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 the previous chapter here.
Read the story from the beginning here.
Frozen inside without your touch
Without your love, darling
Only you are the life among the dead
I've been sleeping a thousand years it seems
I've got to open my eyes to everything
-Evanescence, "Bring Me to Life"
One of Clark's hands reached down and pulled at her panties. Ordinarily he could have ripped them right off, but weakened by his long stay in the darkness, he couldn't even tear the fabric. He cursed lividly, far more angrily than the situation called for, and lowered both hands, yanking the offending garment off the human way.
She lifted her hips a little, helping, and her hands dropped back onto his shoulders, stroking his muscles in a gentle, comforting caress. He was pretty sure she was trying to calm him down a little.
But he didn't want to be calmed down. Everything that had been frozen inside him was melting at her touch, and all his emotions seemed to be floating to the surface at once.
He tossed her panties aside and lowered himself back onto her. She was already wet, and the only thing standing between him and a really good fuck was his stupid jeans.
He fumbled frantically at his belt, and then she lowered her hands and unbuckled it. And then she was unzipping his pants and pushing them aside, shoving down his boxers...
He gave a low growl of desperate need and shoved right up against her. She felt so good, slick and hot and smooth, and desire rose to the top of his swirling emotions. He wanted to fuck her so badly his balls hurt.
For the first time in a week, his anguished emptiness had eased. With her arms wrapped around him, the head of his cock pressed right up against her, his mouth against her throat, he felt almost... alive.
The problem was, he wasn't sure he wanted to feel alive. But when she touched him, he couldn't quite help himself somehow.
His hips jerked, and then he was inside her, sliding deeply into her moisture. A long sound of need rumbled from him. Her legs lifted, wrapping around his ass, and her arms went around his waist, holding him close.
"Clark," she whispered. "I love you so much."
Something ugly twisted inside him, and he turned his head away, trying to ignore the words. He didn't want her love. He didn't deserve her love.
All he wanted was sexual release, a few moments of intense pleasure to drive away the darkness before he sank back into it. A few moments of emotion before he locked it all away again.
A few moments of life before he let himself die inside.
She didn't let him get away. Her hands caught his face, turning it back toward her, and then she kissed him, very lightly, on the mouth.
"I love you," she repeated.
The automatic response of years-- I love you too-- rose to his lips, and he shoved it back. He couldn't tell her that. He didn't want to love anyone, not even her. He wanted to be dead inside, free of emotions, free of any sort of human attachment. Free of love and hatred and self-loathing and rage. Free of everything.
He just wanted sex. Not love. Sex, damn it. A brief moment of ecstatic forgetfulness. And then he'd let himself sink back into the darkness.
He turned his head away again, and his hips jerked harder and faster. With every movement pleasure grew inside him. But he wanted more. He wanted to be even deeper inside her.
He wanted to fuck himself into oblivion.
His big hands wrapped around her hips, holding her as he drove into her. She sobbed beneath him, her hips rising to meet his, her arms and legs wrapping around him more tightly than ever. Her hands stroked him everywhere, his shoulders and his back and his ass. She didn't tell him she loved him again, but she didn't have to. Her touch said it for her.
He didn't caress her, didn't kiss her, didn't whisper words of love to her. He just fucked her.
Need and pleasure swelled inside him, and heat rushed through his veins. With every thrust, he felt a tingle of pleasure rush up his spine, until his body was full of something closely approximating ecstasy.
His head arched back, his eyes clenched shut, his hands gripping her hips so tightly that if he'd had his strength, he would have hurt her.
"Yes, yes, yes..."
His words trailed off into a long wail of anguished need. He wanted to come so badly, craved that moment of ecstatic peace that could blank out everything else, and his thrusts became rougher and more violent.
He felt her shuddering beneath him, felt the rippling waves of her orgasm as her body clenched around him, heard her crying out as she came. Pleasure filled him, and he strained toward rapture. He needed it so... damn... badly...
"Clark." She'd relaxed beneath him in the aftermath of her climax, and her hands were stroking his hair now. "Relax. You'll get there."
Apparently she'd noticed the frantic tension in his muscles. Easy for her to say, he thought angrily. She'd already found the merciful oblivion of orgasm. She was peaceful and content and calm, while he--
Well, he was the furthest thing from peaceful and content and calm.
He closed his eyes and buried his face against her throat, growling in angry frustration as his hips moved in hard jerks. He had too much on his mind, damn it. He was filled with a whirling cyclone of emotions, a suffocating mass of anger and rage and grief that wouldn't leave him alone, wouldn't let him just surrender to orgasm.
"Easy, Clark." She was trying to calm him down, but he didn't want to be calm. He wanted to come. He thrust so violently it would have hurt her if he'd had much strength left, so violently that the bed creaked.
She gave up on trying to calm him. Her hand slid down between their bodies and began to stroke his balls. It was something he'd always liked, and he trembled and shook at her touch.
"Sex doesn't work when you try to do it on your own," she said in his ear, very softly. "It's a mutual thing, Clark."
He groaned, knowing she was right. He'd been trying to use her as if she were an inflatable doll, and there wasn't much pleasure to be found in that. But when she touched him...
She knew exactly how to make him crazy, and she caressed him with the expertise of years, stroking his balls, then rolling them together very gently. He shivered, kissing her throat, letting his hands stroke her soft, damp skin, and all the painful emotions swirling inside of him fell away, leaving him with nothing but bright pleasure.
He surrendered to it. His head arched back, and his thrusts lost their rhythm and became erratic, and even more violent than before. A desperate need coiled in his balls, then suddenly broke loose.
His body shuddered as he came in long, hot spurts. He lowered his head and sobbed against her throat as his cock jerked inside her, filling her to overflowing with his come.
Ecstasy flowed through him, but it didn't grant the peace he'd hoped for. Because as the pleasure ebbed, he realized that he was still sobbing. Not with pleasure, but with the sorrow and self-loathing he'd been trying so hard to push away. Rough sounds of grief fell from him, and his shoulders shook.
Damn it. All he'd wanted to do was drown out his anguish for a little while.
And instead it was drowning him.
She wrapped her arms around him and stroked his hair. "Shhhh," she whispered. "I'm so sorry, Clark."
The agony of having not saved twenty-two people burned inside his chest, and he couldn't keep it inside any longer. For a week he'd struggled to keep it from hurting, to keep it from clawing its way out and tearing him apart. But now, in the vulnerable moment after orgasm, he couldn't suppress it any more.
He pressed his face against her throat and let his tears fall.
Read Chapter 4 here.