twitchy witchy girl 💫

summary: 18 months after the upside down is destroyed, much life had bloomed in hawkins, including you and steve's married one. wc: 1.6+ cw: FLUFF

The sunset is nostalgic for the three who returned; red and orange strands of paint colouring the sky as the sun dissolves into the horizon. It reminds them of Hawkins in ways they’d pray to eliminate from their memory and they’re surprised that Steve is so happy to stay here. In his sleek suit, nothing like the silly uniforms Jonathan, Nancy and Robin have seen him wear over the years. He smiles at the sight of his old friends on the WSQK’s roof, all so familiar and yet painfully changed over the years.

Steve waits for you as he listens to his friends’ stories, nodding attentively, yet a thought still lingers in the back of his mind throughout their conversations. “Okay Steve, and what time does this wife of yours finish her little work thing? I’m only staying here a day extra to see her, you know?” Asks Nancy, a teasing smile on her face yet she’s only half joking. Steve laughs, raising his beer to his lips. His eyes catch on the silver band he has on his finger, and he smiles widely. The last time everyone had been gathered back here at Hawkins had been for your wedding. Steve had insisted you do it properly, no matter how small it would be.

He remembers like it was yesterday: You, him, Dustin, Nancy, Robin and Jonathan all hidden away in a room with an officiant. He had been able to do the ceremony an hour earlier than you had previously agreed due to your and Steve’s change of plans. It felt rebellious, loving words shared in a setting much more personal to you without telling anyone. Your four best friends had been there in your empty apartment, boxes and unmade furniture littering the space as you said your vows and exchanged your kisses. Jonathan had taken all the photos he could through teary eyes, and when you finally made it to the Byers’s back yard, where three round tables had been set by a makeshift dance floor, you had announced that there was no need to listen to boring speeches that would make people cry. That all that was left to do was to celebrate.

Dustin had still been in tears, but insisted on giving a speech, and everyone followed with stories of their own before you could all dance. “Six little nuggets, eh?” Nancy had teased at some point while you were dancing, and you laughed with her, saying “We’ve actually settled on four.”

“She actually doesn’t have a work thing.” Steve sheepishly admits after swallowing his mouthful. Nancy straightens up, crossing her arms over her chest. “No work thing?”

“She said she was dropping something off for work but she’s actually picking something up from home. Wanted to show you guys.” Robin hums in interest, eyebrows raising slightly. “It’s nothing, you’ll see.”

“So how’s the married life treating you?” Jonathan asks with a smile, fully grinning when Steve’s face softens, eyes overtaken by love. “It’s better than anything I could imagine. On Mondays I teach sex ed, and I always have to leave quickly afterwards so I can pick her up from work and we have lunch together - it’s our little tradition. And every week the kids tell me to say hi to her. Some of the girls ask me where I took her over the weekend, or if she'd like them with their hair done like hers. Holly and Derek walk with me to my car a lot of the time, just telling me things to tell her.”

“I don’t believe middle schoolers can be cool like that.” Robin argues, but she’s smiling nonetheless, entranced by how happy her friends are.

“Hey, is that her?” Jonathan asks as he watches you pull up the street in your husband’s car. “Wow, you let someone drive your precious car?” Gasps Nancy, but Steve stubbornly shakes his head. “No I don’t let someone drive my car. I let my wife drive my car and only her.”

The four friends watch with matching grins as you race out of the car, waving joyously at them from below before disappearing into the building. It takes you a couple of minutes, but you finally appear out of the staircase, slightly out of breath. You greet your friends with hugs as though you haven’t already seen them today for the graduation, then finally make your way to your husband. Steve hugs you close to him and keeps you there, walking you with him as he moves to sit down on the cooler again, landing you in his lap. “Did I miss anything?”

Jonathan’s face morphs as he makes an exaggerated thinking face, and Steve sighs, already knowing he’s going to be deeply humiliated. “Mhm, not much,” Jonathan starts, “Only Steve talking about how much he loves being married to you. And, you know, his sex ed students loving you.”

“Dude, stop talking.” Steve whines when you cup his cheeks in one hand, pulling his face closer to you so you can quickly press a kiss to his pouty lips.

“So, speaking of kids…” Nancy starts, trailing off with a small smile. “Six little nuggets?” Robin adds, and the three of them laugh together, missing the way you and Steve glance at each other quickly before looking back at them. Steve squeezes your thigh, and you nod quickly, telling them “Soon.” You trail a hand to the back of Steve’s head, running your fingers through his hair as he hums in agreement. “Yeah, soon.” He echoes, watching with a knowing smile as you dig deep in your pocket, explaining “Yeah, soon like in six months? Six and a half?”

Immediately, Nancy and Robin freeze, their eyes going wide. Robin tilts her head as though asking if you’re saying what she thinks you are. Meanwhile, Jonathan is only smiling, as he rethinks your words, but he suddenly sits up, exclaiming “Wait!” You giggle as you pull out the sonogram image from your pocket, extending your arm out for them to take it. Nancy gasps loudly, frozen in her chair, but it’s Jonathan who jumps up to grab the photo as Steve announces “We’re going to have a baby.”

“Oh my god!” Robin cries, running to give you a hug. She’s instantly followed by Nancy, and you barely have time to stand up before you’re engulfed in a bone crushing hug that has Steve momentarily worrying about you and the baby. But he’s soon scooped up into a hug of his own by Jonathan, who still clutches the sonogram in his hand. When Nancy lets go of you, she snatches the photo from him, pouting in adoration at the sight of it. “Oh my god, you’re going to be a mom.” She whispers, before adding “Oh, you’re going to be the best mom in the world.”

“You guys are gonna be such awesome parents.” Says Robin as she gives Steve a hug, pulling a strand of his hair softly. “And those kids are going to have wicked hair, are you kidding?” Steve laughs, finding you in the crowd of friends to bring you close to him again, his arm settling comfortably around your waist. He presses a kiss to the side of your face, laughing quietly when you turn your head to catch his lips in a kiss.

“Does anyone know?” Asks Robin, looking back and forth between you. You purse your lips as you glance up at Steve, a shimmer in your eyes when he hums, mumbling “Uh, this kid you guys may know called Dustin Henderson?” They laugh knowingly, Jonathan throwing a comment of “Of course” as you cuddle into Steve, adding quietly.

“And, also Mrs. Wheeler.”

Nancy’s head snaps towards you and she shrieks “My mom found out my best friend is pregnant before me!?”

You shrug, biting at your lip as you admit “We didn’t tell her anything, she just noticed, you know? Came up to me once when Steve and I were picking up Dustin from yours and we were stood in the living room, and she kind of came to me and put a hand on my shoulder, and she like - she looked at me with this knowing look on her face. And she just asked if me and Steve had started setting up the room for the baby.” Steve chuckles quietly, rubbing the sides of your arms up and down. “And I asked how she knew, and she just winked at me and said she was asking ‘generally’ because she knew we wanted kids, but we both knew.”

But the next day, when you were over at the Wheelers’ again for the night and Lucas asked you to pass the big bucket of DVD’s, Mike stood up sharply, stepping in your way and bringing it over to them, snapping “Dude, you can’t ask a pregnant woman to carry stuff for you.”

The entire room went silent, and Steve straightened up, staring at Dustin and asking “You told them?”

Lucas had scoffed, putting his feet up on the coffee table with a shake of his head. “No, it’s just obvious.” Explained Will as Jonathan and Nancy once again took offense to finding out so late. “How is it obvious, I’m not even past the first trimester?” You asked, watching as Max cozied into Lucas’s side, casually saying “It’s not you, it’s Steve.”

Steve’s face went red and he nervously glanced at you, shrugging his shoulders. “Yeah,’ Mike started, “he’s always been attached to you, but he’s been extra attached lately. And his hand always used to be on your waist, but now it goes all around your waist and rests on your stomach.”

“Yeah, we were suspicious but we really got confirmation like a month ago when Dustin got drunk and spilled.”

“Wait, I did?”

wc : 1.6k

i watched nysm3 a couple days ago, and i can't stop thinking about bosco leroy. i know it just came out, but i'm deprived of bosco fanfics, so i thought i would write one myself. very rushed piece of work, so don't expect much — i hope you guys enjoy it though!!

NOT proof-read! :)

you don't notice how fast you're moving until you're already halfway down the dim service corridor, the echo of your footsteps chasing you like guilt. everything backstage was a blur — the shouting, the misfires, the look bosco gave you right before he turned away.

you call his name once.

he doesn't stop.

you call it again, louder, voice cracking under the weight of everything you’ve been holding in.

“bosco!”

this time his shoulders react — just a tiny twitch. but he keeps walking, hands trembling at his sides, fingers curling into fists like he’s trying to hold himself together cell by cell. his posture is wrong. too stiff, too guarded. not like him. not like the man who can walk onstage and make an entire room believe he’s untouchable.

when you finally reach him, you’re out of breath, vision swimming a little. “can you just— please. stop.”

he does. it’s immediate, like his body obeys you even when the rest of him refuses to look back. he stands perfectly still, back rising and falling too quickly, like he’d been swallowing panic for the last ten minutes.

for a long moment he doesn’t turn.

he lets you catch up, lets the silence stretch, lets you feel every ounce of distance he’s put between you.

and then, slowly, he glances over his shoulder.

just his eyes.

dark. raw. disappointed in a way that smarts worse than anger ever could.

“i’m fine,” he says.

you laugh — a short, shaky sound that doesn’t feel like humor at all. “you’re not.”

bosco moves then, turning fully to face you. seeing him up close makes something in your chest cave in. his hair is a mess from the stunt. his cheek is flushed. he looks like someone trying very, very hard not to break.

“you didn’t trust me,” he says. not an accusation. just a fact he’s laid between you like a cracked piece of glass.

you freeze. “that’s not what happened.”

“you cut the wire,” he says, voice quieter now but sharper. “early.”

you step forward without meaning to. “bosco, i panicked. the timing—"

“i know the timing,” he snaps, and you flinch because he never snaps at you. “i felt the second slip. i adjusted. i had it.”

his breath hitches. he looks away for a moment, jaw flexing.

“i had it,” he repeats, softer. “but you didn’t give me the chance.”

you swallow the burn in your throat. “i thought you’d fall. i thought—”

“you thought i needed saving.”

and there it is.

the real wound.

the reason he walked away with his hands shaking and his chest heaving and his eyes refusing to meet yours.

“i don’t need saving from you,” he says quietly, eyes dropping to the floor. “i need you to trust me. the way i—”

he cuts himself off, biting down on the word, like letting it slip would reveal too much.

your heart lurches. “the way you what?”

silence. thick. vibrating with all the things he won’t say.

“bosco,” you whisper, stepping closer. “i wasn’t trying to control you. i was scared. i saw you dangling there an extra second and my stomach just— i couldn’t breathe. i thought something was wrong. i didn’t think, i just… protected you.”

he finally looks at you. really looks.

and what you see nearly knocks your knees out.

hurt, yes. but underneath… something unbearably vulnerable.

“why?” he asks. “why does me falling scare you that much?”

you open your mouth.

nothing comes out.

then quietly: “because losing you would… destroy me.”

his breath stutters.

something flickers in his eyes — hope, disbelief, relief, longing, all tangled up messily.

he takes a step toward you.

then another.

now you’re close enough to feel the warmth of his body, to smell the faint scent of smoke and adrenaline clinging to his shirt. he’s breathing shallowly, like he’s afraid moving too fast will shatter the fragile truth hanging between you.

“you should’ve told me,” he murmurs. “instead of trying to fix everything yourself.”

you shake your head, voice barely above a whisper. “i didn’t want you to think i doubted you.”

“but you do,” he says, and it comes out more broken than angry.

you reach out before you can stop yourself, fingers brushing his wrist. he flinches — not away, just like the touch startles him. then he softens under it slowly, shoulders dropping, breath easing out of him like a long, exhausted surrender.

“i don’t doubt you,” you say. “i’m terrified of how much i care.”

your thumb grazes the inside of his wrist, feeling the wild little jump of his pulse.

his breath catches.

“you make me reckless,” you admit. “and i didn’t know how to handle that.”

bosco studies you, eyes searching your face like he’s memorizing the shape of the truth for the first time. then he lifts his hand, hesitates, and cups your cheek so gently it almost hurts.

“don’t run from me,” he whispers. “not when you’re scared.”

you lean into his touch, exhaling shakily.

“i’m not running now.”

his forehead drops to yours. the tension in him finally breaks — you feel it, like his whole body exhales at once. your name leaves his lips in a breath, almost a confession.

slowly, he wraps his arms around you.

and you fold into him, letting the heat of him soak into your trembling bones.

his grip is firm, desperate in the quiet way only bosco can be — like he’s been waiting weeks, maybe months, for you to admit what today finally cracked open.

you stay there like that, holding and being held, hidden in a hallway where the world can’t see two people learning how to trust each other again.

you pull back just enough to see his face — the way his lashes are still trembling, the way he’s staring at you like he’s trying to memorize what you look like when you’re this close, this honest, this unguarded.

bosco’s hand is still on your cheek, thumb sweeping over your skin in a slow, almost absent-minded circle, like he’s grounding himself with the touch. his other hand is gripping the back of your jacket, fingers curled in the fabric like he’s afraid that letting go might undo everything you just said.

“you scared me too, you know?” he whispers again, softer this time. not an accusation. a confession.

your breath catches. “why?”

he lets out a shaky exhale, eyes flicking from your eyes to your mouth, then back again. “because every time i think i’ve got you figured out, you do something that makes me realize i’ve been… completely wrong.”

you feel your pulse leap into your throat.

he steps even closer — barely an inch, but you feel it everywhere, like gravity tightening around the two of you. the hallway suddenly seems too small, too warm, too charged.

“and because,” he says, voice dropping, “i care more than i should.”

your heart stumbles.

and then his forehead presses gently against yours again, but this time there’s something different in the way he holds you — something more deliberate, more certain.

your fingers curl lightly around the fabric of his shirt.

“bosco…” you whisper, not even sure what you’re about to say.

“don’t say anything,” he murmurs, breath ghosting over your lips. “please. just… stay right here.”

you do.

you don’t move.

you can’t.

your noses brush — the softest, most fleeting touch — and bosco’s breath hitches like he wasn’t prepared for how intimate that tiny contact would feel.

his hand slides from your cheek to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair, warm and steady and trembling all at once.

“tell me if you don’t want this,” he says, voice barely intact.

you don’t answer with words — you close the last inch between you.

and he breaks.

bosco kisses you like he’s been holding back for months — slow at first, painfully slow, like he’s savoring the moment his lips meet yours. his mouth is soft, hesitant, almost reverent. his hand tightens in your hair, drawing you closer, and you melt against him instantly, your hands fisting his shirt as the kiss deepens.

it’s not rushed. it’s not frantic. it’s everything he’s tried not to say, poured into the way he kisses you like you’re something fragile, something rare, something he’s terrified to lose.

and then something in him gives — a quiet, trembling sound leaves his throat as he pulls you even closer, tilting his head to deepen the kiss, mouth moving against yours with a hunger he’s never shown before. his other hand comes up to cradle the side of your face, his thumb brushing your cheek in a way that feels like a vow.

he kisses you like he’s discovering something he’s been scared to admit he needs.

you kiss him back like it’s the only thing in the world that makes sense.

when you finally pull apart, it’s only because you both need air. your breaths mingle between you, warm and uneven, his forehead pressed to yours again.

bosco smiles — small, breathless, disbelieving. “okay,” he whispers. “that… that was not supposed to happen.”

you laugh softly, breath shaky. “do you regret it?”

his fingers tighten at your waist instantly. “no. god, no. i just…” he trails off, eyes flicking to your lips again. “i’m scared of what it means.”

you smile, brushing your thumb over his jaw. “me too.”

he exhales a laugh — relieved, nervous, so painfully fond.

then, with a voice that sounds like he’s already falling for you all over again, he murmurs:

“can i kiss you again?”

and this time, you don’t even answer.

you just pull him back in.

so sillyyyyy MY GODDDDDDD

I actually love the season 1 look more even tho he still looked hella good in season 2 but nothing can beat that for ME.

Also this moment is second best AGAIN SEASON 1

untouched, xo

★ summary: jimmy takes clark to a strip club for his birthday, clark isn't expecting to meet you, who's willing to do anything to make his birthday special

★ pairing: clark kent x stripper!reader

★ warnings: 18+ mdni, smut, sex work, dry-humping, thigh grinding, cumming in pants, pathetic whiney sub!clark which needs a warning tbh

★ word count: 2.7k

★ notes: thinking of writing a pt 2 to this as if i don’t have a billion wips already!

“You really have to relax, this is your birthday gift.” Jimmy droned on, his attention getting taken away every few seconds by another group of women gawking at him. 

“I think it’s more of a birthday nightmare.” Clark cleared his throat, mumbling another apology under his breath when someone bumped into his shoulder. The club was crowded, sweaty bodies everywhere, and music blaring. He still couldn’t believe Jimmy convinced him to come here. This was definitely not his scene. He should have known Jimmy was up to no good when he planned something ‘special’ for tonight. Steve was all red in the face, snickering all day at the office as soon as he found out. So here he was, in a high-end strip club in downtown Metropolis, very much out of his depth. 

pairing: clark kent x reader

synopsis: your ex-boyfriend clark kent finds himself at your apartment after reading the investigative piece your boyfriend is writing on superman, begging you to stop his search before his leads end up revealing superman’s real identity to the public

contains: smut (cunniligus + 👆), pathetically down bad clark, #putting warnings is so awkward - not cheating

a/n: i think this is an original idea and i love it so much clark is so gorgeous in this i hope u guys enjoy this too

this was the last thing you needed.

after a horrible week of consistent fights with your current boyfriend for being absent due to his obsession with work, toxic, and downright annoying, and finally finding the courage to tell him just today that you’re tired and done of being a punching bag for his daily frustrations due to his stupid investigation work— you find your ex-boyfriend at your doorstep.

clark kent.

the door is held open by your hand, your eyes slightly wide. a plethora of emotions flood you as you blink, taken aback and extremely confused at the appearance of the man you broke up with six months ago.

memories from the back of your mind rush into your head, clouding your thoughts. the way his large frame would engulf you in comforting hugs. the way his plush lips would press the softest kisses against your mouth. and then, the way the two of you fought. the day you had your biggest argument and he had told you he was standing you up all the time because he was superman. and then the day you couldn’t take it anymore, burdened with a lot more unspeakable things— the day you had broken up with him. you rapidly blink away foreign infiltrating thoughts.

out of all things, you certainly were not expecting the clark kent at your doorstep when you heard the doorbell. to add to your perplexity, he’s in his work clothes: button up loose white shirt straining at his biceps, black coat on top; his hair curly and fluffy, slightly messy (probably from work earlier in the day), with his glasses neatly pushed up his nose bridge. he’s still holding his briefcase, eyes wary when they meet yours.

his lips purse, cheeks dimpling.

you blink back in bafflement.

now what exactly your ex doing at your place?

“h-hey,” clark breathes out, stammering, heart racing in his chest. it definitely doesn’t help his nervousness to find you clothed simply in a long sweatshirt, down to your thighs. his lips are tightly sealed, contemplating his words. he looks more bewildered than you, honestly. “can i.. can i come in?”

you raise a suspicious eyebrow.

clark almost winces. “i— i want to talk to you about something,” his voice is sharp, low, and articulate, his adam’s apple bobbing up and down in his throat. “please. it’s important.”

you take a deep breath, gulping all your thoughts down. you blink after a long moment of zoning out and nod slowly, opening the door wider for him to walk in.

clark lets out a deep sigh of relief he didn’t know he was holding when you let him in, mumbling a small “thank you so much,” as he enters. his briefcase drops at the doorstep as you close it, and he tries to be polite but he can’t help his eyes when they quickly scan over your apartment, searching for any changes. any unfamiliarities.

he doesn’t find many, thankfully. he just detects some casual furniture changes, considering it’d only been six months since he’d last been here.

clark snaps out of his thoughts at the sound of your voice. his eyebrows raise as he turns to you, seeing your arms crossed.

“are you going to tell me what’s so important?” you raise an eyebrow, trying to stop your eyes from wandering over the face and the frame you often found yourself thinking about late at night after your boyfriend, once again, failed to bring you to your desired destination.

speak of the devil.

“it’s your boyfriend,” he blurts out, feeling slightly awkward. he realises how stupid that sounds and immediately clarifies. “he’s.. he’s been writing about me. i mean— about superman. about superman’s real identity.”

your jaw clenches. oh.

the investigation your (ex from the argument earlier) boyfriend was doing. the same investigation, which was honestly more of an obsession, he was conducting on finding out superman’s identity that had caused the two of you to fight countless times.

clark tenses when he notices your expression.

“lots of people try to crack stuff like that. it usually doesn’t matter to me, it’s just— the clues he’s been giving in the paper. talking about how close he’s getting.. and it’s true. he is getting too close. his next lead might bring him straight to the daily planet.”

your eyes widen. had that guy seriously gotten that close? well, you had known, to your dismay, a lot about your boyfriend’s findings, but not that he had gotten that close. you thought it was mostly just conspiracy theories. he had been publishing his research in a local newspaper, and his articles were the sole reason sales had increased greatly for the paper, which made much more sense now.

people wanted to know superman’s secrets.

clark sucks in a deep breath. “i don’t want to drag you into my mess,” his voice drops to a whisper. “it’s my fault for slipping up. giving people a reason to think that superman might have a persona,” he takes a step closer towards you, eyebrows creasing.

and then he whispers your name, and it sounds downright cruel. “but he can’t find out. he can’t tell the world. they can’t find out.”

your heart aches. you look away, hands opening in a defeated manner. “clark, i can’t just stop him—”

“if the world knew,” clark takes a step closer to you, his eyebrows furrowed. “it wouldn’t just destroy me. it would destroy the places i care about. everyone i care about,” clark’s voice is low and vulnerable, and then silent for a long moment. “including you.”

your heart skips a beat. you shouldn’t be falling for it, but you are. you don’t want to defend clark. you don’t. you’re bitter, but deep inside you know he’s right. he always is. he always has been. “he wouldn’t listen to me,” you shake your head, voice low. “this whole thing is really important to him.”

clark gulps, loud and raw. “the second your boyfriend prints my name out to the world, every enemy superman’s ever made will know exactly where to aim,” his voice is downright begging.

you can’t help it when your eyes soften. when your heart skips a beat. you chew on your lower lip, contemplating. how would you even convince the man you fought with not more than hours ago, and had inadvertently said the two of you were done with each other?

clark misinterprets your silence as refusal. he steps even closer. “please,” his voice is hoarse, almost breaking. “i’m not asking for myself. or superman. i’m asking because..” his voice cracks. “because i wouldn’t be able to live with myself if you got hurt because of me.”

clark looks pathetic when he looks at you. crinkled eyebrows pulled together in worry, eyes desperate and shiny, pink lips pursed, dimples torturously on display. his glasses have slid to the mid-slope of his nose, clark too distracted to push them back up.

you don’t realise how long you’ve been staring at him. clark realises— he’s been anxiously counting the seconds in his heart. when you don’t speak after a whole minute, he steps closer until he’s right in front of you. “please,” pleading, he breathes out your name like it hurts to say. “i’ll do anything.”

your eyes are locked on his blue ones, deliberating. you’re still nibbling on your lower lip. your heart rate is through the roof, arms crossed, finger at your lip. clark instinctively bends down slightly to come to your level, his face closer to yours. like he used to.

“i just want to protect you,” he whispers, voice lower and more intimate. “you and my ma and pa.”

your heart cracks. you had met his parents. you loved them. they had loved you.

you can’t stop yourself when your hands move up, grabbing the collar of clark’s blazer. you can’t help it when you hazily tug him down, your mouth centimetres from his.

clark’s eyes widen in surprise. his hands instantly, as if instinct, find your hips, effortlessly lifting you up and taking a step forward to gently plant you onto your kitchen counter. you waste not a second before forcing your mouth to his, and he’s taken aback, a little hesitant, his cheeks flushing pink.

his voice is muffled against your mouth. “your boyfriend—”

you kiss him harder instead of telling him. fuck your boyfriend. it should’ve always been clark.

but it’s not. and you should probably behave before you make a big mess. when you pull away, you’re breathing heavily, eyes dark and finding clark’s through fluttering eyelashes.

clark takes one look at your face and loses all self control and restraint. his hands move from your waist to your hips to your thighs, pushing them apart.

“he doesn’t treat you like he should, does he?” clark’s voice is low and soft, and it goes straight to your core. his blue eyes are intimately locked on yours, watching you as his hand slides up, under your oversized sweatshirt. his fingers find the waistband of your underwear, casually sliding it down.

you let him. of course you do. clark leans in, his lips grazing your jaw. his eyes close as he breathes you in, savouring the familiar smell of you.

he’s missed you so much he can barely keep it together. his hands part your thighs further, lifting your shirt up to your waist so his eyes can move down to stare at your pretty cunt.

it’s an achingly beautiful and familiar sight: pink, fleshy, and so sweet, clark can barely contain himself from busting right there.

when he looks at you, he steals your breath. “let me remind you how you should be treated.” his hands are already moving to take off his coat and glasses, delicately placing them beside you on the counter.

and then he drops to his knees. your eyes widen, finding his face which is now right in between your legs. his eyes are glossy and blown wide with dilated pupils hazily gazing up at you, eyebrows pulled together, cheeks painted crimson, lips parted and pink. it’s a sight you never want to forget.

you’re going to ruin this man.

clark’s large hands move to your plush thighs to hold them apart, his fingers digging into the fat of your skin. his eyes are glossy and dilated, focused on the sight in front of him: his mission. his tongue lazily darts out to lick a thick stripe up your unprepared pussy, and you clench around air at the feeling you haven’t felt in a long time.

your mouth falls open in a gasp, watching him push his head forward to bump his nose against your clit. shamelessly, he digs it further against your slick-coated nub, dousing the tip of his nose with your wetness. his mouth is open at the same time, breathing hot air onto you, and with the way you’re pulsing, right at your hole.

you can barely keep it together. stupid clark and his polite manners and his desperate urge to ensure his secret identity doesn’t get revealed. your hands move to tangle in his fluffy curls, unabashedly tugging him closer, and he allows himself to be pulled. he allows his face to be pushed further, deep into the hot humid oven of your pussy, tongue consistently flicking around your clit.

the moment his hands loosen around your thighs you squeeze around his head, and his ears are hot. clark is unbothered by your tight hold, drunk on the taste of you. his hand slides from your inner thigh to further in, huge hand cupping your cunt from the bottom, and easily pushing a finger into your dripping hole.

you gasp at the feeling of just one thick digit filling you up, humiliatingly clenching hard around it as if your gummy walls remember exactly how everything about him feels. clark curls his finger expertly as if he has you and your insides memorised, hitting just the perfect spot to make your eyes roll back in your head.

it’s torturous. it’s not fast or rough. it’s languid, like this is for your pleasure, and clark is taking his time to lazily, yet perfectly, abuse you.

his mouth closes around your clit. he insulates it in his mouth, letting his spit coat the swollen, teased nub, eventually sucking so hard your lights get knocked out.

his tongue swirls around it while his cheeks hollow, sucking and teasing and tugging so gently with his teeth you cry out in pleasure.

it’s embarrassing— clark had long forgotten about his finger inside you. it had just been there, resting inside your hole that’s leaking slick from the sides, coating your folds.

and despite that lack of movement— you cum. so early. you let out a long, shameful whine, feeling it build up in your core. clark, a little surprised but completely non-judgemental, pulls his thick finger out so he can thrust it back inside, helping you ride out your high whilst his lips continue to suck on your clit.

you shiver, trying to tug clark’s head away from his hair as breathy whimpers leave your mouth. as soon as his finger leisurely slides out of your hole, you’re gushing out thick white liquid. it drips down your folds before clark pulls away to watch it do so, the amount downright obscene.

clark is living currently proof of slow and steady wins the race, or something like that. his eyes are wide and pleased, pink wet lips parted and breathing hotly on your wetness. even his chin is shimmering with you. he’s breathing so heavily it looks like it hurts.

he moves in again, lapping up your release, careful to clean you up properly. his adam’s apple bobs up and down as he swallows simultaneously, drinking you up. he pauses to pull away, his eyes meeting your teary fucked out ones, to open his mouth and push his tongue out, showing you your white thick cum on his tongue.

you blush furiously. filthy.

he pulls his tongue back inside and swallows, moving in to finish up his work, cleaning you spotless. when he’s done he presses a soft, small kiss to your clit, and it makes your thighs twitch.

he finally pulls away to look up at you, finding your eyes with his own pathetic ones. you’re panting, lips parted. clark looks delirious and delicious, face flushed, eyes downright yearning, lips pink and coated with your juice.

“was that good?” he finally breathes out, his voice low and deep. it’s still soft in nature, slightly exasperated.

your hand moves down to cup his cheek. “so good,” you breathe, thumb caressing his jaw. “you’re so good.”

clark’s eyes light up. “wanted—” he licks his lips. “wanted to please you.”

god, you’re melting and aching at the same time.

you bite down hard on your lower lip as to not shower him with compliments. you’re supposed to be mad at him, or at least be testing him. you tug at his hair and he gets the hint, lifting himself off his knees and standing before you, his hands moving to your hips again. you fit perfectly in his large palms.

he sweetly bends down to your level, standing in between your legs, immediately pushing his cheek against yours as if he can’t live without the proximity. as if he hasn’t had you for months and now that he gets to be near you again he never wants to be far away again. desperate, clingy, and so ready to please.

“m,” he whines quietly, smushing his warm cheek harder against your skin. “can i kiss you?” he asks, deep voice articulate and intimate. his big doe-eyes search yours. he’s huge and still so gentle with you.

your cheeks feel hot. you can barely keep it together. you turn your face towards him slightly and he immediately pushes his mouth to yours. he still tastes like your own release, his lips enclosing around yours hard and possessively.

“does he make you cum like this?” he whispers, his mouth still on yours. he puckers his lips to press another firm kiss. “‘m sure he doesn’t kiss you like this.” clark’s mouth is glued to yours, his kisses wet and sloppy, possessively coating you in his saliva.

“‘m sure he doesn’t take care of you like i did. like i can.” his voice is low. he knows he’s treading dangerous. he just can’t help himself.

you gulp, throat dry. you place a hand on his shoulder, lips pursed.

“that’s enough, clark,” you breathe out, pained, and clark’s heart rips in his chest. he’s hesitant, but still he listens, tearing his cheek away from yours. his puppy eyes meet yours, lips curved downwards slightly, but you don’t budge, and so his hands at your hips follow in their removal.

you look away, squeezing your thighs shut. there are red spots where clark’s fingers were digging into them. clark can’t get his eyes off his markings. this wasn’t fair. you were meant to be his. he’s distracted from his thoughts when he hears you speak.

“i’ll tell him,” you mutter quietly, eyebrows creased in tension. “i think i can convince him to.. abandon the article. he was becoming increasingly unsure about it anyway.” you sigh. “i’ll figure it out. trust me.”

clark doesn’t miss a beat. “i trust you.”

your heart aches. you look away. “you should get going,” your throat feels dry. “bye, clark.”

clark’s heart sinks to the floor. he purses his lips, cheeks dimpling, unfairly gorgeous. he nods once and slowly, hesitating before stepping forward. he grabs his coat from beside you, caging you in one last time. when he leans further in it’s intentional, his face near your neck, breathing your scent in. his fingers clutch tighter onto his coat as he pulls away, ripping his gaze from you and turning on his heels to walk out of your apartment.

when the door closes behind him, you let out the longest, heftiest sigh, hands moving up to cup your face. god, you shouldn’t be tearing up.

you feel pathetic.

and still unsatisfied.

despite the aching need for the sweetest, softest, gentlest, most perfect man in the world you broke up with because you couldn’t keep up with him putting most of his time into saving the world, you have work to do.

you have to find a way to stop your (other past) boyfriend from revealing superman’s identity to the world, because if you’re dead, there’s way less of a chance you get to fuck clark.