I never thought I'd need a masterlist - and honestly, you can't possibly call this a masterlist without laughing - but figured it would be nice to have a place to gather my few fics, so... here you go.
All of them contain some level of smut, so all of this is 18+, minors DNI.
I tend to forget to add this to my notes so I’ll say it here: English is not my first language. If sometimes a sentence feels a little off (or something is just plain wrong), it’s probably because it’s really damn hard to write when you’re going back and forth between two languages. Be kind ♥️
This Too Shall Last (Tom!Clark, OFC, outlined)
Nightcall (Tom!Clark / red K!Clark, reader insert, in the works)
For All You Give (David!Clark, reader insert, complete): Clark Kent, your new neighbor, is the type who carries boxes, builds furniture, shares takeout, and offers comfort you don’t deserve. Somewhere between open doors and late night conversations, friendship starts to feel like home, and home starts to feel like him. But you know better than to give these feelings a chance... right?
Tunnel Vision (David!Clark, reader insert, one shot): You wanted to find a way to find out who Superman really was. What you didn’t anticipate was that you would not hate it when it happened. (I miiiiiiight have started a sequel to this)
The Game is Over (reader insert, one shot): New place? Check. New job? Check. New crush? What happens when your brother's best friend, the one who is ten years older than you, the one you used to have a crush on, shows back up in your life. Older, wiser, finer. Do you run? Or do you ride along?
Shutter Speed (in the works)
Glen Powell Podcasts (Spotify)
Look Away AU - married sugar daddy Jake (reader insert, ongoing): you find yourself involved with Jake, who's the sole heir to a hotel mogul, but there's a small catch - he's married.
Broken Wings (reader insert/OFC, 8 part series + prequel, completed): when the Top Gun pilots are called back to Miramar, Jake "Hangman" Seresin is confronted with a broken heart he left behind the last time he was there.
2am (reader insert, one shot): Jake has had enough of your antics and decides he won't let you make it inside the house before showing you who's in charge.
So Close (OFC, one shot): a field representative helps Jack finish the outline for his lecture on Venezuela, and he ends up at her place after having celebrated his birthday with Senator Moreno. Follows the events of Cargo (season 2, episode 1).
Night Time, My Time (reader insert, one shot): Toto comes back to the hotel after a long day on the track and seeks comfort in you.
Don't Get Me Wrong (OFC, series, in progress): The new barista for the coffee shop at Mercedes F1 Brackley headquarters develops deep feelings for Toto Wolff, the team principal and 20 years her senior.
You can also find some of my older stuff on ao3 - there's Doctor Strange (one unfinished fic), Savages (one one-shot and one unfinished fic), and Death Sentence (one completed, and one unfinished fic).
+ clark kent x f!reader | A multi-chapter exploration of growth, the heart, and the unsaid.
wc: 3k
a/n: so sorry for the late update angels! but here it is :). as an apology, the next chapter will be out in a couple days too! as always, please keep commenting and liking this fic <3 thank you for making it so far with me. thank you @kryptidfiles for helping me fix some of the issues with this one, ily!
Event Horizon (noun; An event horizon is the theoretical boundary surrounding a black hole beyond which the gravitational pull is so intense that nothing, not even light, can escape. Often described as the "point of no return")
There’s a slowness, a lethargy in the way you’re moving today, a heavy drag in every limb like Earth’s gravity has been dialled to an eleven from the usual nine point eight.
Earlier, Professor Bishop had directed a question toward you, and for the life of you, you couldn’t even recall the sound of his voice, let alone the subject. You had muttered a nonsensical noise, a semblance of an answer, before someone else had mercifully taken over. You had sunk back into your seat, as all the noise in the class faded to a hum.
Now, in Practical Chemistry, the silence is worse. The compound in the beaker in front of you is refusing to change to a ‘canary yellow’, but you cannot care less. You gaze at the empty stool next to you, and there’s a hollowness vibrating on the edge of it—a beckoning, silent whisper of a name that you do not want to acknowledge.
It’s been exactly two weeks since the gala. Two weeks since you said all those things, sequences that you’ve now replayed so many times in your head, that they’ve lost any and all meaning. All that remains are flashes of a pair of blue eyes; reddened and rimmed with hurt.
Under the blindingly white glare of the classroom lights, you ostensibly click open your phone, the screen dim and blurred. You scroll past the recent messages from Oliver— bright, cheerful pings you’ve replied to with the energy of a soggy washcloth— to the second-to-last person you texted.
Thirteen days ago, you had sent three words: “Is he there?”
You didn’t ask if he was okay, didn't ask what he was doing nor demanded that he call you. You didn't even use his name. You just needed to know that he hadn't drifted off the edge of the earth, even if he felt impossibly out of reach right now. Not that you wanted to reach him.
He's here, honie. Hope you're okay, had been Martha Kent’s reply.
You read it again now, your thumb hovering over the glass, the cursor blinking. There are no words left to send, you have already used the worst of them. It's not that you regret them. But the space your best friend had carved into your side for a decade and a half feels irritatingly haunted, a phantom limb that won't stop aching. You find yourself constantly leaning in— reaching for a stupid remark in the middle of a lecture, looking for a shared glance across a crowded room— only to meet a terribly cold nothingness.
It’s only now, in the vacuum of his absence, that you realize how much of your life was spent bracing yourself. Your muscles are still loosening up, lungs not used to rhythmic, even breathing. The sky is quiet. His space is empty. You don’t have to wait for him to disappear anymore. The relief you feel is what is devastating.
The day ends, just as any other, the sun slowly dipping behind the highrise buildings as if it were too trying to escape something. You walk across the quad, the familiar path feeling like an uphill sprint, and Oliver's there— of course, he is.
You all but run into his arms, a desperate, breathless collision. You need the friction of his jacket against your palms and the presence of him to stop the world from spinning.
But even as you bury your face in his chest, inhaling the expensive scent of him— a hesitation creeps into your skin. It’s a treasonous flicker of memory. Suddenly, you’re back in the dark, years ago, feeling the calming lub-dub of a certain superhero’s heart against yours after he’d ripped you away from a meteor freak’s grip.
Oliver feels like a shallow respite after nearly drowning, while his hug had felt like being held by earth itself. The guilt hits you then, a nauseating lurch in your stomach.
·✶·
You didn’t want to sit in the living room of the apartment. The still air had been a suffocating reminder that he was still gone, the shadows in the corners too long and too dark. You’d avoided it, pulling Oliver straight through your bedroom door and shoving it shut as if the silence of the apartment were a physical thing chasing you, trying to sink its teeth into your heels.
Outside the window, the moonlight is shining bright on a Metropolis that continues to hum despite the absence of one of its fiercest protectors. Unlike the city, your body feels like it's completely shut down— leaden and out of sync with the world.
You’re tucked into Oliver’s side, his arm thrown lazily around you, watching the movie in front of you— another ridiculous, trashy horror movie that has yet to pull a laugh out of you.
Oliver is warm. He always reminds you of sunlight, salt soaked skin and all the goodness that the summer air brings. His fingers are entwined with yours, thumb caressing the web between your thumb and index finger and it should feel good. For a few, glorious weeks, you had basked in this very feeling. His other hand absentmindedly strokes your hair, and for a second, you force yourself to lean into it. Convince yourself that your heart is just grieving, and not a treacherous liar instead.
God, you really, really want to be the girl who is in love with Oliver Queen.
But even when Oliver kisses you absentmindedly on the side of your head, you can’t help but wonder if he is in his hayloft in Smallville, looking up at the same moon that’s shining down on the both of you.
You try to steady your breath, push yourself further into Oliver’s side, let him tangle his legs with your own and yet, every movement feels like something’s gnawing on your skin. Like something is scratching from within, chipping its way out slowly.
Somewhere halfway through the movie, and half a tub of popcorn, you realise Oliver is looking at you. You can sense the weight of his gaze, but cannot bring yourself to look up at him. The nerve in your temple twitches, a tiny betrayal of how difficult you’re finding it to breathe under Oliver’s arm.
“You’ve been somewhere else,” he says softly, and you feel a lurch in your stomach like someone hit the brakes in a car going a hundred miles an hour.
“I’ve literally been sitting right here," you murmur, your voice tiny, wishing he would look anywhere else but at you.
He huffs, a small tired sound that makes your teeth clench.
“Physically, yeah.”
Suddenly, the dialogue from the movie falls sharply into your ears— every scream and every swell of the orchestra feeling amplified. Your senses are heightened to a painful degree; you can hear the traffic outside, the rustle of people out on the street, and the growing, uneven thudding of your own heart. The hollows under your eyes suddenly prickle with warmth and you purse your lips, trying to brace against the tide.
One. Two. Inhale. You try to focus on the TV, watching as the screen suddenly, comically splatters with blood accompanied by a high-pitched scream. You aren’t convincing anyone, the increasingly petulant voice whispers in your head. Three. Four. Exhale.
Oliver can see right through you.
“You’re imagining things,” you say, voice cracking unconvincingly on the last syllable.
A lie, a lie, and another. You chew the inside of your lip until you can taste copper.
“Am I?” There’s no accusation in his voice, but there is a slight edge to the way he says it that makes you chew harder on your lip. Six. Seven. Inhale.
“I'm not talking about just tonight. You kissed me and flirted with me, like you were having the time of your life and I almost believed it.”
You stiffen slightly, as Oliver seems to gently shift his weight away from you. The air is starting to scream in your ears, the dialogue in the movie sounding like gibberish suddenly. Eight. Nine. Exhale.
“But you're never really here. Haven’t been, for the last couple of weeks.” He lets out a short, bitter breath that isn't quite a laugh. “I’m sitting three inches away from you and I feel like I’m always shouting just to get your attention.”
The words land softly, but feel like being cast into a black hole, as your body slowly stretches into oblivion. Your throat tightens, the muscles seizing. Ten. Inhale.
“It’s not—”
“It’s okay,” he says quickly, but the snap in his tone suggests it’s anything but. He shifts his body fully toward you. “I’m not mad.”
Eleven. Twelve. Inhale. You finally look at him then— and the look on his face is devastating. Far from anger, just a quiet sort of resign. A disappointment that stitches his eyebrows upwards and you hate it. Thirteen. Exhale. If only there was anything— anything— but pity and hurt in his eyes, everything would've been much easier. Fourteen. Inhale.
He slowly pries his hands away from yours— Fifteen. Six— Exhale. Exhale. Exh— and the sudden loss of his warmth is the final blow. It happens. The tears start falling— a hot, ugly flood that catches in your throat. You feel the sob wrench itself out of you, loud and pathetic, as you finally stop trying to hold the dam together.
“I don’t want to be a placeholder,” he continues, his voice rougher now, though he keeps it steady even as yours fails. “I don’t want to be the guy who fits the space someone else left.”
“Oliver, it's not like—”
“But it is like that,” he interrupts, again, reaching out to brush a wet strand of hair from your face. His touch feels ghostly, already retreating. “And that's not fair to me.”
The words feel like a cold knife being twisted inside of your heart that’s been lit on fire.
“I'm sorry,” you whisper in between the sobs. You feel incredibly small and exposed in your own bed.
“I don’t know how to not feel this,” you admit, voice cracking and so much of the hurt just cascading down your cheeks. Inexplicably and so delicately, Oliver takes your hand in his again. “It’s like— like something got pulled out of me and I’m just trying to pack the space with whatever fits. I wanted it to be you. But that's so… messed up. I'm sorry.”
Oliver swallows, and he looks like he might push you away and leave. He should, you deserve it. But he doesn’t move. Something in your chest cracks even further.
He says your name softly, brushing over your knuckles with his thumb but they only make the knot in your chest tighten. You just want to lean in, to the sound of his voice, wrap yourself in it. It would be so easy. He's right there.
“You're finally being honest. To yourself too. I can't say that I don't wish you'd realised it sooner.”
The words are kind, kinder than anything you deserve right now but they feel like a resounding slap. A final, cold spike of guilt drives itself deep into your chest. The amber light of the lamp catches the handsome lines of Oliver's face— the face of a man who has been nothing but gentle, nothing but attentive. He had filled your nights with conversations, laughs and warmth. Had treated you like the center of the universe, and in return, you had treated him like a life jacket.
You've been so cruel to him.
You don’t know how much time passes before your sobs turn into slow hiccups, while Oliver keeps caressing your hand. As if he needs to be the one comforting you for breaking his heart.
“I care about you,” you whisper, looking up at those brown eyes. They’re not glowing with that golden warmth anymore and a deep, shuddering sigh escapes your lips.
“I know,” he replies, giving you a sad smile, but there’s a tightness in his jaw.
“But you’re in love with him.”
Him. And that’s what it’s all been about hasn’t it? Him, and fifteen years of building a life of pretenses, hiding under the guise of being best friends, being cowards when really, the bravest thing would have been to speak the truth. But it is already far too late for that, and something finally cracks as you look at Oliver’s face.
You wonder how long Oliver's known. If it was at the gala when you'd cried into his chest and you'd felt a slight shift in the way he had held you. Or if he'd always known that you were the secret keeper of something you never named, but chosen to ignore it.
At least, he’d been brave enough to finally call you out on it.
“I'm so sorry, Oliver,” you whisper again and he finally stands up, nodding, as if he'd only been waiting for you to admit it. His absence from beside you is a sudden, heavy void, and for the first time, you feel truly, wholly alone. “You didn’t deserve this.”
He leans down, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead.
"You're your own star, you know," he whispers, his voice thick. “You deserve better than to spend your whole life circling someone whose own shine is too bright to ever really notice yours.”
And then he’s gone, the click of the door a soft, echoing gunshot as the rest of the world fades into silence.
You cry until your eyes are swollen and your throat is raw. You cry for the girl you were at ten years old, holding his hand under the bleachers when the world was small and he was just a boy who was too strong for his own good. You cry because even though the friendship has frayed into something unrecognizable— the love hasn't faded. It’s a stubborn, rooted thing that refuses to die even in the dark. You cry because you realize that you will always love him. He is a part of you, etched into the marrow of your bones, and that is a truth no distance, no amount of hurt can erase. Even if you never see him again, even if he becomes nothing more than a blurred figure in a headline, he remains that scared little boy. Your boy.
The boy you saved, but ended up saving you.
But most importantly, you cry for who you have become. Someone you no longer recognize in the mirror. Someone who hides behind her own feelings, someone who buries them in the shallow soil of convenience and seeks solace in the arms of people she was never meant to hold. You realize with a terrifying clarity that you don't know who you are if you aren't the girl in the chair— the anchor, the secret-keeper, the shadow to a superhero best friend.
You sit on your bed, knees to chest, head in hands, surrounded by complete emptiness. You let the grief of it all swallow you. Because that is the thing about grief, you let yourself be crushed by it; submerge, hit the bottom. Because the sooner you hit the bottom, the faster you resurface.
When the tears finally run dry, leaving you hollow and scraped clean, a numb resolve takes over. You need a break, need to get your head straight. A time away, from Metropolis, from this mess, from Smallville. You can't stay here, at least not right now.
You begin to move, body operating on autopilot. You clean. You arrange your books and clear the graveyard of papers on your desk. A quick look at your calendar confirms that you don’t have any important tests or assignments due for at least a week. Good. You segregate the strewn clothes into a laundry pile and another that can be folded and put away. You clean into the night, decluttering your mind and space as you go, till the room looks whole again.
You take a shower, the water scalding. You scrub all of the phantom weight off of you; watching the grime of the last few weeks swirl down the drain until your skin feels raw, new, and mercifully, your own. You sit in the shower, letting the water hit your face, until the searing heat has cooled on your skin.
Finally, you extract your mini backpack out from under the bed, the sound of the zipper harsh in the quiet room. You move with a detached efficiency, throwing in essentials without really looking at them. Jeans, some shirts, your wallet and laptop.
You won’t be needing much else.
·✶·
The sky is a heavy grey the next morning, dark clouds looming over Metropolis as if the atmosphere itself were holding its breath. As you stand by the front door, backpack in hand, you look back at the quiet apartment. You wonder if you should just quietly disappear, but something gives.
You tear a page from your notebook, your fingers shaking as you scribble in hurried lines:
I’ve gone away for a bit. There’s a lot between us that still feels unresolved, but I think it can wait. Please don't try to find me. Take care of yourself.
You leave the note on the table, under a trivet and lock the door behind you.
The walk to the bus stop is only a few blocks, and you cover the distance on foot, hiking the bag up on both your shoulders. It takes ten minutes, and with each step you feel a little more hopeful and a little less heavy. Once you’re there, you check your watch and then the faded chart at the stop; the bus to the train station is due in a couple of minutes.
Standing there in the mid-morning rush, surrounded by a sea of strangers, you find yourself exhaling a heavy sigh of relief. Your eyes are still puffy and raw from the night before, but the hollow in your chest feels strangely lighter. For the first time in weeks, you don’t feel like you’re carrying any ghosts on your shoulders. You’re alone, but untethered.
The hiss of brakes cuts through the city hum. A bus pulls up to the curb, honking once as it settles into the stop.
The doors fold open. A crowd of commuters spills out onto the sidewalk, hurrying past you in a blur of coats and briefcases. You move to step forward, but your breath hitches and the world goes deathly quiet.
Through the thinning crowd, your eyes lock onto a pair of startled, earth-blue eyes.
You gaze at the empty stool next to you, and there’s a hollowness vibrating on the edge of it—a beckoning, silent whisper of a name that you do not want to acknowledge.
jfc this sentence holy FUCK
“I don’t know how to not feel this,” you admit, voice cracking and so much of the hurt just cascading down your cheeks. Inexplicably and so delicately, Oliver takes your hand in his again.
WELL JUST KILL ME NOW WHY WONT YOU
Someone who hides behind her own feelings, someone who buries them in the shallow soil of convenience and seeks solace in the arms of people she was never meant to hold.
I’m just in awe. I’m never writing another sentence ever again as they’ll never be 1/1000 as good as this.
I’m glad that the next chapter will be out soon I need to knooooooow *sobs*
unfortunately for me I watched this and 10x17 again while waiting for my flight earlier today and there’s been a filthy, and I mean filthy drabble running around my head ever since
will anyone please for the love of any deity get Tom Welling a stylist I can’t stand to watch his hotness being diluted in those shabby outfits please and thank you
— late night devil put your hand on me | clark kent
+ red k!clark kent x f!reader
summary: you love teasing clark when he's under the influence of red kryptonite.
tags: oneshot, plot what plot, pure smut 18+, red kryptonite!clark, DIRTY talk, light choking, dom!clark
a/n: wrote this instead of masturbating since i'm obsessed with redk!clark a normal amount. if you see any mistakes, no you didn't.
wc: 2k
The air is thrumming with loud music, the sound vibrating through your chest, but it's nothing compared to the pure tension radiating off of the man standing in front of you.
Clark looks so different with that ring on. There's a wildness in his eyes, a little pucker to his lips that is so not Clark, but it drives you absolutely wild.
You're swaying to the music, fluid and sensual and the strobing lights are making your moves seem all the more enchanting. You let your hands wander, skimming over the fabric of your dress, up your sides, dragging them along all the places that you want Clark to notice.
His dark, dark eyes follow every move with a heated intensity, hungry and primal. As if he were a predator, ready and waiting to pounce on his prey.
"You're just going to keep watching me?" you ask, over the bass that's vibrating through your chest. You let your fingers slide down your ribcage, further and then some, tracing the sides of your hips, and back up, up, pulling the hem of your skirt along.
A flash of plush skin, a blink and miss moment, but it absolutely wrecks Clark.
You watch his eyes darken, lips parting just slightly as his throat bobs up and down.
You're turning yourself on, gaze fixated on the oh so long column of his neck that's disappearing into a black shirt. A black leather jacket shapes his perfect silhouette, as he leans back against the bar counter sipping his drink, his gaze never leaving yours.
The rhythm pulses through your blood as you turn around. You rake your fingers through your hair, gathering it up to expose the nape of your neck. As the beat drops, you whip back around— breath hitching and mouth parting.
Clark still hasn't moved but there's a shift. His jaw ticks, chest heaving as his eyes trace the curves of your figure.
The sway of your hips is deliberate, calculated. You want him to follow the movement, want him to be utterly hypnotised. Want him to use his enhanced senses to see right through you. See how much you're aching for him.
You lift a hooked finger in his direction and beckon him closer. Bite your lower lip and his jaw cracks, teeth clenching. That is his undoing. Suddenly he's there, looming before you in a flash, smelling like bitter gin and diesel. Clark's eyes are almost black, a thin rim of red surrounding his pupils.
He doesn't say anything.
His hand clamps around your wrist, shackling— and he yanks you toward the service exit, your heels clicking as you stumble to keep up with his stride. The thumping bass of the club drowns into a muffled thrum as you step outside into the frigid, midnight air.
You don’t even make it to the end of the alley. Before you can catch your breath, Clark has you shoved against the nearest wall, the heat of his body swallowing you whole. There’s a faint, dangerous red glow in his eyes as he crowds your space, his mouth crashing against yours.
He groans into your mouth, fingers digging deep into your plush skin, his nails carving pricking crescents into your hips. You know they’ll be purple by morning and you don't care. When Clark gets like this, the red kryptonite flowing through his veins, all he wants to do is consume you.
Use every inch of you until there's nothing left but his mark.
“Ahmmh— Clark.”
Your fingers tangle in his hair, as he drags his lips from your mouth to graze the column of your neck. His palms slide up your thighs to the curves of your ass, bunching the fabric of your dress until he finds purchase, pulling you flush against him with a firm, possessive squeeze.
"You like being a little brat, don't you?" he asks against your skin, his voice all velvety with amusement and something else, something dark.
"Only for you," you murmur into the air, pushing into his pressing heat, feeling the hard length of his against your aching core.
"Oh yeah?" he hums, cupping your face and kissing you once more, his mouth tasting like iron and blood. You roll against him as his hand wanders downwards, squeezing your breast.
He gives the nipple a little flick, sending a sharp, electric spark that has you arching against him and biting your lip.
"I need you, baby," you whine, hands scrambling under his jacket, palms flat against the hard, radiating furnace of his chest. "Wanna feel you inside me."
Clark growls at that, flashing his teeth, animalistic. His low register reverberates through your core.
His hand dives, plunging in between your thighs, fingers pressing against your soaked silk panties. You gasp, hitting your head on the wall behind you.
His fingers trace the damp fabric, unravelling you, and you whimper in his ear. “My my,” he murmurs, his breath hot against your neck. “You’re fucking drenched.”
He moves the panty line aside, and drags his thumb down your slick cunt, collecting your leaking arousal. You moan his name— a broken, high-pitched plea— as he smears it back into you.
"That happen when you were dancing for me?" he murmurs against your skin, teeth raking along the length of your throat. "Shaking your ass in that sexy dress like a little slut? Thinking about exactly this?"
His words shoot a wave of heat flashing through your core. He presses his thumb hard against your clit, a blunt pressure that makes your vision white out.
"Answer me."
He doesn't move his hand; just keeps pushing on your clit, pinning you to the brick until you’re squirming, your hips stuttering instinctively against his palm.
"I asked you a question, baby," he murmurs, his lips brushing your earlobe, cold air biting at the wet trail he’s left on your neck. "Were you thinking about me taking you in the dirt?”
You try to nod, a broken sound catching in your throat, but he yanks your hair back— not enough to hurt, just enough to make you look at him in his burning eyes.
"Words, sweetheart," he grunts. "Want to hear how bad you want it."
"Yesyes. Yes. Please— fuck," you gasp, your fingers digging into the leather of his jacket.
He chuckles, a dark rumbling sound. He slides one finger inside you— the finger with that damned ring— hooking it against your wall and pulling. The ring brushes against your inside, the hot metal, searing. You nearly collapse, your knees turning to water.
"Please what?" he withdraws the finger entirely, leaving you cold and aching. He steps back just an inch, enough to let the freezing alley air hit your soaked thighs.
"I don't hear you begging yet."
"Clark, please please baby— nhngh—"
He watches you, his chest heaving, those red eyes scanning your desperate face. He knows you're balanced on a knife's edge.
"Tell me what you want me to do to you," he asks in a cruel, silken tone. "And maybe I’ll think about putting you out of your misery."
"Everything," you choke out, the word breaking into a sob. Your fingers claw at his jacket, desperate to pull that suffocating heat back against you. "I want you to ruin me. Right here."
His jaw sets, a muscle leaping in his cheek as he drinks in your ruined state. The red in his pupils flares and your legs almost give out under you.
"Good girl," he rasps, the words dark and final.
He flips you around then, the jagged wall cutting into your skin as his hips slot behind yours and your breath hitches. He buries his nose into your nape, biting hard.
"Gonna take it off," he warns, his voice a low rasp. He hooks his fingers into the lace of your underwear before ripping them right off. The sudden bite of the cool night air hits your wet, pulsing cunt, and you hiss through your teeth. Clark’s hand tangles deep into your hair, fisting the strands to yank your head back as he presses another bruising kiss to your neck.
"I could smell that sweet scent of your pretty pussy in the club, baby," he growls into your skin, hot breath sending shivers down your spine. "Teasin' me, making me ache."
He lets go of your hair, dropping the hand lower to cup and squeeze your leaking core. You whimper uselessly against the gravelly, brick wall as his relentless fingers knead and pull at your slick folds.
Without warning, he drives himself inside, filling you up his length all at once. The bluntness of it makes you cry out, Clark's name echoing off the damp alleyway.
His fingers climb up the column of your neck, and clench around your pressure point, making you gasp.
"So fucking desperate for my attention," he grunts, his grip tightening— stealing your breath— as he begins to slam into you from behind with a relentless, unforgiving rhythm.
"Needy little thing," he grits out through clenched teeth. Every heavy thrust sends a jolt through your frame, making your vision swim and your eyes roll back.
"You love it like this, don't ya?"
Another heavy thrust and he bottoms out. You feel your senses beginning to fray at the edges, the world narrowing down to the friction between your thighs and the iron grip on your neck. You manage a broken whine, a sound of pure, helpless need.
"Can't even breathe but like making noise f'me," his voice, deep and low in your ear, as he ruts against you.
The pain is a sharp, electric blur that bleeds into agonising pleasure.
He abruptly releases your neck, and you choke in desperate lungfuls of air, your chest heaving. The sudden rush of oxygen sharpens the sensation of him—so fucking thick— as he continues to drive deep and pull back, the movement dizzying.
“So fucking tight,” he groans against you, thrusting deep, fucking you open. “You feel like heaven," he grits out, as his other thumb begins to circle your clit, while he continues to pound into you mercilessly.
"ClarkpleaseClarkplease—” you whine as you buck, feeling that familiar tug somewhere deep in your abdomen.
A dark, sinful chuckle vibrates against the sensitive spot behind your ear.
"That's it, baby," he moans, his movements turning into a hard, grinding friction that makes your knees buckle, building that sweet sensation. “Give it all to me.”
The orgasm ripples through you— white-hot and burning. You shudder violently under his heavy frame, his name tumbling from your lips like a prayer just as he heaves against you, his own release hitting with a force that leaves you both gasping and cursing in the dark.
Clark pulls out, pushing off of you, already adjusting his clothes, the snap of his belt echoing off the brick. You stand there, legs trembling, the cold wind stinging the still leaking wetness on your thighs— a messy heat of his cum and your own ruined slick. You slowly turn around, not trusting yourself with fast movements.
His eyes are still dark, that lingering red glow seeming to have only strengthened in his eyes. Without a word, he reaches down and jerks your skirt back into place, the fabric snagging against your damp skin. He doesn’t even bother to wipe you down. Leaves his mark right there, soaking into your clothes.
Before you can even find your footing, he surges forward, scooping you into his arms. You let out a startled gasp, your arms instinctively hooking around his neck; it’s a mercy, because your knees were about to give.
"Where are we going?" you breathe, your voice a wrecked rasp.
He doesn't look at you as he starts to walk, and you feel a low flame ignite in your belly.
“Home," he murmurs, against your temple. "I'm in the mood for breaking some furniture.”
*
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why aren’t more people talking about how ridiculously good Tom was looking during Pensacon I’m losing my mind
someone convince him to shave that awful goatee and get a navy t-shirt and a backwards hat and we’ll have ourselves a new, more mature version of that 2004 Teen Choice Awards look
today is the day when I finished watching Smallville - took me roughly two months
I have a lot of feelings and thoughts but it was generally very very worth it and I’ll most definitely revisit it, if not all episodes, certainly many of them
