Season 7, MHE to "Bizarro"
Rating: Adult. If you're under eighteen, please go elsewhere now.
Disclaimer: These characters belong to the CW and DC Comics, not to me.
Read Chapter 1 here.
Clark opened his mouth to tell her how much she meant to him, and at the same moment she lifted her head, her lips parted as if she were about to speak. Before either of them got a word out, he found himself kissing her. And not just a little friendly peck, either. Their tongues met, sliding together in a wet sweep of heat and sensation, and suddenly he was kissing her really, really hard.
His head started to spin, the same way it had after he'd heard she was dead. But he tightened his grip on her and kissed her harder, and the feeling of disorientation started to fade.
He remembered seeing her in the drawer, and he clung to her harder than before, kissing her ferociously.
She didn't seem to mind. Her hands clutched his hair, and she slid closer to him, almost into his lap. He could hear the rapid beat of her heart, the quick pace of her breathing, all a very welcome reminder that she was alive.
She was fine, perfectly healthy, and he hadn't lost her, wasn't ever going to lose her, was never ever going to let her go...
"Clark." She yanked her head away, her voice high-pitched, almost a yelp. "Canyoustopsqueezingmesohardplease?"
He jerked his arms away from her, realizing with shock and embarrassment that he'd been embracing her to the point of almost cracking her ribs. He lifted his head and stared at her, horrified. It had been a long time since he'd gotten so carried away emotionally that he'd come close to hurting anyone.
"I'm sorry, Chlo."
"It's okay." She smiled, trying to lighten the moment. "It looks like I'm self-healing, anyway."
"Yeah, but still. I... I just..."
"It's been a bad couple of days," she said gently. "We're both kind of upset. Maybe you were right after all. It might be better for you to be alone right now. Me too."
"No." He put his arms around her again, being careful this time not to squeeze the stuffing out of her. "I was wrong. I don't want to be alone, Chloe."
"Clark." He could hear her consciously pulling out her reasonable voice. "I know the last two days have been an emotional roller coaster, but you really don't want to kiss me. Not like that."
He remembered the feel of her tongue against his, sliding against his as smoothly as satin, and he shivered.
"Trust me," he said. "I do want to kiss you. Exactly like that."
She looked up at him, and her lips curled at the corners.
"All right," she said softly.
At first he thought he'd misheard her. She was still dating Jimmy, and she knew his feelings for Lana were still all tangled up inside him, and the two of them were just friends, anyway. They'd never been quite able to admit that they wanted each other that way, never been able to bring themselves to confront what they really felt for each other beneath the facade of close friendship. It seemed safer to pretend they were just friends.
But despite all the very good reasons he had not to kiss her, she'd told him it was all right.
So he was damn well going to kiss her.
He lowered his head again and brushed his lips over his. He meant to hold back this time, but he discovered her lips were parted again, and with that discovery there was no possible way he could restrain himself. He remembered the intimate warmth of their tongues twining together, and he couldn't stop himself from delving into her mouth again, tasting and exploring and caressing.
She tasted unbelievably good, tart and tangy and citrusy, and he guessed she'd had orange juice for breakfast, too. He kissed her harder-- because a guy really couldn't have too much vitamin C, after all-- and her arms went right around his shoulders again.
And suddenly she was actually in his lap, her thighs spread and on either side of his. His nerves all went crazy, like he'd stuck his finger into an electrical socket, and his brain overloaded, his synapses firing wildly, randomly.
Chloe Sullivan. Was in. His lap.
And not just in his lap, but right up against... God.
What she was pressed up against was hard and throbbing and so terribly needy he could hardly restrain himself from dry humping her. He tried to hold onto a little dignity and restraint, held himself still, and just kissed her harder.
She didn't seem to care about restraint. Her body moved frantically against his, driving all his systems further into overload. Her jeans rubbed against his erection until the friction was unbearably intense, and he heard a little sound come out of his throat, the kind of noise his dog Shelby made when someone accidentally stepped on his tail.
Somewhere far beneath the storm of impulses rioting through his brain, he wondered why on earth Chloe was reacting this way. Yeah, there had always been a certain amount of sexual tension between them, but this was... well, it wasn't normal.
In fact, this was completely crazy. She'd been the one to try to apply a little reason to the situation, after all. She'd been the one who suggested that maybe she ought to go away and leave him alone.
And yet all of a sudden she'd gone from trying to push him away, emotionally speaking, to climbing all over him.
It occurred to him that maybe her emotional state wasn't any more stable than his was.
At that thought, he pulled his mouth away from hers, although only with reluctance. "Chlo..."
"No." She caught at him with desperation. "Please, Clark. Don't."
"No. I need you." She dug her hands into the plaid flannel of his shirt, and stared at him, her hazel eyes glittering with tears. "I died, Clark. I actually died. When I woke up in that drawer, I was so goddamned scared. I thought... oh, God, I was terrified."
"Chlo." He spoke very softly, trying to comfort her. "Everything is okay now."
"No, it's not. Whatever happened to me... it's just beginning. And right now I just..." Her voice fell to a whisper. "I need you to convince me I'm really alive."
Whatever happened to me... it's just beginning.
For the first time, he let himself acknowledge that truth. Just because she'd come back to life didn't mean everything was perfectly normal now. He had no way of knowing if she'd wind up in a morgue drawer again. He didn't know when or how her meteor power might activate, and under what circumstances.
For all he knew he might find himself at the medical center again, listening to those exact same words with shock and disbelief and horror: I'm sorry, but Miss Sullivan didn't make it...
He shivered with a stark fear that echoed the panic in her voice. He was scared too, afraid that he'd have to go through losing his best friend over and over again. Afraid that maybe in the end, it would be permanent, and he'd lose her forever.
The truth was that he needed comfort and consolation too, so much so that he just couldn't stop himself from kissing her again.
Their kisses grew in intensity, dark, hot, wet kisses that didn't stop, that just got longer and deeper and more intimate with each passing moment. He became aware that his body was moving against hers, but he suddenly realized he no longer cared all that much about dignity and restraint. Screw dignity and restraint.
Deep-rooted, instinctive urges were taking him over, compelling his body to move entirely independently of his brain. Her hips moved against his, stroking up and down along the length of his erection, and his hips moved in helpless counterpoint, thrusting in violent, erratic jerks that didn't quite match her rhythm.
"I want you inside me," she whispered into his ear. "Please, Clark."
She was his best friend, and the idea of stripping off her jeans and sinking deep into her wet, hot body-- well, it ought to embarrass him, or freak him out. Instead, the idea sent a tremor of hunger and need through him.
He remembered being told she was dead, remembered his horrified anguish, and he knew that it could happen again. And suddenly he wanted to be inside her so badly it hurt.
I need you to convince me I'm really alive.
He remembered the sight of her in that morgue drawer, and he shuddered.
He needed convincing, too.
Read Chapter 3 here.