean it like a tease; it comes out like awe. Your fingertips trail down his chest, skimming every ridge and hollow, barely there on purpose.

He blushes, shy-proud, eyes flicking to yours. “Farm chores,” he says, a little breathless. “And I—uh—run sometimes.” His hand finds your wrist, not to stop you, just to anchor, the way he always checks in without making a speech. “This okay?”

His hands find your waist, hesitant at first, then braver as his thumbs trace slow circles. “I don’t—uh—run that much,” he admits, shy. “Not really my thing.”

“Well, I never liked running,” you tease, gesturing to your very un-runner routine. “Guess I never needed it.”

His mouth tilts; he’s blushing and trying not to. “I never thought you needed it,” he says, a little breathless—right as your fingers skim his happy trail and he stutters on the last word.

“You noticed my body before?” Your grin is wicked-soft. “Here I thought I was just your dear friend, Mr. Respectful.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, eyes bright and earnest. “You are my dear friend,” he says, voice low, “and I notice everything.” His fingers flex at your waist, checking in without words. “Tell me if I go too fast.”

You tug him closer by his belt loop. “You’re perfect right here.”

Clark’s thumb finally hooks under the hem of your tank top. It’s the thinnest, smallest one you own—white, nearly see-through, leaving almost nothing to the imagination. The plan tonight had been simple: games, snacks, maybe some Dexter reruns, and bed. But this? This was better. This was perfect in its own, unplanned way.

His fingers linger, hesitant but heavy with intent, waiting—giving you the chance to decide.

“Wow, it sure is hot in here,” you say lightly, tugging at the strap and guiding his hand higher. “Maybe if I got some help…?”

“Uh—oh.” His eyes widen for a beat, then his mouth curves into a shy, crooked smile. “Ohhh.”

With that, the hesitation dissolves. He slips his hand under the fabric, fingertips brushing warm skin as his grin deepens. “Well,” he murmurs, teasing but soft, “let’s get this napkin off you.”

The joke lands—because really, the thing barely qualifies as a shirt—and his tone is playful, but the look in his eyes says he’s more than ready to follow through.

With your shirt gone, Clark goes very still—eyes wide, reverent, like he’s trying to memorize you in one look. It’s not rude; it’s earnest. It’s also wildly cute.

“Earth to Clark…” You wave a hand in front of his face.

He startles, blushes, and looks away. “Sorry— I mean, not… sorry.” He clears his throat, finding you again. “I’m sorry for, uh, freezing. Not for looking.” A sheepish beat. “You’re… really, really beautiful.”

His hand hovers, asking without words. You give him a smile and a small nod.

He exhales, the tension in his shoulders melting as his fingertips trace lightly, reverently. “You feel so soft,” he murmurs, a little stunned by his own honesty. “Perfect.” He glances up again, checking he’s still on the right page before he lets his palm settle, gentle and warm, like a promise.

Without much warning, Clark dips his head and takes one of your nipples into his mouth, tongue circling, lips sucking like he’s been starving for this for years. The sudden heat makes your back arch.

“Clark… you said you were a virgin?” The words come out broken between little whimpers, your composure slipping fast. His teasing pulls and flicks undo you more than you want to admit.

“Yeah,” he says against your skin, voice muffled between kisses and greedy little sucks. He moves back and forth, giving equal devotion to both breasts, never forgetting one over the other. His focus on your nipples borders on obsessive, and it feels less like fumbling inexperience and more like a lover who knows your body inside out.

“Then why are you so… good at this?” A moan slips out on the last word, betraying just how far he’s unraveling you.

He glances up, lips glossy, chest rising fast, and smirks. “Well… I do watch porn,” he admits, sheepish but proud in the same breath.

You protest, gasping, “They don’t teach tit-sucking 101 in any porn I’ve ever seen.”

He answers by kissing one nipple quickly, then giving it a sharp, teasing nibble that makes you whimper. His grin deepens. “I have… specific interests.”

Then he’s back at it, lavishing you with slow, relentless attention before trailing kisses down the slope of your stomach, leaving a line of heat that stops at the waistband of your shorts.

Clark catches the waistband of your shorts in his teeth, and the bashful farm boy melts into something hotter: that focused, slightly wicked gaze threaded with a dozen secret smiles. You lift your hips, and he slides the shorts down with ridiculous ease—so smooth you almost forget he swore he was a virgin.

“Clark…” you breathe, half-tease, half-stunned. “I know what you told me, but where did you learn all this?”

He doesn’t answer at first, too intent on you. He settles between your thighs, cheek resting against one, and looks up. The pink panties aren’t hiding much. “Seems like whatever I learned,” he says, stretching the word, “made a mess.” On mess, his fingertip drags slow from your damp center to your clit, just enough pressure to taunt, not enough to satisfy.

You try to keep the noise down. The second pass ruins that plan.

“You like it,” he murmurs, smirking now, a little breathless. “Does it matter where I learned it?” This time he presses—firmer, deliberate—and your hips answer for you, lifting into his hand.

“You really like it,” he adds, leaning on really, circling through the thin cotton until your self-control frays. The thought ambushes you—how is some virgin doing this to you?—and then he shuts your brain off entirely by kissing you through the fabric, slow and hungry, one broad hand pinning your thigh open while the other teases exactly where you want him.

He glances up again, checking you, pupils blown. “Tell me if you want me to stop,” he says softly, honest to the bone, “or tell me to keep going.”

Your answer comes out as a plea. “Don’t you dare stop.”

Every kiss, every slow lick through the thin cotton makes you hate the stupid fabric between his lips and your most sensitive nerves. Just when you accept he might tease you like this forever, he hooks the panties aside and seals his mouth over your clit, merciless—warm suction, the flat of his tongue, then a precise flick that blanks your thoughts.

He breaks away only long enough to breathe, voice wrecked. “Your moaning is really hot.” Then he dives back in, grip tightening on your thigh each time you gasp his name. He sucks, then softens, tracing lazy circles before pressing in again with purpose, the rhythm turning your hips greedy against his mouth.

“Good?” he asks, breath warm, thumb holding you open while he licks a slow stripe.

“Don’t stop,” you manage, already trembling.

“Not planning to.” He hums against you—vibration, heat, pressure—then looks up, pupils blown. “Can I use my fingers?”

Your nod is instant. One broad finger slides in, careful, deliberate. He crooks it gently and the next stroke of his tongue lands you right there—sweet, unbearable. “Like that?” he murmurs, testing the angle, adding a second finger when your body chases him down.

“Clark—”

“Yeah,” he says, voice low and proud now, working mouth and hand in tandem, pace tightening. “Give it to me. Let me hear you.”

You can’t hold back anymore; moans spill out as his mouth and fingers work in tandem. When you manage to look down, he’s already looking up—hungry, intent—watching you unravel for him, and the sight makes you ache to give him everything.

“Clark… I’m close,” you breathe, clinging to the last scraps of composure.

“Go ahead,” he murmurs, pace tightening. His fingers quicken; his tongue finds that exact rhythm that makes your legs shake. Your hand finds his hair and you arch into his mouth, a soft curse breaking on his name. He groans like the sound goes straight through him, buries his face deeper, seals his lips around your clit and curls his fingers just right.

The world tilts. Heat surges, sharp and sweet, and you come hard against his mouth, calling his name—primal, grateful, undone.

He rides it out with you, easing the pressure as the tremors fade, planting slow kisses along your inner thigh before resting his cheek there, breath unsteady. “Still okay?” he asks, voice rough and reverent.

You nod, boneless and smiling, and he blushes—proud and a little stunned—before pressing one last kiss to your hip like a promise.

Clark kisses you, slow turning hungry, and when his hips slot closer you feel the solid heat of him against your thigh—undeniable, needy. Your hand slides down to cup him through his jeans, testing the outline; he stutters your name into your mouth, breath catching at your ear.

“You’re… wow,” you murmur there, lips brushing his skin. “I had no idea you were this—”

He groans, hips nudging into your palm like he can’t help himself. You bite your lip, already imagining unwrapping him, and he shivers.

“You,” he says, voice wrecked but teasing, “are a liar.” A sheepish grin flickers. “Pretty sure you’ve thought about it.”

“Maybe,” you whisper, kissing the line of his throat. “Maybe I thought about it a lot.”

You pause at his belt. “Can I?”

“Yes—pl…” He cuts himself off on a shaky sound, breathes in, tries to steady. 

“Clark, what is it?” You cup his face; he catches your wrist, not to stop you—just to keep you there.

“Don’t… don’t stop.” Another deep breath, like he’s reeling himself back in.

“What were you going to say?” you whisper against his skin, lips grazing his jaw while your other hand returns to the buckle.

He holds still for you, obedient, trembling. The prong clicks free; the zipper follows with a low rasp. He gives a helpless little whine when you kiss his neck and your knuckles brush heat.

“It’s embarrassing,” he pants, already flushed. He was feral two minutes ago; now he’s all wide eyes and honesty, and it’s devastatingly cute.

“I’m sure it’s not. Tell me.”

He swallows. “I… I was going to say… please.” His lashes lower. “Please touch me.”

You smile into his throat. “Good manners.” Your hand slides under the waistband, beneath warm cotton, and finds him—hot and heavy, thick in your palm, already slick at the tip. His hips jolt like you lit a fuse.

“Shoot—” He chokes on the word, forehead tipping to yours. “That’s— that’s really good.”

“Yeah?” You stroke him slow, deliberate, thumb spreading the wet over the swollen head before curling back down the shaft. He’s big enough to make your wrist work; the weight of him makes your mouth water.

He nods too hard, breath stuttering at your ear. “Please don’t stop. Please.” The last word is a prayer.

You free him the rest of the way, push his jeans and briefs low. He springs against his lower stomach—flushed, veined, gorgeous—and you wrap him again, tighter this time. His fingers dig into your hip as if to anchor himself to the planet.

“Tell me how you like it,” you murmur, kissing his cheek, then the corner of his mouth. “Talk me through it.”

“Just like that,” he says, voice breaking, “slow—then… a little faster.” You oblige, pace building, your wrist giving a subtle twist at the top that makes his thighs tense. “Gosh,” he gasps, a helpless laugh catching on the word. “You’re— you’re incredible.”

You keep him close, noses brushing, your breath on his lips while your hand works him steady and sure. He tries to be quiet, fails, moaning into your mouth; every needy sound goes straight to your core. Pre-come slicks your fingers; you use it, stroking him faster, squeezing at the base, rolling your thumb under the head until his hips start to chase you.

“Look at me,” you say, and he does—eyes blown, reverent, wrecked. “That’s it. Let me see you.”

“I’m close,” he warns, sweet and frantic. “I— I don’t want to go too fast—”

“True. Would’ve ruined the plan,” you tease, slowing your hand. The pause earns a helpless sound from him.

“Why did you stop? It was—mm—good,” he breathes, hips chasing your touch on instinct.

“The whole point is for you to lose your V-card, not just get a handjob.” You stick your tongue out, and he actually pouts—briefly—before scooping you up and carrying you to the bedroom like you weigh nothing.

“As the virgin,” he says, laying you down, voice trying for stern and landing on adorable, “shouldn’t I get to choose what I want?” He fishes his wallet out, produces a condom, and then smirks. “But you’re right. We’re here for the main event.”

He checks the wrapper, tears it carefully. “Last chance to stop me,” he murmurs, eyes searching yours.

“Clark,” you say, steady. “I want you.”

That does something to him. He rolls the condom on—slow, precise, cheeks flushed—and crawls up between your thighs. He drags the head of his cock through your slick, breath hitching when you guide him to your entrance.

“Tell me if I hurt you,” he says, forehead resting against yours.

“You won’t. Go slow.”

He pushes in—careful pressure, an inch, then another—until the stretch makes you gasp and him groan, a broken, reverent sound. He stops, breathing like a runner at the finish line.

“Good?” he asks, voice raw.

“Perfect. Keep going.”

He eases deeper, filling you, eyes glued to your face as if he’s reading every twitch and sigh. When he’s seated all the way, his mouth falls open on a quiet, awed, “Gosh.” He stays still, one big hand cupping your hip, the other lacing your fingers above your head.

“You feel… incredible,” he says, like he can’t not say it. “You’re taking me so well.”

Heat flashes through you at the praise. You rock your hips; he mirrors the motion, slow at first, then a little more. Each glide pulls a new sound from both of you—his sweet, wrecked “mm—yeah,” your breathy “just like that.”

“More?” he asks.

“More.”

He finds a rhythm—deep, deliberate, the kind of thrust that grinds exactly where you need it. His thumb slips to your clit, careful and sure. “That’s it,” he whispers, eyes locked on yours, utterly earnest even while he’s ruining you. “Stay with me. You’re doing so good.”

Your nails press into his shoulders; his pace tightens, restraint fraying. “I’m close,” he admits, honest to the bone, trying to hold back for you. “Tell me—”

“Don’t hold back,” you breathe, pulling him down for a kiss. “I want all of it.”

He does—hips bucking, rhythm breaking with a ragged groan into your mouth. It’s hot and real and over faster than you hoped, which makes sense—first time, heat like a fuse. He shudders hard, then goes very still, forehead pressed to yours, breath stuttering.

After the glow and the quiet, you stroke his hair. “So… what did you think? Did you like it?”

“Mmm.” He huffs a bashful laugh, cheeks pink. “I’m not sure. I might need to, uh… go again to be sure.”

You arch a brow. “For research?”

“For… thoroughness.” He winces at himself, grinning anyway. “Also because I really want to.” He kisses you, slow and grateful, then pulls out carefully, ties off the condom and tosses it. “Water? Break? Or do you want—”

“You,” you say, tugging him back. “Round two.”

Just when I was starting to be normal about this man.

Michael Bluth 100% schedules makeout sessions in Google Calendar.

Clark Kent definitely uses corny substitutes instead of swearing 😅

Could you imagine him venting but never cursing not even once.