Season 8, after "Requiem"
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.
His hands and mouth are eager, ravenous. She's longed for this for so, so long, longed to feel him caressing her with this much hunger.
She's smart enough to realize that it's not her he's making love to, not really. All his dreams have been shattered like crystal. He's in mental and spiritual anguish, and he's looking for solace.
She just happens to be... convenient.
But with his big body against hers, his mouth on her, she doesn't really care all that much. She's overwhelmed by her own emotions, her own needs.
Her own broken dreams.
He moves his hands, and suddenly rips her shirt off with uncharacteristic violence. There's a ferocity in his movements, a sort of devil-may-care, fuck-it-all attitude. She thinks about voicing a protest, but then wraps her arms around his neck more tightly instead.
"You shouldn't--" His voice is breathless. "You should run, Chlo. I could do that to you as easily as I did it to the shirt. I could rip you apart."
"You would never do that," she says softly.
"I don't know what I might do." His voice turns suddenly dark, becoming a low and ominous growl. "The only times I've had sex, I was either depowered, or she had powers. I don't know how to make love to a normal human."
She winces slightly at the reminder that Clark and Lana had sex only a couple of days ago. If things were different, Clark would be making love to Lana, not her. It's Lana he wants.
And there's no possible way she can compete with Lana. How could sex with her, a mortal, frail woman, possibly compare with... with... supersex?
She pushes all her doubts aside, because despite his words and his tone, his body is trembling, and there's something very vulnerable beneath the growl in his voice. She isn't going to send him away now. She's just not. She kisses his throat.
"You won't hurt me," she assures him.
Another low sound, almost bestial, rumbles in his throat, and then he's touching her everywhere, kissing her everywhere. His mouth is on hers, hot and demanding, his tongue stroking hers, while his hands slide all over her back, exploring her thoroughly. He rips off her bra the minute he decides it's in the way, tearing it like tissue paper. She reaches for the hem of his t-shirt, and he cooperatively lifts his arms, helping her strip him, too.
He lifts her into his lap as if she weighs nothing, and yanks her against him fiercely, grinding into her. Their bare torsos press together. A low, undulating moan rises from his throat, and his head drops back onto the cushions. She kisses the exposed skin of his throat, and his hands dig into her hips, pulling him against him even harder.
"We shouldn't." His voice is a low rumble. "We shouldn't, Chlo. I...I love her."
She knows that, and she really wishes he'd quit saying it. She's trying to help him past his pain, but she doesn't want to incur fresh lacerations to her own soul in the process.
She still thinks he isn't so much in love with Lana as he is with the concept of Lana, the girl he's loved forever, who's now superpowered, exactly as he is.
But regardless, the point is that Lana is the woman he really wants to be with. They both know that.
"I know you do," she whispers, fighting to keep her voice steady.
"Chlo..." His hips rock against hers hard. "I love her, but I love you, too, in a way."
He loves her, in a way. Her eyes sting despite her best efforts. She remembers what Clark had told her about the superheroes from the future who called themselves the Legion. They'd said he'd be a major figure in the history books.
She imagined her own place in the history books, the asterisk that would follow her entry.
Chloe Sullivan, the woman Clark Kent loved.*
*As a friend.
"I know," she says softly. "I love you as a friend, too."
"We're more than just friends," he growls. His voice has dropped again, into that low, dangerous register. "We've been close for so long... but you deserve better than this..."
"This is what I want," she whispers.
"I know," he says softly. "Which is why I shouldn't do this to you."
She gets what he's saying. And he's right. He shouldn't do this, shouldn't use her for comfort in the absence of his lost love. This is going to rip her apart. Not physically, but emotionally. She thinks she'll probably never recover from it. She'll never have a chance of loving another man again.
But the truth is, she doesn't have a chance of loving another man now. She never has, since the very day she met Clark.
She thinks of Jimmy. Jimmy Olsen, the man she agreed to marry. She doesn't actually remember exchanging vows with him, and she's already decided she needs to ask for an annulment as soon as he's healthy enough. Nonetheless, Jimmy's lying injured in a hospital bed, and she's making out with another man.
This is wrong. So wrong.
And yet Clark's body against hers feels right, in a way nothing else ever has.
She knows that part of the mess with Jimmy isn't her fault. Six months before, she'd been taken over by an alien computer, and she still isn't quite certain where her own decisions ended and Brainiac's began. But she knows she never would have agreed to marry Jimmy on her own. She just doesn't feel that way about him.
But once Brainiac was removed-- well, this decision is hers. All hers. And she knows she should wait until she's unencumbered by any attachment.
But Clark needs her now.
And the truth is, she needs him.
She thinks about the dark void inside, the emptiness she can feel lurking deep in her mind. Where there once was an alien intelligence, now there's an abyss. It's dark and disturbing, and she isn't sure exactly what it is.
She thinks it might be the place where her dreams used to live.
She's lost all her dreams, thanks to Brainiac. She lost the job she loved, and didn't fight to get it back, all because of the AI inside her. She turned away from the man she loved, and agreed to marry one she didn't love, all because of the AI.
Brainiac took her dreams and destroyed them.
And now... she wants them back.
"I'll be fine," she assures him untruthfully. "Make love to me, Clark."
Another rough sound of despair grinds its way out of his chest. And then he's pushing her over on the cushions, big hands fumbling roughly with her jeans, and suddenly she's completely naked.
Superspeed, the remaining rational part of her brain tells her.
She reaches for his jeans, but he pulls back a bit, out of her reach, and begins trailing kisses down over her shoulders and lower. He lingers for long minutes over her breasts, kissing and licking the swollen nipples until she's sobbing for breath, then moves lower, down across her stomach.
She whimpers at the unexpected tenderness. She'd pretty much expected him to take his comfort, and then leave. She hadn't thought he'd be interested in foreplay.
But he's making love to her, very carefully and thoroughly, and through the haze of pleasure, she remembers his voice.
We're more than just friends. We've been close for so long...
She tries to push those words, and their hopeful implications, out of her head. More than just friends doesn't mean much. She's still not the love of his life, and she wouldn't be lying here beneath him, his hands and mouth exploring her, if Lana hadn't absorbed all that kryptonite. She has to remember that she's not the one he wants most.
Even if they go somewhere from here, even if this night somehow leads to a relationship... she will always and forever be his second choice.
His mouth travels lower. She feels his fingers part her intimate flesh, and then he's lowering his head, and she whimpers again at the careful caress of his tongue.
He explores her, finding her most sensitive spot, and then stimulating it until she's throbbing with need, moaning and twisting beneath him. She's bewildered, because he was overflowing with anguish and need earlier, and she really did expect this to be a wham-bam kind of experience. And instead he's taking the time to make sure she's satisfied, too.
She guesses he's holding back because he doesn't want to treat her like any warm body. He's trying to show her that she does matter to him.
He doesn't love her the way he loved Lana, but in her own way, she's very important to him. She knows that, but she's grateful for the reminder.
Her fingers knot in his dark hair as rising heat eddies through her in molten currents. Every nerve in her body is vibrating, every muscle taut. She's close... so close...
But just before she comes, he lifts his head. And then he's shifting position, moving up over her, his big body covering hers, and she hears the rasp of a zipper as he unfastens his jeans. He braces a hand on either side of her and looks down at her, his features deeply shadowed, his high cheekbones lit with blue and pink highlights from the neon sign outside.
"Are you sure..." His voice sounds rough and raw. "Chlo, are you sure..."
"I'm sure." Her own voice sounds breathless to her own ears, as if she'd just run up many flights of stairs. Her hands drop to his hips, and she shoves off his jeans and boxers, then her fingers curl possessively into his ass. "It's all right, Clark. I'll be fine."
Another lie. She doesn't know that she'll be fine. This is going to rip the foundations of her life apart and put them back together in new patterns, and she has no way of knowing if she'll be able to live with the new patterns or not. It's scary, like stepping off a cliff into nothingness, trusting to fate to save her.
His hips move beneath her hands, and then he's sliding into her, very slowly. He feels like satin-covered steel inside her, sleek and hard and hot, and she moans with relief at the sensation of their bodies becoming one.
He moans too, but halfway inside her he freezes, panting harshly. She can feel the tension in his muscles, and she knows he's afraid to let himself go.
"Don't stop now," she whispers.
"I can't... can't..."
He's trembling all over, and she figures he means I can't hold back much longer. She knows how strong he is, knows as well as he does that he is capable of killing her with a touch.
But she also believes he won't hurt her. That he can't hurt her.
She tightens her inner muscles around him, squeezing him deliberately, and he jerks and groans. "Oh, God."
"More," she whispers.
He shudders violently, but doesn't move, although she can feel the effort it costs him. She squeezes him again, and an uncharacteristically coarse syllable falls from him. "Fuck."
He's shaking harder than ever, still struggling to hold back. She squeezes him a third time, and suddenly his hips jerk in violent reaction, driving into her hard.
She moans with pleasure, throwing her head back. He buries his face against her throat, growling, and then he's thrusting hard, in fierce, fast strokes.
She was nearly at the edge of climax already, and at the sudden onslaught of friction, there's nothing she can do to stop it. She feels ecstasy rush over her in a long, hot wave, feels her body spasming around his, hears herself crying out his name.
He flings his head back. In the light from the sign outside, she can see his face contorted in rapture, his eyes squeezed shut, his teeth bared. His hips jerk erratically, and then his mouth falls open, and he gives a long roar of pleasure as his cock spasms violently inside her and his heat floods her.
He's rigid for a long moment. And then slowly all his muscles relax, and he collapses on top of her, panting.
Read Chapter 3 here.