Manip by Khyla. Used with permission of the artist.
Rating: Adult. If you're under eighteen, please go elsewhere now.
Disclaimer: These characters belong to the CW and DC Comics, not to me.
Wanted to breathe in her smell, her fragrance of flowers and fresh air and spices.
Wanted her hands on his skin.
Needed them on his skin. Everywhere.
Needed all of her.
He flew like a thunderbolt toward her, his crimson cape rippling behind him, going so fast the air split behind him with a shattering boom.
He didn't hear it.
All he heard was the sound of her heartbeat.
All he knew was her.
Jonathan Crane, the supervillain known as the Scarecrow, released a fear toxin into a crowd in Gotham City today. Chloe Sullivan, writing as Lois Lane, typed the words as rapidly as she could, listening to the cop who was telling her everything he knew. Since Batman was apparently occupied in helping to stop the El train disaster unfolding at that moment, Superman took Crane into custody. Bystanders reacted to the toxin with abject fear, some actually curling into balls on the pavement, but the Man of Steel seemed unaffected...
A deep voice she knew better than her own suddenly spoke. She yelped, and almost dropped the cell phone. After eight years of marriage, she really ought to be used to Clark's odd comings and goings by now, but occasionally he still managed to take her by surprise. She looked up, seeing him standing right in front of her desk.
She was so focused on her story she paid no heed to what he'd said. Admittedly Clark was the story, but she needed to write down what the Gotham cop was telling her, too. Slightly annoyed by the interruption, she drew her eyebrows down and spoke tersely.
He didn't back away. The way he was staring at her, in the middle of the Daily Planet bullpen, was a little odd. As far as anyone knew, she was married to Clark Kent, mild-mannered reporter, not Superman, Man of Tomorrow.
And yet Superman was staring at her like he wanted to do her, right in the middle of the office. And not "tomorrow," but right now.
"Need." His voice was a low growl, like the deep rumble of a pipe organ, soft and yet clearly audible over the bustle of the Planet's newsroom. "Now."
"Hang on just a second," she said into the phone. Despite her immersion in writing her story, it was starting to dawn on her that Clark was acting very strangely. It wasn't like him to be inarticulate, or to communicate with little more than grunts. After all, he was the last son of an advanced race, not a Neanderthal. She pulled the phone away from her ear and frowned, concerned.
He dropped both palms onto her desk and stared at her with hot, intense eyes.
"Need." His voice was very soft but very insistent.
She had a feeling she already knew the answer to that question, and he confirmed it.
The smell of her. Overpowering. Filling him.
Skin. Satin. Always smooth under his hands.
The sound of her heart. Fast, steady beat. The beat that he lived by. The beat that he slept to.
Long brown hair. Wanted.
Wanted to touch.
His body surged with desperate alien needs, sensations he'd never felt before, desires that were so intense and all-encompassing he couldn't get away from them, not even for a microsecond. He was unaware of anything except her, and his body's responses.
A single thought beat through his body and his mind, pounding at him with ever-increasing desperation.
She spoke into the cell phone. "Did you actually speak with Superman?"
"No," the cop said. "He flew away before we could ask him any questions. You know how these costumed vigilantes are."
She bristled a little at the description of her husband as a "vigilante." He was a superhero, thankyouverymuch. But she knew the Gotham cops had an attitude about metahumans, so she reined in her angry response and spoke calmly. "But he was unaffected by the toxin? He didn't seem to be acting oddly?"
"He wasn't scared, so far's I could tell," the cop said. "But he sure acted like he had to be someplace else in a hurry. I thought maybe he was going to help with the El train, but the guys over there tell me they haven't seen him. But you know Superman's always doing something."
The man she'd married would never have walked away from a disaster, even if it had mostly been contained. He would have gone to the site to see if he could offer assistance.
And yet he was here, staring at her, and saving people appeared to be the furthest thing from his mind.
She remembered the desperate desire in his voice, remembered the way he'd said Need, and a shiver ran down her spine.
"Thank you very much, Officer McNeill," she said. "I may have more questions later." She disconnected before the officer could even say goodbye, and stood up, staring right into her husband's seagreen eyes.
"The Scarecrow released a toxin in Gotham," she said, very slowly and distinctly. "It was designed to scare humans, but I think it might have had an effect on you, too. We need to get you looked at by a doctor."
He looked back at her, and she could see her words were totally lost on him.
"Need," he said. "You."
People were staring openly now. The fact that Superman was here was strange enough, but the fact that he was staring at her with clear lust-- well, it probably looked strange, even if no one had managed to hear what he was saying over the noise of the newsroom.
"Let's go outside and talk about it," she said softly, placing a hand on his shoulder.
It was a mistake, and she realized it instantly as his muscles tensed under her palm. His head swiveled to look at her hand, and something fierce and intense and almost dangerous ignited in his eyes.
"Sex," he said, and swept her up into his arms.
Her body in his arms. Warm against him.
Wanted more. Wanted her bare and hot and sweaty.
Her skin against his.
Her breathing uneven and shaky.
Her body trembling at every touch. Quivering beneath his hands.
Their bodies melding together, hot and wet. The scent of her arousal surrounding him.
The need was growing steadily deeper, more primeval, and by the time he got her to the roof, out in the sunshine, the only word he knew of that could articulate his need had come to him. He dropped her feet to the roof, keeping his arms around her, and stared into her eyes.
"Fuck," he told her.
There was no way she was having sex on the Daily Planet roof with Superman in the bright sunshine of a fall afternoon. There was too much chance of someone seeing the distinctive red cape. If someone saw them and figured out who she was, his secret identity might be compromised, and she couldn't allow that. And even if they didn't figure it out, it wasn't part of Superman's image to be having sex in broad daylight in public.
Somehow she had to protect him.
"No, Clark," she said, pushing at his chest desperately. She might as well have tried to move the LuthorCorp building, and she knew it, but she tried anyway. "Listen to me. This is the Scarecrow's toxin, not you."
Obviously the toxin affected a deep, primitive part of the brain. With humans, it stimulated the part of the brain that produced a fear reaction. But since Clark wasn't human, it had a different effect on him. Different, but no less basic and elemental.
Being Superman, he'd fought it off long enough to finish his task of handing the Scarecrow over to the authorities. Then he'd flown straight to her.
She wondered what might have happened if he wasn't Superman, and couldn't fly to her. How basic was his need? Would he have had sex with the first available female?
She contemplated that for a moment, then shrugged it off as irrelevant. It was because he was Superman that the toxin had affected him this way. Anyone else would be curled up on the pavement, whimpering in terror.
"This isn't you," she repeated, staring into his eyes in an effort to make him understand. "I mean, yes, you want me, but not like this. You have to fight it, Clark. Fight it."
He stared back into her eyes for a long moment, giving her hope that he'd understood. But then he opened his mouth again.
"Fuck," he said. "Now."
She closed her eyes in defeat, realizing that there was no way of getting through to him. A deep, primitive part of his brain was being stimulated by the toxin, overpowering every other thought, and until he got what he wanted, he couldn't be turned aside.
Thank God he'd come to her, and not turned to the nearest available female. Because she had an uncomfortable certainty that under the influence of the toxin, even the word "No" wouldn't dissuade him. She'd hate for Clark to be driven to rape, because when the toxin wore off he would be absolutely crushed by what he'd done.
At least there was no question of rape here. He was her husband, and if he needed sex, then she was willing to have sex. She just wanted to do it without compromising his secret.
His hands were beginning to move over her body, and she realized that he was rapidly giving into the demands of the toxin. She needed to get him out of public somehow.
"Can we find a storage closet somewhere?" she asked.
He stared at her blankly. "Why?"
She realized that any input that didn't have to do with sex didn't make any sense to his befuddled brain. If only she had the little chunk of kryptonite she kept in a lead box... but unfortunately, it was in her purse, which was in her desk drawer downstairs. Damn it. "We can make love in a storage closet," she said persuasively.
He blinked at her. "Fuck. Here."
"No," she answered. "In a storage closet. There's a nice big one on the fourteenth floor, remember? We've used it before."
Apparently a change in venue wasn't on his list of things to do today. He had exactly one item on his list, and he wasn't going to do anything that might delay that item. And she certainly couldn't move him without cooperation.
She tried a slightly different tack. "Well, how about your clothes? Can you at least change into your regular clothes for me?"
Once again, he looked puzzled. "Why?"
"Because they're sexier." She let her voice drop into a husky, more sensual register. "Change for me, Clark."
He stared back at her, as blank as ever, and she thought with a sinking heart that this wasn't going to work, either. But then there was a blur, and plain old Clark Kent stood in front of her. Because he'd had the day off, he was dressed in jeans and a plain white t-shirt. But his dark-rimmed glasses perched crookedly on his nose, just as they always did, and his dark hair fell over his forehead in shaggy bangs.
"Thank you," she said in relief, hoping that no one had spotted the red cape earlier. She could imagine the tabloid headlines, all equally bad, whether someone figured out his identity or not: Superman is reporter for Daily Planet! or Superman in love nest with married woman!
Not good, not good at all. Hopefully no one had spotted him. With any luck, maybe no one would see them.
She tugged on him, trying to draw him toward the shadow cast by the great golden globe that revolved overhead. He hesitated for a moment, then followed her.
"Fuck," he reminded her.
"Yeah, I got that already, thanks." She hesitated in the shadows and looked up at him.
He looked back. His eyes were hot and fierce.
"Now," he said.
She'd done everything she could to protect his secret, and she knew she couldn't dissuade him. Under the influence of the toxin, which was clearly making him desperate for sex, it was possible he could hurt her with his superhuman strength. But she trusted him, even under the influence. She'd always trusted him.
"Okay," she agreed. "Now."
Hands up under her blouse. Warm sleek skin.
Aching with need. Hard, so hard.
Rubbed against her.
Pleasure, so intense it almost knocked him off his feet.
Needed more of that. Her body against his.
His body in hers.
She pushed up his shirt. A cool autumn breeze blew across his bare, sweat-damp skin.
His hands shoved her skirt up roughly, ripping her panties away. Her hands settled on his jeans, unfastening them.
Her fingers wrapped around his cock.
A long roar of desperate need ripped its way out of his throat as she touched him. He was hot and hard, aching with a terrible throbbing ache. He'd never been so hard before, so full of anguished need.
Her hand stroked him, and precome surged out of him as desire rushed through him in waves, drowning him. Yesthatyesthatyesmoreofthat...
But as good as it was, as intensely pleasurable as it was, it wasn't quite what he wanted. He needed to be inside her, deep inside her, having sex with her. Fuck fuck fuck beat like a steady mantra in his head, overwhelming everything else.
He wrapped his hands around her waist, lifted her, and sank deeply into the impossible warmth of her body.
Clark felt so good.
Chloe had made love to him hundreds of times, of course. But she'd never felt such desperation in every muscle of his body, never felt him plunge into her with such power and violence.
In the back of her mind, she was still aware that he could hurt her, possibly even kill her. He was hundreds of times stronger than she was, he was very much out of control, and the effect of the toxin on his mind obviously made him oblivious to any concerns other than sex. She should be frightened.
But his body felt so good thrusting into hers that the fear just melted away.
Pleasure coiled in her, tight and hot. Her arms wrapped around his shoulders, her lips brushed over his throat, and she raised a leg and wrapped it around his thighs to allow him deeper access. He sank into her even more deeply, and a noise almost of anguish fell from his lips.
His hips moved harder and faster, in a savage, unrelenting rhythm, driving her right off an edge she hadn't realized she'd been poised on. She cried out as all-consuming ecstasy exploded through her every cell, and her body convulsed around his.
He threw his head back and uttered a long, animal sound of rapture, a noise that was a scream and a roar and a wail all rolled into one. He thrust into her one last time, so hard it almost hurt, and she felt the warm burst of his come deep inside her.
And then he was gasping for breath, lowering her to the ground and pressing his face into her hair.
So good. So damn good.
But he needed.
Couldn't ever stop.
Her fragrance drifted around him on the cool autumn breeze. The smell of sex, of sweat, of sweetness and spice. His erection was still hard, but it stiffened further, and he lifted her again and moved inside her, thrusting gently.
They weren't done yet.
They would never be done.
As Clark moved inside her, his movements growing more demanding, Chloe realized she was in trouble.
She'd thought somehow that the toxin would lose its effectiveness when Clark got what he wanted. But she was beginning to realize that as long as the toxin was stimulating this particular area of his brain, he wouldn't stop. He couldn't stop.
But somehow, she needed to make him stop. She couldn't make love to him on the roof of the Daily Planet building forever. First of all, someone was bound to come out here and catch them eventually, or spot them from a nearby building. And second-- sooner or later it was going to hurt. Even if Clark didn't get carried away and split her in two or something, the friction was eventually going to make her very, very uncomfortable.
Sex with Clark all day long was a terrific fantasy. But sex with an out-of-control Clark who was oblivious to how she felt, who didn't care about hurting her, who just kept pounding into her relentlessly, was not a fantasy. It was more like a nightmare.
"You need to stop," she said, pushing at his shoulders. As she'd expected, he didn't respond, just kept thrusting, frantic noises coming from his throat. She shoved harder and spoke more loudly. "Clark! No!"
That word would have made him stop instantly any other time, but he didn't even seem to notice it. Clearly he just wasn't capable of stopping right now. She leaned her head against his big shoulder, trying to ignore the physical sensation of his body pounding into hers, despite the fact that it was pretty damn enjoyable.
She couldn't let herself just enjoy this, because sooner or later it was going to result in real damage, and she wasn't in favor of that. She needed to figure out a way to stop him somehow.
Clark gave another long, sobbing roar of pleasure, and she felt a somewhat reduced burst of heat inside her. Okay, Sullivan, she thought. Now's your chance.
Just like last time, his grip loosened just a bit as post-orgasmic relaxation hit his muscles, and she wrenched away from him and skittered backward, as fast as she could go, shoving her skirt down.
He lifted his head, looking perplexed, and followed her. "Fuck," he said hopefully.
"No." She spoke as sternly as she could, trying to ignore the plaintive look in his expressive eyes. "We're done, Clark."
Despite her words, she knew she couldn't hold him off forever. She didn't have a chance in the world of getting down to the bullpen and getting that little chunk of kryptonite, and she knew it. He was so much faster and stronger than she was that she was effectively trapped here on the roof as long as he was under the influence of the toxin.
Her only hope was to hold him off until his supermetabolism managed to neutralize the toxin. Given how fast his metabolism worked, she was certain he wouldn't be like human victims, whom she'd read were often in the hospital for days after a dose of one of the Scarecrow's toxins. He'd shake it off relatively quickly, she was sure. But if only there were a way to make his metabolism work even faster...
Suddenly an idea dawned.
He moved toward her, stalking her like a lion, his eyes still hot with clear sexual interest. She reached out and grabbed his huge, hard, slick erection, wrapping her hand around him.
He paused, his eyes flickering shut, and she pumped really hard, in a way that had always made him weak in the knees. She'd already figured out that the biological imperative triggered by the toxin made him want sex, and nothing but sex, but maybe if she could make this feel good enough...
He groaned, a long, low sound of such total and complete pleasure that it gave her goosebumps.
"You like that," she whispered.
"Fuck," he moaned, and she wasn't sure if it was an objection or just an expletive.
"You know what would feel even better?" She moved her hand harder. "If you went into superspeed, I bet it would feel awesome."
He paused for a moment, and then he was thrusting against her hand so fast he was little more than a blur. She stepped to the side, so as not to be hit by any substance that might exit his body at more than the normal velocity, because she didn't want her head taken off. She wasn't sure if that could actually happen... but she really didn't want to find out.
She heard a series of loud, rapid, and entirely indescribable noises, which she guessed was the sound of him yelling as he came over and over again at superspeed. The friction made her hand begin to smart and sting, but she supposed it was better to have him rubbing against her hand than against a more sensitive place, which probably would have been in serious agony by now.
And then suddenly, he stopped, and stumbled backward from her, his eyes wide.
"Chloe?" he said, looking bewildered.
What the hell?
Clark blinked, trying to figure out what on earth he was doing here, in Metropolis. The last really clear thing he remembered was receiving a call from the Batman and speeding to Metropolis to apprehend Jonathan Crane, who'd released a toxin into a crowd on Main Street. Clark had figured he was the ideal person to deal with Crane, since the toxin wouldn't affect him...
He sorted through the rest of his recent memories, a confused, blurry kaleidoscope of intense sexual desire and violent orgasms, and he realized the toxin had affected him, after all... but not quite the way it affected humans. He felt his cheeks turn red.
"I guess it wore off," Chloe said, inspecting the palm of her hand ruefully.
He wrapped his fingers around her wrist, lifting her hand to see what he'd done to her. Her palm was chafed raw and red. In another moment or two, it would have probably begun bleeding. He lifted his head and looked into her eyes, horrified by the way he'd treated her.
"It's okay," she said, reading his expression. "Not your fault."
He supposed that was true, but it didn't make him feel any better. She reached down and zipped up his jeans, tucking everything back where it ought to be, and it slowly dawned on him that he'd had sex with her on the roof of the Daily Planet building, in broad daylight. His cheeks flamed hotter than before.
"The toxin," he said, trying to put the pieces together. "Did it just ...wear off?"
She nodded. "I got you to go into superspeed. I figured that would make your metabolism a lot faster."
"Good thinking." Considering how much faster his body operated in superspeed, he'd probably burnt off the toxin hours faster than it would have taken otherwise. If she hadn't thought of that solution... he envisioned himself forcing her to have sex with him against her will for hours on end, hurting her, and a shudder of shame ran through him.
"I told you," she said, a little more fiercely. "It wasn't your fault."
"I guess not," he answered. "Still... I'm really sorry, Chlo."
"It's okay," she told him, patting his shoulder. "We don't have time to stand here and worry about it, anyway. I have a story to write, and you need to get back to Gotham and check on the El train disaster. I think Bruce has it mostly under control, but still..."
His shame faded away under the awareness that people needed him. He bent and kissed her quickly, then headed for the edge of the roof. By the time he'd reached it, he'd transformed himself into Superman.
Seconds later, he was in Gotham, helping Batman aid the people who'd been injured.
But his mind was still back in Metropolis with Chloe.
At five o'clock, Chloe looked up from the computer to find Clark standing there, holding a vase full of tulips. She lifted her eyebrows.
"Are those for me?"
"No, they're for my girlfriend. Of course they're for you, silly girl."
She smiled, pleased. Clark was the world's most super husband, of course, but in many ways he was a lot like like most human men, and buying flowers wasn't something he thought of doing often. She reached out and took the vase, sniffing the crimson flowers appreciatively.
"Thank you, Clark."
He parked his hip on the corner of her desk and looked down at her. "We're going out, too. I have a nice evening planned."
She placed the vase onto her desk and turned back to her computer, beginning to type again. "Okay," she agreed absently.
"Um. I sort of meant, you know, starting now."
"Now?" She glanced up, at the ornate art deco clock that hung on the opposite wall, and frowned. "But it's only five o'clock."
"Maybe no one ever sent you the memo, Chlo, but the work day ends at five o'clock."
"That's crazy talk."
"Come on," he said impatiently. "I owe you for what I did to you this afternoon. Let me make it up to you, okay?"
She looked at him for a long moment. At last she stood up, walked around the desk, and put her hands on his shoulders, staring into his eyes. "Clark," she said gently. "You don't owe me anything. I already told you, it wasn't your fault."
To her relief, there had been no apparent fallout from the toxin incident. She'd been monitoring the internet all day, and she hadn't read a thing about Superman, other than the story she herself had written. No one had spotted Superman, or even Clark Kent, on the roof of the Planet, having hot sex with the journalist who wrote as Lois Lane. And no one had died in the El disaster, thanks to the efforts of Batman-- and, somewhat belatedly, Superman.
They'd been lucky, because no real harm had been done-- except to her palm. And a little hand lotion with aloe had helped soothe that sting.
He lowered his gaze, looking away from her as if he were too embarrassed to face her. "Maybe not," he said, his voice low. "But it feels like my fault. So let me do this for you, okay?"
"Um. Well. Let me think. A bouquet of tulips and a romantic evening with my husband. Is there a down side here?"
"Yeah," he said with a flicker of the grin she adored. "You have to knock off work at five o'clock."
"Huh. Well, that's a hell of a sacrifice. But for you, I'm willing to make it."
"Great," he said, and his grin was more than just a flicker now. It lit his face and made his eyes glow with delight. He put his arm around her waist and steered her toward the door. "And maybe later, we can make love the right way. Without me losing control, I mean."
She looked up at him and felt her heart lift, because his serious, mopey expression had been replaced by his happy smile. She grinned back.
"I bet I can make you lose control, Clark Kent."
"Yeah," he agreed, squeezing her in an affectionate, warm hug. "I bet you can, too."