Rating: Adult. If you're under eighteen, please go elsewhere now.
Disclaimer: These characters belong to the CW and DC Comics, not to me.
Sequel to Rose Red. Written for Tobi.
He could handle a little red K.
Yeah, Clark Kent admitted to himself, so the last time he'd gotten near the rose bush in the woods, he'd wound up pregnant. Which not only showed that red K rendered his self-control a little weak-- okay, a lot weak-- but also exposed some things about his biology he wasn't willing to examine too closely. The idea that he, the strongest man on earth, had a uterus, of all things, was just not something he liked to contemplate.
But that wasn't the point. The point was that he was older now. More mature. He was a responsible family man with a wife, a productive farm, and a happy and healthy toddler. A little red K wasn't going to mess him up.
And sure, it was true that red K had done a number on him a few times in the past. But he was a grownup now, with adult responsibilities, and a little red K exposure wasn't going to turn him into a bank robber or a gang member. Not this time.
The thing was, there simply weren't any roses as nice as the ones in the woods. He'd checked every florist in a five-hundred mile radius. He'd purchased roses from florists in the past, and they just didn't possess the unearthly beauty of the ones growing wild in the underbrush behind Hubbard's farm. He'd wandered past them a few times lately, just to check them out, and even from a distance he could see they were as flawlessly perfect as he remembered.
It was the second anniversary of the first time they'd made love, and Chloe deserved flawlessly perfect roses.
So he was damn well going to get her some.
He remembered they'd affected her, too, but that was no big deal. She'd been punctured by one of the insanely long thorns, so all he had to do was strip the thorns off. Simple and straightforward. The only problem was getting near that rose bush long enough to pick the roses. He remembered the enormous chunk of red kryptonite Chloe had excavated and then dropped back into the earth, remembered the way it had gleamed so seductively in the sunlight...
Not that he was going to be seduced by it. Heck, no. He had it all figured out. All he had to do was superspeed to the bush, pick the best roses, and then superspeed away before the kryptonite could even affect him. Simple.
He could totally handle a little red K.
Pleasure hit him like a truck the minute he blurred to a halt next to the rosebush, and his last coherent thought was that he couldn't handle it, after all. And then he quit worrying about it. His higher brain functions ground to a halt, and he stopped thinking about anything but the feelings of power and lust and sheer sensuality running through his veins in a hot rush of sensation.
He ought to go home to Chloe. Her cousin Lois was watching after their daughter Rose for the evening, so the two of them could... indulge. And right now, Clark felt very much like indulging. Just the thought of Chloe, combined with the heat surging through his veins, was enough to make his cock swell in his jeans, pulsing with an overwhelming need. Knowing he was all alone out here, he pressed his palm to his fly, and groaned aloud at the resultant flood of pleasure.
He needed release. He needed it so damn much. He and Chloe had been busy lately, her with her job at the Daily Planet, him with the farm. Their work load, combined with Rose's tendency to wake up if one of them even uttered a smothered moan, had had an unfortunately depressing effect on their sex life. Which was why they'd asked Lois to take Rose for the night, so the two of them could... enjoy themselves.
But he was suddenly aware that he couldn't wait to get home. If he made love to Chloe right now, he'd last about twenty seconds. He needed to take the edge off first.
He unzipped his jeans and shoved his boxers out of the way, and looked down at himself.
He was as hard as if it had been weeks-- and maybe it had. He couldn't quite remember. Yeah, actually, he could. He'd made love to Chloe a week ago, on the farmhouse couch, just because he'd been afraid if the two of them walked up the creaky stairs and past Rose's room, she'd hear them, and start to fuss. Sometimes he thought she already had superhearing, but maybe it was just a normal baby thing. At any rate, he'd stripped Chloe's clothes off and laid her down on the couch, spreading her legs, and...
Oh, God. His cock jerked at the memory, unbearably hard, and he wrapped his hand around the hot flesh and began stroking, very slowly. His eyelids fluttered shut and his head fell back, and he heard a long, low sound rise from his throat.
Memories assaulted him,. He had perfect recall, and he could remember everything, every sight and every smell and every sound. She'd been wet for him already, and the remembered image of her soft, fragile flesh, glimmering almost opalescent between her legs, almost sent him over the edge. He gritted his teeth, trying to stave off his orgasm. Not yet... not yet...
He remembered bending to her... exploring her gently with his mouth... the spicy taste of her exploding on his tongue...
Despite his good intentions, his hand moved harder, and his hips began to move, thrusting his cock against his clenched hand. He tightened his grip until he could have crushed granite in his fist, and jerked his hand violently. The fragrance of roses surrounded him, and images spun through his mind, her wet flesh, her hands digging into his hair, the soft, strangled sounds of pleasure she made, the smell of her skin...
He flung his head back and cried out as his orgasm rushed over him and through him, a long, glorious wave of sensation that took him outside of himself and into some realm of ecstasy he'd never before known. He heard the sound of his own voice echoing through the forest, high-pitched and desperate, so loud that birds took wing in fright. His come spurted from his body in long gushes, milky-white against the deep green of the underbrush.
And then the heartstopping moment of pure rapture faded away, and he fell to his knees, drained of his strength, gasping for breath.
As he fell, one of the inch-long thorns caught his forearm. He had skin like steel, and nothing should be able to pierce his flesh.
But the thorn scored a long gash in his skin.
He knelt there, staring blankly at the damaged flesh, at the blood slowly welling from it, as red as the roses. He felt heat swirling from his arm outward, filling him, renewing his exhausted body and flooding him with a lust even greater than before. His cock, which had been half-soft, hardened into an ache of desperate need.
He had to come. Right now.
But this time, he damn well wasn't doing it alone.
He got to his feet, picked an enormous bouquet of roses, and blurred toward home.
More to come...