Emerald

Clark/Chloe
Season 8
Rating: Adult. If you're under eighteen, please go elsewhere now.
Disclaimer: These characters belong to the CW and DC Comics, not to me.
Picture from Carbon Copy.

The glowing green stone traces lightly along the contours of his chest. It's agony and ecstasy all at once, and he writhes, moaning.

"Chlo... please..."

He knows it sounds like he's asking her to stop, but the truth is, he's begging for more. She understands, and she doesn't stop. She never does.

The stone strokes over the sensitive skin of his nipple, and he yelps at the sudden flare of pain.

Chloe doesn't hesitate, simply continues doing what she's doing, and the stabbingly sharp hurt slowly fades into a strange blur of pleasure/pain. She's stroking his chest with her other palm, and that's good too. He loves the feel of her soft hands against his skin.

But there's nothing like being touched with kryptonite.

There was a time when he feared it more than anything. He still fears it, under most circumstances. Too much of it can hurt him terribly. It can even kill him. Too much kryptonite is to be avoided at all costs.

But a small sliver of it, wielded by the person who loves him best...

Well, there's nothing better.

The glowing green shard slides down his abs, over his belly button, and even lower, and he gasps with anticipation as she places it just above his waistband, letting it rest on his bare skin, and begins to unfasten his jeans. She's stripping off his clothes, and he wants to strip hers off too, but his hands are weak, trembling from the kryptonite exposure, and he can't even lift them, let alone do something complicated like remove her clothes.

He's at her mercy. Completely and totally.

And he loves it.

Through the haze of pleasure and pain, he vaguely recalls their first time together. He'd made love to her exactly once, and that once had been more than enough.

He remembers rushing her to Smallville Medical Center. He hadn't even been able to bring himself stay with her in the emergency room. Guilt and shame had driven him to the solitude of his loft, where he'd cried in the darkness.

She'd found him there the next morning.

"Clark," she'd whispered, stroking his hair with her one good hand. "I'm all right. Everything is all right."

"No." He'd cried himself out by that point, but his voice was still hoarse with grief and guilt. "It's not all right, Chlo. I broke your arm. And it could have been a lot worse. I could have snapped your spine, or crushed your ribs, or..."

"You would never do that," she'd assured him.

He clenched his eyelids against the sting of more tears. "I'd never break your arm, either. At least not on purpose. I don't want to hurt you, Chlo. I never want to hurt you. But when we make love, I just... I just lose control."

"We'll work it out somehow."

"There's nothing to work out." He spoke dully. "We can never make love again, Chloe. Next time... next time I might kill you. We can't take the risk."

She'd looked at him solemnly for a long moment, then risen to her feet, turned away, and walked out of the loft. He'd watched her go, and then buried his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking.

He'd never felt so terribly alone in his life.

A few days later, he'd walked into his bedroom and found her curled up in his bed, naked but for the cast on her arm. He'd stared at her, his heart pounding like a bass drum against his ribs. He hadn't seen her since she'd walked from his loft, and he wanted her desperately, so badly his insides were tied up in knots just at the sight of her. But the white cast against his deep blue sheets was an all-too-vivid reminder of how fragile she was, and how terribly he could hurt her.

"Chlo," he'd said, very softly. "I thought we agreed..."

"I think I have a solution," she'd said, and held up the little sliver of emerald rock.

At first he'd thought the idea was crazy. Kryptonite made little needles of excruciating pain dance up and down his nerves, like sleet slashing across a human's skin in below-zero weather. Kryptonite made his blood boil and burned him right down to the bone. Kryptonite meant unbearable agony.

But he could barely tolerate small amounts of it, and it did strip away his powers, so he pulled off his clothes and climbed into bed with her, because life without her was more painful than exposure to kryptonite was.

She'd reached over him, with the intention of putting the meteor rock on the nightstand, and it had brushed against the skin of his shoulder. He'd shuddered at the sudden shower of sparks that rushed through him, and stared at her, wide-eyed.

"Chlo..."

And somehow, she'd understood what he couldn't quite find words to say.

She always understands.

Which is why tonight, all these months later, he's groaning as she strips his clothes off, so that he's totally naked beneath her. She slides the kryptonite down, right over his cock, and he's overwhelmed by the sensation. Her touch is agony and ecstasy, heaven and hell, fire and ice, all at once.

Under ordinary circumstances, he can't feel pain. He's invulnerable, unable to be hurt, his skin so tough it might as well be steel. But under the influence of kryptonite, he can be hurt as easily as anyone else. The kryptonite itself hurts him.

And yet he doesn't want her to stop. He never wants her to stop. The little needles of pain and the light, loving brush of her hands combine to make him wild.

Frantic noises, sounds of mingled anguish and bliss, rise from his chest. He can't say he loves pain, but he loves the vulnerability, the way he has to surrender to her, to submit to her. The way he has to relinquish so much of his strength in order to be with her.

He's the strongest man in the world... but with her, in these moments of emerald fire, he's weak.

With anyone else, he'd hate that. With anyone else, he'd be afraid to give up so much of his power.

But with her, he doesn't mind.

For her, he's willing to experience pain so they can share pleasure. For her, he's willing to embrace pain.

She wraps a small hand around his cock, positions herself, and slides down onto him. She's wet and soft and scaldingly hot, and their bodies meld together in pure, unadulterated ecstasy. But at the same moment, her other hand falls forward, onto his chest, and the kryptonite burns into his skin like a brand.

It's pain and it's pleasure and it's sensations he has no words for, piercing needles of green flame running along his nerves, soft washes of ecstasy as her body moves on his, and the trust that she won't ever really hurt him, that she won't ever take advantage of his helpless state, that if he ever asks her to stop, she'll stop instantly.

But he isn't going to ask her to stop, because it's so good, and the movement of her body and the smolder of the kryptonite against his skin is driving him relentlessly toward a tremendous peak.

She's moving on him hard now, and his hips rise to meet her, and the meteor rock burns like cold fire, making his blood bubble in his veins. Emerald sparks burst behind his closed lids and explode along his nerve endings. Pain/pleasure surges through him with every thrust, and despite the weakness that pervades him he lifts his hands to her hips, his fingers digging possessively into her soft flesh.

And then he's coming, in hard, throbbing bursts, and it's so intense he has to clench his teeth to stop himself from screaming. Even so, a long, strangled sound rips its way out of his heaving chest, and he twists wildly against the sheets. His hands grip her hips, so tightly that if not for the kryptonite, he'd probably crush her bones. But thanks to the little sliver of green rock, she's safe from harm.

Orgasm holds him in its powerful grasp for a long, breathless minute. And then he's falling back against the sheets, which he suddenly realizes are drenched with sweat, and she's throwing the kryptonite aside and collapsing onto him. He wraps an arm around her, holding her tightly.

He loves Chloe Sullivan, more than he's ever loved anyone. He loves the intimacy they share. And the fact that their love is all tangled up with emerald flame doesn't bother him.

The pain he was once willing to accept, just because he loves her so much, has somehow become something he desires. Something he looks forward to. Something that in a strange way, he enjoys.

Maybe, he thinks, it isn't the pain he enjoys, but the vulnerability. Or maybe it's the novelty. Pain is something he rarely experiences, something exciting and different to a man who's never had a toothache or a stubbed toe or a scraped knee. Maybe the pain adds a little spice, a little zest, a little touch of the forbidden.

Or maybe he just likes being able to hold her while making love to her, without the fear of crushing her in his too-powerful grasp.

Regardless of the reason, kryptonite is no longer something to be feared, at least not when wielded by her hands. It's something that adds an indefinable dimension to their relationship, a dimension that somehow makes their lovemaking better, deeper and more intense.

He doesn't understand it, but he accepts it.

Ecstasy is emerald green.

-The End-