Rating: Adult. If you're under eighteen, please go elsewhere now.
Disclaimer: These characters belong to the CW and DC Comics, not to me.
She likes to shake her ass
She grinds it to the beat
She likes to pull my hair
When I make her grind her teeth
I like to strip her down
She's naughty to the end
You know what she is
No doubt about it
She's a bad, bad girlfriend
-Theory of a Deadman, "Bad Girlfriend"
She stood on stage in front of a crowd of avidly staring men, shaking her ass and singing Nine Inch Nails' "Closer." Her long blonde hair fell over her shoulders, and her eyes drifted shut as she sang. She looked totally uninhibited, totally sensual, and her soft, husky voice dripped with sex.
I want to fuck you like an animal...
He looked around and saw that she had the attention of every guy in the dark, crowded room.
He couldn't seem to look away from her, either.
But this wasn't her, not really. Her divorce from Jimy Olsen had become final today, and obviously she was having some sort of wildly out-of-character reaction. Because Chloe Sullivan didn't get up on stage in front of fifty strange men, wearing a too-tight blouse and a too-short skirt, and sing blatantly sexual lyrics while shaking her butt.
He looked around at all the guys staring, whistling, yelling catcalls, and an angry possessiveness swelled inside him. He didn't like it when other guys drooled over Chloe. Never had.
Not that he and Chloe were an item. They were just friends. But...
Well, he just didn't like it.
He stalked through the maze of tables, and right up onto the stage. She looked at him, and shifted back to a verse she'd already sung, singing directly to him.
I broke apart my insides
I've got no soul to sell
The only thing that works for me
Help me get away from myself
I want to fuck you like an animal...
She had a lovely voice, sweet and sexy all at once. But it wasn't the quality of her voice that got to him. It was the words she sang. He didn't like the idea that she thought she'd broken apart inside when she lost Jimmy. Jimmy wasn't worth that.
Jimmy, he thought with a touch of anger, wasn't worth much of anything if he couldn't see how terrific Chloe was.
"Chlo," he said, very softly but very firmly. "That's enough."
She smiled at him, a sexy, flirtatious smile that made something inside him clench with a need he didn't want to admit, and then turned back to the microphone and kept singing.
"Chlo." He spoke a little more loudly. "That's enough."
I want to fuck you like an animal
I want to feel you from the inside
I want to fuck you like an animal
My whole existence is flawed
You get me closer to God
The idea that she saw her existence as flawed kicked him right in the gut. Chloe was awesome, one of the most awesome people he knew. He didn't want her feeling this way.
"Chlo," he said, more insistently. "Come on."
She finished singing the final lyrics. The men in the crowd erupted in clapping and whistling, and she turned toward him with a little smile.
"I've been waiting for you," she said.
God, she was drunk off her ass.
She hardly remembered getting here. She didn't quite recall why she'd chosen a seedy little karaoke bar to hang out in, either. She did remember that at least she'd had enough sense not to drive, although walking alone through the darkened streets of Metropolis didn't show a lot of sense, frankly.
She vaguely remembered dialing Clark's number and leaving a slurred, confused message on his voice mail, then changing into this skanky outfit and heading out into the night.
She hadn't told Clark exactly where she was going, but she'd known he would find her. He always did.
He stood next to her now, towering over her, a big, solid wall of strength. Her strength. The only strength she had right now.
He reached out and grasped her by the wrist, holding her in his unbreakable grip. She smiled up at him, and let her meteor power flow.
She was a meteor freak. When her power had first manifested itself, it had shown itself as the ability to heal injuries, even serious ones. She hadn't liked using it, because every time she had, she'd wound up dead. She didn't enjoy dying.
But she'd been taken over by an alien AI for months, and whether because of that or simply as a natural process, somehow her meteor power had shifted and stabilized. She could no longer heal injuries, nor did she die when she used her power. What was left was empathy, the ability to feel other people's emotions.
And sometimes the ability to let them feel hers, if they got close enough.
It didn't always work, but she and Clark had always been close, emotionally speaking. His eyes went wide with shock and confusion, and he tried to let go of her.
She wrapped her hand around his, and held onto him.
Dark, churning emotions flowed through him like an electrical current. Anger. Guilt. Anguish. A self-destructive lust. And overlaying it all, a drunken, buzzing confusion.
He'd never been drunk. He was incapable of being drunk. And yet suddenly, he could barely keep on his feet. He staggered.
She stepped toward him and pressed her body into his, helping him keep uright.
"Let's go home," she said softly.
Even through the bewildering buzz in his head, he thought that was a hell of a good idea. One of the best ideas he'd ever heard, in fact. The dark lust swelled inside him, filling him with heat.
He picked Chloe up, threw her over his shoulder, and carried her toward the door, while the men in the crowd cheered and jeered and shouted coarse catcalls.
"Put me down." Still on his shoulder, she wiggled, because the microskirt had ridden up, and her ass was getting cold.
"I don't think so." He sounded curt, almost angry. His tone reminded her of the few times she'd seen him on red K. "If you really want to fuck someone like an animal, it's sure as hell not going to be one of those guys."
"Oh." She was hanging upside down, but she reached down, pulled up the hem of his t-shirt, and let her fingers trail over the warm skin at the small of his back. She heard his sharp intake of breath. "Well, Clark, I need to fuck someone."
"Fine," he answered tersely. There was a sudden blur, and then they were inside her apartment in Smallville, and he was tossing her down on her bed, his hand still clutching her hip possessively. He loomed over her, staring into her face. "Fuck me."
She didn't let go of him, because her power had always been related to touch, and if she stopped touching him, she thought he might regain his self-control. She was vaguely conscious that what she was doing to him, making him feel what she was feeling, every confused, dark emotion, was wrong.
But right now, she was just too drunk to care.
She slid her hands up his back, over the hard, corded muscles, and began pulling off his t-shirt. He gave a startled huff of breath, but didn't object. In fact he lifted his arms to help. She tossed it aside, and then her hands were sliding over the satin skin of his back, feeling the warmth and strength of him, and he closed his eyes and uttered a low growling sound, deep in his throat.
One of her hands slid up, tangled in his hair, and yanked him down on top of her.
Anyone else would have yelped in pain at the sharp tug of her fingers in his hair, but he only let her pull him down. Their lips met in a hot, desperate kiss.
She could feel her anger and pain and lust coming off him in waves. It was strange, really. Those were her emotions, projected onto a man who was usually so calm and steady. Projected onto the man who was usually her rock.
She shouldn't... she shouldn't...
Despite the large amounts of tequila she'd drunk, some flicker of conscience was trying to make itself felt. It wasn't right to make Clark suffer along with her. It wasn't right to make him want her desires, to make him feel her pain, her anger at herself, her anguish at how everything in her life had gone to hell.
"Clark..." she whispered against his mouth, trying to push him away.
He didn't budge. His big body was moving on hers now, his hips pressing into hers in an unmistakable rhythm. The words she'd sung in front of all those men came back to her.
I want to fuck you like an animal.
It was true. It was what she needed. What she wanted.
And thanks to her meteor power, it was what he wanted, too.
Her body felt warm and soft beneath his, and he was seized with the overwhelming desire to strip off her clothes, the way she'd pulled off his t-shirt, and feel her naked against him. He reached down, grasped her scanty blouse in both hands, and ripped. The material parted like tissue paper, and he threw it aside, then levered himself up on his arms and stared.
Her breasts were gorgeous, ivory flesh swelling over white lace and satin. He could see the dark circles of her nipples and areolae beneath the lace, and hunger hit him worse than before. He lowered his head, nipping, then sucking, right through the lace, and her fingers dug into his hair, yanking on it. He heard her teeth grinding together.
Somewhere deep in his mind, he was a little confused by what was happening between them. He'd followed her to the karaoke club because he'd been worried by the message she'd left on his voice mail. He'd wanted to protect her, to save her from making a mistake. He hadn't had any intention of screwing her. She'd just been divorced, after all, and he didn't want to take advantage of her pain and confusion...
And yet here they were.
Some shred of conscience told him he needed to stop, to back off and let her get her bearings before he got into a relationship with her. He could taste tequila on her tongue, and he knew she wasn't at all sober. Hell, he didn't need to taste the tequila to know that. Just seeing her dressed in this outfit, singing dirty lyrics in front of fifty guys, had told him all he needed to go.
He needed to back away.
But somehow... he couldn't.
Clark's big hands ripped apart what had been a very nice Victoria's Secret bra, but she didn't mind. Tomorrow she might mourn its loss, but right now she didn't give a fuck. His dark head lowered, and his mouth latched onto her nipple, and she writhed at the warm heat of his lips on her.
Her hips lifted, rising against his, rubbing eagerly, begging for what she needed, what she had to have. She could feel the impressive hard-on in his Levis, and as she pressed against him, he moaned.
Her hands slid down over the rippled muscles of his abdomen, and then she began removing his jeans. She unbuckled his old, worn leather belt, then unfastened the button and slid the zipper down. And then she was pushing his jeans down over his hips.
A sudden blur, and he was naked except for his boxers. Apparently he'd taken off his boots and his socks, too. He settled back down on top of her, his body pressing into hers hard.
The boxers did nothing to conceal the size and shape of his erection. She could feel his heat pressing into her, and even through her jeans it felt good. This was what she wanted.
He was what she wanted.
When everything in her life fell apart, it was Clark she always turned to.
But she'd never turned to him quite like this.
Her jeans. Her jeans had to go.
His mind was a drunken blur, filled with flashing images that bewildered him even as they turned him on. He could smell her skin, the spicy scent of her arousal, the sweet floral fragrance of her hair. But he could also smell himself, the scent of his sweat, the earthy odor of precome. He felt her warm, soft skin against his body, but he also felt his own hard muscles flexing beneath her hands. The blurred kaleidoscope of images was beyond confusing.
Anger and hurt and grief still boiled inside him, but on top of that volatile mixture, lust bubbled, a sharp, insistent hunger that had to be satisfied. He'd never wanted sex this badly, not even on red K. Without her, he couldn't survive.
Somewhere deep inside, he knew he shouldn't do this, but there was nothing he could do to stop it, no way to avoid the tidal wave of desire that was drowning him.
He shifted into superspeed and stripped her jeans off.
Now they were almost naked, only his boxers and her barely-there panties in the way. He lowered himself onto her, letting himself press against the heat and the moisture of her body. He imagined being inside her, and his cock throbbed. He uttered a long, hungry groan.
"Yes, Clark." Her voice was breathless and high-pitched. "Yes."
Need battered at him, inside and out, and he thought he might come before he managed to get inside her. Somehow he managed to hold back the wave. He reached down and tore off her panties, and her hands stripped off his boxers, pushing them down to his thighs. He shoved them off the rest of the way and threw them aside.
And then he pressed up against her, right against her heat, helpless to resist her.
Her hands tightened on his ass, pulling him toward her, and the head of his cock slid into her, satisfying her desperate need to be filled, to be part of him. She heard herself sobbing his name.
"Oh, God." His voice sounded slurred, as if he was drunk. She'd never seen Clark drunk before, because he was immune to the effects of alcohol. At least he was immune to the effects of it in his own body. But he wasn't immune to the effects of it on her. "God, Chlo..."
"More," she whispered. Her hands dug into the taut muscles of his ass, and he sank into her a little deeper, and murmured coarse words that rarely fell from his lips.
"Fuck. Fuck, Chlo."
I want to fuck you like an animal. The words ran through her head, and she squirmed against him, trying to make him move faster, trying to make him wild. She didn't want slow lovemaking. She wanted to fuck.
She wanted to fuck Clark.
He was her rock, her shelter, her safe harbor when her life became a howling storm. He was all she had, all she could count on. He'd been her best friend since she was fourteen, and she knew he'd be her friend for the rest of their lives.
And she wanted him.
Not just because she was drunk. But because he was what mattered most to her.
He couldn't stop, couldn't hold back. Beneath the drunken static that filled his head, he was worried about hurting her, but he had no control, no way to stop. His hips jerked in an instinctive reaction to the warmth of her body, and suddenly he was all the way inside her, buried to the hilt in her hot, soft cream.
He tried to hold still there, to enjoy the sensation, but his cock spasmed, demanding more, and he couldn't stop himself from withdrawing, almost all the way, and thrusting again.
Her hands dug into his ass, so hard that if he'd been anyone else, she'd have left bruises. He heard her sighing, moaning, felt her body clutch his, and at the same time he felt a strange, disorienting echo, an image of his body inside hers.
Need and desire and lust poured over him. He wasn't sure if it was his own, or hers, or if perhaps it was both of them. Their bodies moved together, hard and fast, straining toward release.
Sweat broke out on his skin, and he heard himself crying out with every thrust, felt himself helpless in the path of something huge and inavoidable, rushing toward him like a freight train.
Her legs lifted, wrapping around his hips, and he sank into her even more deeply, and their rhythm grew faster and more intense, shifting to driving, staccato beats of desperate hunger. His fists gripped the sheets, and he flung his head back, gritting his teeth.
And then he felt her body contracting around his, felt the sudden flare of her climax. Not just from the outside, but from the inside somehow. He felt the pleasure flood her, the heat fill her, and it was too much for him to bear.
His cock jerked fiercely, and he spilled everything he had to give inside her, surrendering to her completely. The anger and the pain and the grief faded away, and there was only ecstasy, overwhelming in its perfection.
And when the orgasm finally faded away, he collapsed to the mattress beside her and fell into a drunken sleep.
When Chloe woke up, Clark was sitting on the edge of the bed. Dawn slanted through the blinds, the bars of dim light illuminating his dark hair and his golden skin.
She could see his distress in the rigid lines of his back, in the stiff way he held his shoulders. He clearly wasn't at all happy about what had happened last night.
"Clark." She tried to sit up, but instantly clutched at her head and moaned. No more tequila for you, she told herself sternly. Never again. She dropped back onto the pillow, and spoke more softly. "Clark?"
He looked back over his shoulder, his features hard and set. "I didn't mean to wake you." His voice was clipped. "Go back to sleep."
Her heart sank at his tone and expression. "Clark," she whispered, reaching out a hand and resting it lightly on his arm. "I'm so sorry."
His muscles stiffened beneath her hand. "Sorry?" he repeated, turning toward her. She noticed he had carefully drawn the sheet over his lap. "Chlo, I'm the one who's sorry."
She sighed, and made another effort to get up. Her head hurt, and her stomach roiled, but she managed to get into a sitting position. "Clark," she said gently, "I don't think you realize..."
"What I realize," he snapped out, "is that I took advantage of you last night, when you were drunk as hell, and obviously very upset. I'm sorry, Chlo. I... I honestly don't know what happened."
"I do," she said, very softly. "It was my fault."
He blinked at her. "Don't be stupid, Chlo. I just... I lost control somehow."
"Because of me." She sighed, then spat out the words in a rush. "It's my meteor power, Clark."
"Your what?" He stared at her, looking bewildered. "Your meteor power was healing people, Chloe. And it went away."
"No. My power is empathy. The ability to take other people's feelings and injuries into myself. When Brainiac took me over, I lost some of my power. I can't heal people any more. But I can feel what they're feeling, if I concentrate. And if I touch them... I can sometimes make them feel what I'm feeling."
His mouth dropped open, and he stared at her for a long moment. "Why didn't you tell me?" he said at last, his voice low. "I thought your power was all gone. Chlo, you should have told me."
"I figured you'd worry," she said with a sigh. "I knew how much it scared you, the times I healed people and died. I thought it was best if you didn't know I still had some abilities. I thought you'd freak out." She drew her outstretched hand back and intertwined her fingers nervously. "But now I wish I'd told you. Because if you'd known, you might have figured out what was going on, what I was doing to you. And then..."
"And then nothing," he answered flatly. "I couldn't control myself, Chloe, and knowing what was going on wouldn't have helped. I think... I think you made me drunk."
She nodded. "I know. And I'm sorry. If I'd been sober, I never would have..." She trailed off, then spoke in a whisper. "I'm the one who took advantage of you, Clark. And I'm sorry."
He was silent for a long moment, staring at her. At last he spoke.
"Even if I'd known," he said gently, "I don't think I could have controlled myself."
"Yeah," she said with a little sigh. "I was pretty out of control. I had way too much tequila."
"It wasn't just you," he said. "It was me. The honest truth is, Chlo... I wanted to make love to you."
I wanted to make love to you. She closed her eyes, remembering his frantic thrusts, the low groans and anguished cries he'd uttered. It hadn't been lovemaking. It had been sex, pure and simple.
"No," she said softly. "It was just you picking up on my emotions, Clark."
"No." His voice rose. "It wasn't just you, damn it. You're not listening to what I'm trying to tell you, Chlo. I've wanted to make love to you for a long time now."
Her heart stuttered in her chest, and she blinked at him. "What?"
He sighed, so hard her hair rippled in the breeze. "Look," he said, "I've been trying to keep things the same as they've always been, because, well, your divorce wasn't final, and I figured you needed a friend more than a lover right now. But I've been thinking about this for months now, Chloe."
She stared at him for a long moment.
"Me too," she whispered.
"The thing is..." He reached out and took her hand in his, very gently. "I know you're still upset about everything that happened with Jimmy. I felt what you felt, Chloe. I know you're having a hard time dealing with it all. And anyway, a drunken hookup isn't the way I would have chosen to approach you about it."
"No." She closed her eyes against tears. "Me neither. I'm sorry, Clark. I didn't mean to mess things up. If you don't want to be friends any more..."
"What?" His arms went around her, pulling her close. "Don't be stupid. We'll always be friends. And the rest of it... well, look, I know you're not totally over Jimmy..."
"I'm over Jimmy," she whispered. "I'm just upset because everything got so messed up. I feel like I screwed up so badly. A couple of years ago I was on my way to my dream as a reporter, and now I'm not even writing. And Jimmy, well... I'm twenty-two, Clark, and I've already been married and divorced. That just hit me really hard for some reason."
He was silent for a moment, and she guessed he was sorting through his blurred memories of last night, trying to confirm her words. "Okay," he said. "So you're not in love with Jimmy. But you've still got some emotional baggage you're carrying around."
"Yeah." She blew out her breath in a sigh. "I really needed you last night, Clark. But I just wish I hadn't-- well, last night wasn't exactly the way I would have wanted to start off a new relationship."
"So we didn't start off quite the way we would have wanted to. Don't worry about it. What matters is where we go from here, right?"
She snuffled against his bare chest. "I guess maybe."
"If you want to wait a while, we'll wait. If you want to jump right in, then we can do that, too. I want you to be happy, Chloe. I don't want to push you into anything."
She nodded, grateful for his understanding. Right now she wasn't sure what she wanted.
No, that wasn't true. She knew what she wanted. If she was going to be really honest with herself, she knew.
She wanted Clark by her side.
"But right now..." He pushed her away and smiled at her. "You have a really big hangover."
Guilt hit her. "Can you feel it?"
"No. I guess you quit projecting, or whatever it is you do. I can just tell from the way you wince every time you move."
She lifted a hand to her forehead, and smiled wryly. "I think my head's going to split in two."
"I'm going to take care of you," he said briskly, rising to his feet. "Which is what I should have been doing last night, instead of letting you deal with it all by yourself, with only tequila for company. I was just afraid that if I came over, I might..." He flashed a self-deprecating grin. "Well, I guess that was a valid concern."
"Yeah. I guess it was."
"Okay. Aspirin first." Still stark naked, he disappeared into the tiny bathroom, but his voice drifted back to her. "And then I'll go downstairs and get you some coffee. Black, not that sugary stuff with whipped cream you like. Your stomach doesn't need whipped cream right now. And then when you're feeling up to it, I'll get you some toast."
She leaned back against the pillow, and smiled to herself. The anger and guilt and grief that had filled her last night seemed distant this morning. Having sex with Clark-- making love to Clark-- had started the healing process. "You'd make a good boyfriend, Clark Kent."
"I intend to," he said, reappearing with two aspirin and a cup of water.
She swallowed them, and smiled wryly. "Too bad I'm such a bad girlfriend."
"Are you kidding?" He sat down on the bed next to her and grinned. "You're hot, you sing like an angel, and you're my best friend besides. What more could a guy want in a girl?"
"Less emotional baggage, maybe."
"We all have baggage, Chloe. Sometimes we just need someone to help us carry it. That's what I'm here for."
She smiled. "I thought you were here to get me coffee."
There was a blur, and an instant later he reappeared, fully clothed, and offered her a steaming cup. "That too," he agreed.
"Wow," she said, taking the cup and sipping it gingerly. "You really do make a good boyfriend, Clark. I think I'll keep you."
He smiled at her.
"I was hoping you'd say that," he answered.