Twilight Blue

Clark/Tess
Season 8 (SPOILERS)
Rating: Adult. If you're under eighteen, please go elsewhere now.
Disclaimer: These characters belong to the CW and DC Comics, not to me.
Screencap from Dynamic Duo.
Sequel to Burgundy Red.

The Damage Done, Part 2

He fucks her every night.

Since he arrived in this place, they've done everything two people can possibly do together. No matter what she wants him to do, no matter how depraved or perverse, he does it willingly. And he enjoys it.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he vaguely remembers that sex wasn't always about violence and depravity and selfish pleasure. It wasn't always just fucking.

He remembers making love, sharing deep kisses and taking the time to cherish his partner. But that's a distant memory that fades further into insignificance with every passing day. It doesn't matter, and neither does the identity of the girl he used to love.

All that matters is her.

For the first week of his imprisonment, she injected him with high doses of the burgundy red liquid, doses that brought him incredible highs followed by terrible lows. Every time she injected him, she had sex with him, and the ecstasy was beyond anything he'd ever known. But afterward, she left him crying on the floor, trembling in the throes of agonizing withdrawal, begging and pleading for more of the drug.

After the first week, she cut down on the amount of the drug she gave him, but upped the number of doses. As a result, he's always high, but not quite as high as he wants to be. The highs aren't as intense, but he doesn't have to cope with the awful bouts of withdrawal, either.

Still, the craving for more is bearable, but only barely so. He stalks back and forth in his cell all day long in a state of irritable, hungry need, able to function, but nevertheless aching for more.

Since he possesses superstrength, he can easily break out of his cell if he wants to, but he doesn't want to leave her, and everything she provides him with. Besides, he's learned that breaking out isn't smart. He tried it once. The first day she reduced his dosage, he did break out of the cell to find more.

Driven by a dark hunger, he hadn't realized quite in time that she was keeping the drug in a safe lined with green kryptonite. He'd fallen to the floor, helpless, and she'd taken him back to his cell and left him without any injections for the remainder of the day. The withdrawal symptoms had been horrible, so awful he'd been certain he was dying. In fact, he'd wanted to die.

But at last she'd given him relief, in the form of an extra-large dose of the drug and an intense bout of sex. He'd been pathetically grateful, and he hasn't tried to get more of the drug since.

Once a day, in the evening, she takes him upstairs to her bedroom and shoots him up with a higher dose, and then the two of them have sex. All kinds of sex. She's shown him things he's never done, things he never even imagined, and he thrills to all of them. When he's on the drug, he has no shyness, no hesitancy, no reservations, and he'll happily do anything she wants.

She rewards him with climaxes that shake him down to what's left of his soul, orgasms that make him scream endlessly, pleasure that's beyond anything a human could imagine.

He's lost quite a lot of weight, because he has no interest in anything but the drug and sex, and there are track marks up and down his arms where she's injected him. Ordinarily he heals instantly, but something in the drug allows her to slide the needle through his impenetrable skin, and prevents quick healing as well. He knows, from brief glimpses he's caught of himself in her bedroom mirror, that he looks like a junkie, haggard and thin and a little wild-eyed.

He is a junkie, and the red stuff is his heroin. He'll do anything for it.

He'll do anything for her.

He's stalking across his cell this morning, back and forth, back and forth, over and over again. He's edgy and jumpy and thinking longingly of another hit. She won't give him another injection for at least another hour, and he wants one, badly. He imagines the heat, the pleasure, the sweet lassitude that the drug sends through his veins...

He closes his eyes and let himself drift in a pleasant daydream of being higher. He knows there was a time when his daydreams didn't revolve around drugs and sex, a time when he'd dreamed of something more... noble.

But nobility no longer concerns him. All he wants is to be high.

He hears her footsteps, and lifts his head expectantly. Relief is coming early this morning. He goes to the door of his cell and waits, like a dog waiting for a Milk-Bone.

She pauses just outside his cell and smiles her seductive, dangerous smile. "How are you today, Clark?"

"I need more," he answers, because he isn't into small talk anymore.

"Soon," she says, nodding. "But first, there's something you need to do for me."

He figures she's talking about sex, because so far that's all she's wanted from him. He's perfectly willing to do anything of a sexual nature for her, the more so because sex with her is always prefaced by a really big dose of the drug. He swallows, aware that his mouth is dry. Hunger and need are clamoring in his cells, and he aches for another hit. "Sure," he agrees.

She smiles at him, a slow, sexy smile that he'd probably find attractive even if he weren't on drugs. She's a very beautiful woman, with ebony hair cascading around a lovely face and curves in all the right places, although somewhere deep in his mind he remembers that he used to be into blondes. One blonde in particular. But he can't quite remember her face anymore, or even her name. The drug has transformed his past into a meaningless blur.

Nothing matters anymore. Nothing except the red stuff.

"I need you to steal something for me," she says.

He thinks about that, just for a moment. He knows that when he was Clark Kent, he would never have stolen anything. Something deep in his mind informs him that stealing is wrong.

But he isn't Clark Kent anymore. He isn't anyone at all, not really. He's just a mass of hunger and need and desperation that can only be satiated by a burgundy red liquid injected into his veins.

Even so, he hesitates. She studies him for a moment, then gives him that terrible, seductive smile.

"You'll get your reward, Clark. Don't worry."

He knows she means a heavier dose of the drug than usual. The craving hits him hard, and he nods eagerly.

"Sure," he tells her. "I'll do whatever you want."

*****

An hour later, he's in her bed, fucking her mindlessly, like an animal. He stole the object she wanted, and she'd given him a huge dose of the drug as a reward.

And now he's way out of control.

The shades in her bedroom are drawn, keeping out the bright sunlight of a Kansas summer, and as a result the room is cast in dark blue shadows, making it look oddly like twilight. Outside there's sunshine, but in here there's only shadowed dimness.

But he isn't really aware of his surroundings. All he's aware of is her soft, sweaty body, her mouth, her hands, her cunt. She smells like roses and sex, and he breathes in her fragrance, and thrusts harder.

And then he's overflowing with rapture, screaming with it. She rolls him over and rides him hard, making him come over and over again. She has a way of doing that, of wringing every last spasm of ecstasy out of him, of driving him past any sort of sanity.

At last he falls back against the wet, sweaty sheets, utterly drained. Already he can feel himself beginning to crash. Something about sex makes his alien body metabolize the drug quickly, and although he loves the climaxes she gives him, he always feels like hell afterward.

"More," he whispers, pleading.

She smiles at him, and reaches for the nightstand. Moments later she's injecting him with a lower dose. Overcome with gratitude and relief, he closes his eyes, feeling the warmth slide through him, filling him with a glorious, pleasurable peace.

Ah, God, yes.

It's the best feeling in the world. He doesn't know how he ever lived without it.

Through the golden haze of afterglow and drugs, he's aware of her voice. She's gotten out of bed, and now she's on the phone with someone, speaking in a crisp, professional tone that's totally unlike the seductive voice she uses with him.

"I've accomplished the second task, Mr. Luthor."

He could easily use his superhearing to hear the other end of the conversation, but he simply doesn't care that much. What she does is no concern of his. The name Luthor is vaguely familiar to him, but he doesn't care about it, either. All he cares about is the warm, sweet bliss of the drug in his veins.

"Yes," she says, apparently in response to a question. "He stole the item without the slightest compunction. I told you. He's entirely addicted. He'll do anything I want."

He knows it's true, and beneath the warmth he's aware of a faint feeling of shame. He knows he shouldn't have stolen the box. Even with the drug in him, robbing him of conscience and decency and everything that made him Clark Kent, he knows. He shouldn't be stealing anything. Stealing is wrong.

She'd be ashamed of him.

He tries to focus on that thought. She's pleased with him. She rewarded him, quite lavishly, for what he did. But he's not thinking of her. He's thinking of someone else, someone with golden hair and big hazel eyes and a bright smile. Someone who loved and admired him the way he was, but who'd be utterly horrified by the way he is now.

Despite the lassitude that the first rush of the drug induces in him, the flash of memory suddenly seems very, very important to him. He wants to remember her face. He wants to remember why she mattered to him.

But the drug is swirling through his veins, and the memory slips away from him. There's nothing except this moment, this blissful moment of pleasure when he's gotten what he needs most in the world. Nothing else matters.

"Yes," she's saying into the phone. "I assure you, he's mine. I can do whatever I like with him."

He knows it's true. He'd do anything for her. And it's not just the drugs, or evens the pleasure she brings him in bed. It's the way she's torn him apart and rebuilt him into something entirely different. She's ripped him to shreds and reassembled him. She's utterly transformed him.

He's no longer Clark Kent.

He's simply... hers.

-The End-

Read the sequel, Midnight Black.