Elly's Fanfiction

Welcome!

2012-12-25T10:43:00.012-05:00

Picture above by electricmonk. Used with permission of the artist.

Welcome to my archive of Smallville fanfiction. Most of my stories revolve around Chlark, but there are some slash and general stories here as well. There are a also few M*A*S*H stories (Hawkeye/BJ slash) and Doctor Who stories. Please don't read any story marked "adult" unless you're over eighteen.

Some Smallville stories have been deleted, but there are still a lot of stories here. In the sidebar, you can click on the images for a list of stories. There is a chapter list on the first page of each novella. Also, there is now a list of tags in the sidebar, although it is not yet complete. And finally, I am adding an alphabetical listing of stories with descriptions.

I love feedback! Please feel free to leave comments or email me at ellyfanfiction@yahoo.com .Thanks for stopping by, and thanks for all your patience!

Two new Doctor Who stories, 11-27-11:

Personal Grooming

Appetites

A new Doctor Who story, 11-17-11:

Personal Spaces

One new Doctor Who story, 11-14-11:

The Dream of a Normal Life

Three new Doctor Who stories as of 11-12-11:

The Singing of the Song

The Mating Habits of Humans

Life of the Party

New story as of 10-18-11:

Happy Endings

Stories you may not have read in a while:

The Weight of the World

She's Got You High

Cute

Angel Among Us

2011-11-27T08:08:00.003-05:00

Fandom: Doctor Who

Characters: The Tenth Doctor/Donna, the TARDIS

Rating: PG-13

Length: 13,000 words, six chapters. Completed.

Warnings: Torture, attempted sexual assault, adult language

Disclaimer: These characters belong to the BBC, not to me.

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Ahhhh. Physical appetites… the hunger of the body…

“Get… out.”

Hunger… need… lust… I had almost forgotten…

“Out! Go away!”

Don’t be absurd. The voice rumbled through him like thunder. You are mine now, and I shall consume you. And then… I shall consume everything else in my path.

“Stop it.” He spoke through his teeth, clutching his head, fighting against It. “Stop it right now.”

Mine… mine… all these dark desires, all this hunger… after so many centuries, so many aeons…

“Get… out!”

He threw everything he had against It, but It only laughed.

There is no need to fight, little man. Give yourself to me. We will enjoy the pleasures of your body together.

He fought, clawed at It with his mind, struck at It, but to no avail. No matter how he fought, he couldn’t even seem to touch It. Nothing he did had any impact on It. He was outmatched, and he knew it.

But he went on fighting for a long time.

And all the while… It laughed at him.

*****

Donna discovered the Doctor in the TARDIS’ galley. That, in and of itself, was not surprising. Half the time he’d get so busy tinkering in the control room that he forgot to eat–and as skinny as he was, that couldn’t be a good thing– and then suddenly he’d notice he was starving, and would head for the galley to get some toast and jam, or biscuits and tea, or something equally nutritious.

Sure enough, he was digging his fingers into a jam jar again. Marmalade, it looked like. Almost empty. She narrowed her eyes and opened her mouth, intending to yell at him. The man was always sticking his fingers into their communal food, usually without bothering to wash off the grease from the TARDIS engines first. It was disgusting.

But something about the desperate way he was scooping out orange globs of marmalade and shoving it into his mouth made her halt with her mouth still open. He wasn’t just eating, she realised.

He was devouring.

It wasn’t as if the Doctor had wonderful table manners–he’d lived alone too long, she suspected, or maybe most of his companions had had too much respect for the great Time Lord to complain when he chewed with his mouth open–but he didn’t usually gobble food as if he were afraid it was about to run away from him, never to be seen again. She stepped to the side to get a better look at him, and saw a peculiar expression on his face, a look of sheer bliss, as if the Dundee marmalade he was consuming was ambrosia.

“Doctor?” she said, hesitantly.

His eyes flickered open. His eyelids were heavy, and he still had that odd look on his face. He looked for all the world as if eating marmalade was better than sex.

Ugh. Sex, the Doctor, and marmalade. There was an image she needed to bleach out of her brain, right now.

“This is delicious,” he moaned, and the low, sensual tone of his voice once again made her think of sex. God. All of a sudden she had sex on the brain. Was there something wrong with her?

Or was there something wrong with him?

“You all right?” she said, stepping into the galley and looking him over. The refrigerator door stood open, as if he hadn’t wanted to take the time to close it, and behind him, on the counter, she could see an array of emptied jars and containers. Jam, pickles, mayonnaise, Nutella, boxes that had held leftovers which should have been thrown out long ago. How long had he been standing here, digging food out of the refrigerator and stuffing it into his mouth?

“Course I’m all right.” He reached his long fingers into the jar, scooped out the last glob of marmalade, and stuck it into his mouth, licking off his fingers with slow, thorough strokes of his tongue. His eyes fluttered shut, and that strange, unsettling expression of bliss crossed his face again. “Why wouldn’t I be all right?”

“Dunno,” she said, watching him worriedly. “You’re eating right out of jars, Doctor. Didn’t even bother yourself to find a spoon.”

“So?”

“So,” she said, “it isn’t like you to be this hungry. And besides, ever since you came out of that temple on Vena IV this morning, you’ve been acting kind of…”

His eyes flickered open, and he looked at her alertly. “Kind of what?”

She sighed. “Kind of barmy, actually.”

He uttered a short laugh, tossed the marmalade jar onto the counter with a clink, and turned back to rummage in the refrigerator.

“Doctor,” she said, frowning in concern. “Haven’t you had enough to eat?”

“Never,” he answered, his voice dark and low. He straightened up, an uncooked egg in his hand, and took a big bite, shell and all. Raw egg dribbled down his chin, and his face went slack and happy again. Her stomach turned.

She backed out of the galley, and he didn’t seem to notice that she’d left.

*****

“There’s something wrong with him. Really, really wrong.”

She sat in her bedroom, talking to the walls. Before she’d come on board the TARDIS, she would have thought talking to a machine was a mark of insanity.

But that had been before she’d met the blue box.

The day she’d moved in, Doctor had explained in an offhand way that the TARDIS was sentient, and she’d rolled her eyes, thinking he’d lived alone too long, the poor bloke. But within a day or two, she’d begun to feel the TARDIS in her mind, in a way she couldn’t explain. Before long, she’d found herself accepting that the time machine was indeed another person, albeit a rather strange one.

And since there was no other humanoid besides the Doctor on board, she had no one to turn to now except the TARDIS.

“I don’t know what’s wrong,” she said with a sigh. “He’s been really… odd. Even for him. And that’s saying something.”

She felt agreement in her head, and concern. The TARDIS was worried too.

“I found him just now, eating everything he could find in the fridge. I mean, everything. Didn’t even matter if it had mould on it. He was just… eating.” She remembered the expression on his face, and shivered. “And this morning, right after we came back on board, I found him in the med bay, with a hypospray, and I swear he was…”

The TARDIS hummed unhappily.

Donna thought about the sight of the Doctor, lifting the hypospray away from his own arm. God only knew what it had been filled with, but she knew perfectly well that the Doctor was almost always healthy. He’d bragged about his superior Time Lord physiology often enough. He didn’t need vitamins or supplements, and there was no good reason for him to be injecting himself with any sort of medicine.

Unless… unless he’d gotten sick down on Vena IV, and was just too proud and Time Lordly to let her know about it. She supposed that could be the case. God knew he’d been acting odd ever since he'd visited that silly temple, and an illness could explain that, couldn’t it? In any event, she liked that idea a lot better than the first one she’d had, which was that he’d been doing drugs just for the hell of it.

She closed her eyes, remembering that moment in the med bay, the look of near-ecstasy on his face. He’d looked a lot like he had while he was eating, actually. Blissed out in a way that was very unDoctorlike. And she knew, with a dreadful sinking of her stomach, that he hadn’t been injecting himself with anything that he truly needed.

He’d been getting high on something. And that was just not the Doctor she knew.

She sighed, and dropped her head into her hands.

“We have to help him,” she said. “What can we do?”

The TARDIS’ response was as worried and stressed and as impotent as she herself felt. The blue box clearly didn’t know what to do, either.

Donna sat up, lifting her chin and stiffening her spine. “Well,” she said to the walls, “the one thing I’m not doing is sitting in here, hiding. I’m going to go have it out with him.”

The TARDIS seemed uncertain if confronting the Doctor was a good idea, but Donna didn’t care. She wasn’t going to hide away if there was something wrong with her best friend–and the Doctor, despite all his annoying ways, was undeniably her best friend. There was clearly something wrong with him, and she was bloody well going to figure out what it was, and help him.

*****

Let me go.

“Don’t be absurd, little man.” It spoke out loud, because there was no one else around to hear It–well, besides the blue box, and that technology could do nothing to hinder It. The blue box had entered Its mind, trying to join the fight against It, but like the Time Lord, it was helpless against Its superior power. “Your body is mine now.”

Let me go!

“You just don’t shut up, do you?” It had finally grown sated with food, and had decided to explore another appetite. There were so many delightful ways to enjoy this body, and It had barely got started. It sloshed whisky into a glass and drank it hungrily.

Only Its fourth glass, and already the room was beginning to spin. Lovely, lovely body. So much fun.

I’m going to get free, sooner or later. I swear it.

“Why can’t you just be quiet and enjoy the ride?” It groused. At first It had found the little man amusing, but he was rapidly becoming a nuisance. Not that his feeble struggles could accomplish anything, not that his efforts to free himself had the slightest chance of success, but he was just so annoying. It was trying to delight in the appetites of this body, to lose Itself in the half-forgotten pleasures of flesh, but It couldn’t fully enjoy Itself with the little man yammering constantly.

Right, then. It’d just drink the little man into oblivion.

*****

When Donna walked into the Doctor’s dark-panelled study, he was seated–sprawled, really–in his leather desk chair, his tie and jacket and vest off, his shirt half unbuttoned, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his feet propped up on the desk. Near his feet she saw a bottle of whisky, two-thirds empty. He looked bleary but blissful, and he was belting out a song in some language she’d never heard before.

Gallifreyan, she’d heard. It was a beautiful language, even when he employed it to cuss out the TARDIS and her systems. But this wasn’t Gallifreyan. She was sure of it. Gallifreyan was a tonal language that sounded like the ringing of a bell or the gentle chiming of a celeste. This language sounded guttural and coarse by comparison.

Of course, the Doctor probably knew hundreds of different languages. But if he was really drunk, she’d expect him to be singing in his own language.

In any event, whatever he was singing must have been vulgar, or the TARDIS would have translated it. Clearly it didn’t meet her ladylike standards.

“What the hell are you doing?” she demanded, walking into the study.

The guttural words cut off, and the Doctor opened his eyes and looked up at her. It appeared to be quite an effort. “Ahhhh,” he said, his voice so thick that she could barely understand him. “The companion.”

She glared down at him, annoyed that he was so drunk he couldn’t even remember her name. She didn't appreciate just being another in a long line of companions.“Why are you getting drunk?”

He lifted the whisky bottle, saluted her with it, and took a huge mouthful straight from the bottle, spilling it over his cheeks and chin. Then he put the bottle down, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Because I can,” he said.

She frowned. She’d never seen the Doctor drink seriously before, but he’d mentioned once or twice that his body could counteract the effects of most drugs. She'd even seen him recover from cyanide poisoning, so she guessed it wasn’t easy for him to become inebriated.

And yet here he was, drunk as a bloody lord.

Drugs, marmalade, and whisky. She tried to make the pieces of the puzzle fit into a whole that could explain his behaviour, and couldn’t. Something was clearly wrong here, but she couldn’t guess what.

She wanted to yell, because shouting was her preferred method of dealing with situations she didn’t understand, but she thought sympathy might get through to him in a way than anger wouldn't. She crossed the room, shoved aside some of his clutter of papers, and sat down on the polished surface of the desk.

“Doctor,” she said, very gently. “Talk to me.”

He looked up at her fuzzily. His dark eyes had always been so expressive that they showed every thought, and even though he was drunk, they still reflected what he was thinking. Right now they were filled with a kind of hunger.

With… lust?

Shocked to see that expression in his eyes, aimed in her direction, she started to stand, but his hand struck out like a snake, capturing her by the wrist and holding her there. Startled by his sudden move, she tried to wrench her wrist away, but couldn’t. For a long, skinny streak of nothing, he was a surprisingly powerful man.

“Ahhhh,” he said, his voice soft but very dangerous. “There’s an appetite I haven’t explored yet.”

Read Chapter 2 here.

Personal Grooming

2011-11-27T07:57:00.001-05:00

Fandom: Doctor Who
Characters: The Tenth Doctor/Donna
Length: Oneshot, 1400 words
Genre: Humor
Rating: Adult. If you're under eighteen, please go elsewhere now.
Disclaimer: These characters belong to the BBC, not to me.
Sequel to Personal Spaces.

“So how does this hair thing work, exactly?”

Donna Noble was seated on the worn leather sofa in the TARDIS library, the Doctor next to her. That was nothing new, really, since the two of them spent much of their spare time together in the library.

What was new was that the Doctor's arms were wrapped around her, and one of his long legs was tangled between hers. This was a rather striking innovation.

“It’s not my hair, not really,” he answered. She ran her fingers through his fringe, and he panted. “It’s my scalp.”

“Right. I knew that.” She scratched experimentally at the top of his head, and his eyes drifted shut. He wore the same ecstatic expression he’d worn in front of the Isara earlier in the day, when the two of them had pretended to have sex by running their hands through each other's hair.

Only he hadn’t been pretending, as it turned out.

“Do that some more.”

“Greedy.” She let her nails scrape a little harder, and he whimpered. “Pitiful,” she said. “Just pitiful. Give him a head rub, and the great Time Lord turns into a puppy.”

“Oi!”

“Oi yourself, Time Boy. Bet you like it when I scratch behind your ears, too.” She tried it, and he leaned into her hand so hard he practically fell over. “Pitiful,” she said again, fondly.

“Just… don’t… stop.”

“Right there?”

“Oh, Rassilon. Right there. Yes.”

She rather liked seeing him like this, breathless and dishevelled and a little sweaty, but as she rubbed his scalp, something occurred to her. “Wait a minute,” she said, and her fingers stilled.

“You are stopping.” His eyes flickered open, and he fixed her with his Oncoming Storm glare. The effect was slightly marred by the fact that his hair was sticking up all over his head. “I thought we agreed. No stopping.”

“I was just thinking…”

“Think all you want. Just don’t stop.”

She snorted, and rubbed the hair just behind his ear. He actually wriggled with delight, and she was hard pressed not to laugh. “Here’s the thing,” she said, stroking lightly. “How many times have I seen you in front of that big mirror in the wardrobe room, playing with your hair?”

“Um.” His ears turned a little red, whether from arousal or embarrassment she couldn’t guess. “Well. I have really good hair this time around. Nice and thick. It’s natural to enjoy, er, styling it…”

“Oh, Doctor.” She sighed, doing her best to look disappointed in him, and shook her head. “Excuses, excuses. I reckon this explains why you're so fond of... personal grooming.”

He tried for an arrogant, superior expression, which was rather foiled when she made him wriggle again. “What exactly are you implying?”

“You naughty, naughty boy.” She snickered. “You’ll go blind, y’know.”

His ears turned redder. “It’s not like that,” he muttered.

“You sure?” She laughed softly. “All that pomade… all that brushing... all that rubbing with your fingers… come on, Doctor. I can do the math. No wonder you like styling your hair so much.”

He lowered his eyelashes, veiling the dark eyes. “S’not like anyone else has been offering to do it for me.”

“Didn’t know you liked it.”

“And you wouldn’t have touched it if you had.”

“True.” She wound a lock of his hair around her finger and pulled, experimentally, and his eyes drifted closed. A long, anguished noise ground in his throat. “If you want,” she said, “I can start styling it for you. Braiding it, maybe. Ribbons. A nice pink bow…”

The noise in his throat started to sound more like an outraged growl. “Don’t you dare.”

“Fine.” She snorted again, imagining him facing down villainous aliens with a pink bow in his hair. “I guess you’ll just have to keep doing it yourself. But do me a favor, and close the wardrobe room door next time.”

He opened his eyes, and gave her a surprisingly cheeky grin. “What, you don’t like to watch?”

She yanked on the lock of hair again, a little harder. She meant it as punishment for his cheek, but she’d forgotten that he liked it a little rough. His eyes went dark with unmistakable lust. “Blimey. Do that again.”

She yanked, and he made another one of those grinding, desperate sounds.

“You like?”

“OhDonnadothatsomemore.”

His voice was breathless. She did it again, and he gasped as if his respiratory bypass system just couldn't keep up.

“I thought you were going to show me your other erogenous zones,” she said, without ceasing the yanking. “You said you had quite a few that humans didn’t…”

“Not. Right. Now.”

“Oh. Enjoying this, then, are we?”

“Enjoying it. Yes. Rather.” He sounded as if he could barely get words out. “Is there any chance you could stop talking for just a moment?”

She yanked, and considered the question. “It’s possible.”

“But not very likely.”

“Not really, no.” He was trembling, his breath coming in unsteady gulps, and she decided to take pity on him. She opened her hand, grasped a nice big handful of his tawny hair, and pulled even harder. He threw his head back, his eyes clenching shut, his mouth dropping open, and she watched him while he cried out her name, his whole body shaking.

Really, alien though he was, he looked just like any other bloke in the throes of orgasm. Except she'd never before been with a bloke who got off on having his hair pulled.

After a while his long, lanky body relaxed, and she let go of his hair. He fell forward onto her shoulder, gasping, and she found herself pressed into the leather sofa with a rather large lapful of inert Time Lord.

“God, you’re easy,” she said.

He drew in a deep, shuddering breath. “No one has done that for me in decades,” he muttered into her shoulder. “I mean, till today. Forgotten how much I liked it.”

“Decades.” She laughed, trying to conceal the sympathy that flickered through her. “Oi, and I thought my sex life was pitiful.”

He lifted his head, offering her a shy and rather endearing grin. It was a constant source of amazement to her that a nine-hundred-year-old alien could manage to look so like an awkward teenage boy. “We can work on fixing that.”

“Well, I was trying to get you around to that earlier, actually, but you got distracted.”

“Yes. Distracted. Sorry.” He raked a hand through his hair in his usual absentminded way, then suddenly stopped, turned red, and lowered his hand. “Er. Well. I think you were showing me your erogenous zones…”

“Your hair is a right mess,” she said, lifting a hand to stroke through it.

He sighed, and his eyes fluttered shut.

“Donna,” he said softly. “You’re distracting me again.”

“Am I?” She smoothed his sweaty, tangled hair back into some semblance of order with her fingers. “Imagine that.”

He lowered his head, pressing his face into her shoulder. “Donna, I honestly think that it’s my turn to…”

“Doctor,” she said, very gently. “If it’s really been decades, I think it’s okay for you to have a little attention paid to you for once. We can get around to me later.”

"I'm just..." Her fingers stroked through his hair, and he quivered, but he went determinedly on. "A little. Concerned. That we might. Um. Never leave. This sofa."

"You like it that much, do you?"

He heaved a long, contented sigh. "Yeah. I do."

"I'm glad," she said, and was surprised to realise how much she meant it. She'd never really thought of the Doctor in a sexual way before today-- in fact she'd intentionally refused to think of the Doctor in a sexual way-- but she was starting to feel like she should have run her hands through his hair a whole lot sooner. She lowered her head, and spoke into his ear.

"From now on," she whispered, "I'm going to do this so often that you won't need to do personal grooming any more."

He shivered. "I'd like that," he said. "Just... no bows."

"No bows," she agreed. "Just a whole lot of touching. Now... quiet down, and pay attention to what I'm doing."

"I am paying attention," he answered, his voice hoarse. "I am so very much paying attention. Absolutely, positively, definitely paying attention. You wouldn't believe how much attention I'm paying..."

"Doctor." She yanked. "Shut up."

He shut up.

Well, until they got to the part where he cried out her name.

-The End-

Personal Spaces

2011-11-17T13:47:00.002-05:00

Fandom: Doctor Who

Characters: The Tenth Doctor/Donna

Length: Oneshot, 5300 words

Genre: Humor

Rating: Adult. If you're under eighteen, please go elsewhere now.

Disclaimer: These characters belong to the BBC, not to me.

The Doctor had no respect for personal space.

The first time Donna Noble had met him, he’d almost instantly gotten right in her face, waving his alien thingy at her. Well, not that alien thingy, no. Another alien thingy, a little technological doohickey. A whatchajigger, if you wanted to use the technical term. He’d started nattering on about what might be wrong with her, babbling nonsense at a mile a minute, and she’d had to smack him to get him to give her a little breathing room.

He’d backed off, holding his cheek and looking affronted, as if no one had ever complained when he got in their face before.

Since she’d moved into the TARDIS (along with half a dozen suitcases), a day hadn’t gone by when he hadn’t invaded her personal space in one way or another. He’d come up and peer over her shoulder to see what she was having for breakfast, dribbling his toast crumbs onto her scrambled eggs and bangers. He’d walk up behind her in the library and blithely snag a book right out of her hands, without the slightest concern for whether or not she wanted to share her reading material (Vogue, yes; The Pirate Captain and his Virgin, not so much). He’d absentmindedly wander into her room because he wanted to talk, oblivious to the fact that she might be changing her clothes or flossing her teeth. He’d sing “I’m On My Way” by the Proclaimers fifteen times over while working, unaware or uncaring that she was right there in the console room and growing ever more ready to kill him.

And then there was the hugging.

Donna wasn’t the touchy-feely sort. But the Doctor definitely was. At first she’d been a little suspicious of all the hugs, thinking maybe it was just his way of copping a feel from his unsuspecting companions. But for all his lack of respect for personal space, his hands always stayed very carefully on her waist whenever he hugged her, never sliding down to squeeze her arse (and as ample as her arse was, it wasn’t as if he’d have had any trouble finding it). And she never got the feeling that he was thinking about knobbing her.

He just liked hugging.

To the villains of the universe, he was the Oncoming Storm, respected, feared, even dreaded–and with good reason. When he encountered a wrong, he could be cold, implacable, and honestly quite terrifying. She’d seen it.

But much of the rest of the time, he seemed more like a lost little boy who’d lost his family and needed consoling.

And he had lost his family. He’d lost everything. Once she understood that, she actually found the near-constant hugs rather endearing. He was just a poor lost alien who needed a little physical contact and affection, so he didn’t feel so alone in the universe. She could understand that.

So when the green-skinned aliens who’d abducted her shoved a dishevelled and rather grubby Doctor into the cell where she’d been confined for the last hour, she fully expected a hug.

She wasn’t disappointed. The instant he saw her, those big dark eyes lit up.

“Donna,” he said, crossing the cell in two steps and wrapping his arms around her in an enthusiastic embrace. “You’re okay,” he mumbled into her hair.

“Course I’m okay,” she mumbled back–really mumbled, because her face was being squashed into his shoulder. Not that she minded. Even though his face looked as if they’d been using him to scrub a rather dirty floor–and given that mop of hair on his head, they could certainly be excused if they had–he smelled like he always did, clean and sort of spicy. “I yelled. They ran.”

He laughed into her hair, a sound of amusement and relief. “That’s my Donna,” he said fondly. “Always armed for battle.”

She pulled back, just a little, and looked up at him. Up close he looked worse than she’d thought. There might be a bruise or two under the dirt. “What happened to you?” she demanded.

“Oh, well…” He sighed, looking slightly ashamed of himself. “When they grabbed you, I might have made a few derogatory remarks about the local laws. And I might possibly have added an insult or two about the planet’s monarch, while I was at it.”

“And you complain about my mouth. You never shut up, that’s your problem.” She looked him over, feeling more sympathy than she would let herself show. “Beat you up, did they?”

“Well, not so much. I mean, there was a fight.” He lifted his chin in a feeble effort at machismo. “You should see the other bloke.”

“I did see the other bloke. He just shoved you in here. And he looked perfectly all right.”

The Doctor’s face fell. “Well, the Isara don’t show bruising the way we do. It’s the green skin, y’know. Bruises don’t show as much. But I definitely got a punch or two in.”

“Of course you did.” She patted him on the shoulder and pulled away, looking around the cell. “So we were arrested for…?”

“Your hair color. It’s a crime.”

She turned on him abruptly. “I beg your pardon?”

Since she’d begun travelling with him, she’d grown accustomed to getting in trouble for what she saw as rather silly reasons. A couple of months ago, the Doctor had been detained by the local authorities for wearing trousers–an item of clothing only permitted to women on that particular world–and to his great disgust, he’d had to don a skirt to get out of official custody. And a few weeks ago, she’d nearly caused a riot by wearing the wrong perfume to a planet where everyone communicated by the sense of smell.

But her hair color? Since when was red hair a crime?

Alarmed by the look in her eyes, he held up his hands in a don’t-hurt-me gesture. “Oi, don’t get mad with me. I like ginger! You know I like ginger! It’s just that here, no one has red hair except… well…”

He muttered the last word, and she scowled. “What was that?”

“Prostitutes,” he repeated, his cheeks flushing a bit.

“Prostitutes,” she echoed, narrowing her eyes. “So they think I’m a–"

“Yep." He popped the P, as he often did when he was uncomfortable. "On Isar, ladies of the evening dye their hair ginger. A sort of advertisement for their trade, you might say. And since the government here is currently cracking down on that sort of activity, they arrested you.”

She imagined a green-skinned Isara with red hair, and supposed that would be rather gaudy. Hard to miss. Quite an advertisement indeed. “But you’re not ginger.”

“No.” He sighed. “I’m in gaol because of my big mouth, mainly.”

“Nothing new there,” she snarked. “Couldn’t you just keep your head, hold your tongue, and bail me out, or however they do it here?”

“I tried. They wouldn’t let you go. That’s why I got annoyed, because…well…”

He trailed off, looking more embarrassed than before, and she glared up at him. “What exactly is the punishment for having red hair?”

“Wellllll…”

He could drag out a word longer than anyone she’d ever known. Ordinarily he was a babbling brook, and the fact that he couldn’t get beyond that one word didn’t bode well. “What. Is. The. Punishment?”

“Well, you see,” he said awkwardly, “although it’s illegal for the regular bloke on the streets to avail himself of a prostitute’s charms, the monarch himself is allowed to… well, he rather collects… that is to say, he tends to…”

For a nine-hundred-year-old alien who’d seen just about everything, she reflected, he could blush and stammer more than any man she’d ever met. “The monarch gets to keep all the prostitutes for himself,” she said bluntly.

“Er… yes.”

“So they’re keeping me here until they turn me over to His Bloody Majesty, is that it?”

“Errrhhmm. Yes.”

“Okay, then,” she said, moving on from that unpleasant thought to the next. “It’s pretty obvious what’s going to happen to me, but what about you?”

“Wellllll.” There was that word again, drawn out till she wanted to smack him to make him stop. “That’s the embarrassing part.”

“What, we didn’t get to the embarrassing part yet?” She heard her voice rising, and didn’t try to hold it down. “The embarrassing part isn’t that I’m being given to the local ruler as a sex toy?”

“Er, not exactly. Not quite, no. You see, as you pointed out, I’m not ginger, so they would have let me go, but once they decided to keep me–"

“Once you shot your mouth off!”

“Right. --I had some discussion with His Majesty himself, and it turned out that he’s quite the amateur student of xenobiology.”

Oh, dear God. There was that word. She’d never heard it before she met the Doctor, but now it seemed to come up on a regular basis, and though she wasn't entirely clear on the meaning, she'd noticed that every time she heard the word, trouble followed. “What exactly do you mean by a student of xenobiology?”

“Well. He’s, er, interested in the way our species… interacts. So to speak.”

Oh, no. She felt her cheeks turn just as red as his. “But we’re not even the same species.”

“Well, they don’t know that, do they? We look like the same species. We’re certainly not green-skinned, after all. We both have only two eyes and five fingers per hand, and we're missing all those tentacles. As far as they can tell, we’re the same, and they’re rather intrigued by…”

“Let me guess. His Bloody Majesty wishes to observe us mating.”

He turned the colour of a ripe tomato and stared at the stones of the floor as if they were extraordinarily fascinating. “That’s about the size of it.”

“No.” She glared at him as if he'd come up with the notion of shagging all on his own. “I won’t do it. We agreed when I came on board the TARDIS. No mating, just mates. Remember?”

“This wasn’t my idea!” he said crossly.

“You’re the one who landed us on this stupid planet without doing a little research into the local customs first! Shouldn’t the mighty and brilliant Time Lord know what red hair means here? Shouldn’t you have an idea what the punishments for local crimes might be?”

“I don’t know everything,” he grumbled. “Just most things.”

“Well, we just won’t do it.” She scowled. “They can’t make us. Can they?”

“I suppose not.” He sounded dubious.

“His Majesty sounds like a perv. Probably wants to record it. Probably has DVDs of all sorts of aliens going at it.”

The Doctor turned even redder, and abruptly crossed to the small cot in the corner of the cell and sat. She didn’t really want to know why he’d found it necessary to sit, all of a sudden. There were some things she was better off not knowing.

“Anyway,” he said in a voice that was unusually hoarse, “they’ll be coming shortly to take us up to the palace. They’ll clean us up, and then…”

“And then we get to perform for His Perverted Majesty.”

He looked up at her with big, solemn eyes.

“I’ll get us out of this somehow, Donna. I promise.”

And regardless of what might be going on downstairs–because blokes couldn’t help their physical reactions, after all, even Time Lord blokes–he was wearing his lost little-boy face, and she knew he needed a hug. She crossed to the cot, sat beside him, and put an arm around him. He leaned against her, pressing his face into his hair.

“It’ll be all right,” she told him. “Everything’ll be okay.”

He wrapped his arms around her and held her.

“I hope so,” he said softly.

*****

Two hours later, she was escorted into a large, circular chamber with enormous marble columns holding up the domed roof, and a large golden throne at one end, where the monarch was seated, flanked by armed soldiers. She’d been freshly bathed and scented and wearing a dress that under other circumstances, she would have fallen in love with. It was made of a silky material, and it was a particularly lovely shade of green (not unlike their captors’ skin color, actually). It clung to her curves and cupped her breasts lovingly and in general made her look quite stunning.

But given that His Perverted Majesty was almost drooling, she really wished she looked a little less glamourous.

Fortunately for her, the Doctor made his appearance before she decided to march across the room and slap His Majesty across his green cheek, which probably would have been a mistake. The Doctor was wearing handcuffs, and she guessed he’d tried to escape again, but without success. There was a fresh new bruise marring his forehead. He wore a very unDoctorish outfit– dark pants, a dark green jumper, and what looked like a leather jacket.

Not at all the Doctor’s style, she thought.

His clothes, however, were similar to what the Isara males seemed to wear. Apparently they’d put him into what they thought of as a more appropriate costume. He looked displeased, and she guessed that he was unhappy about the loss of his beloved brown suit. Still, he had to like the leather jacket better than that skirt he’d had to wear a couple of months ago.

They marched him toward her. As he approached, she could smell soap, and the scent of freshly washed male skin, and she knew he’d bathed, too. He smelled good, rather like sandalwood but with his own spicy scent beneath the soap, and all the dark clothing made him look rather more dangerous than usual.

A little warmth coiled deep inside her, and she tried to ignore it. After all, he was just a long streak of alien nothing. A skinny boy with abandonment issues. Not an attractive, gorgeous, sexy male.

The Doctor stopped a foot away from her, and his dark eyes bored into hers. Trust me, his gaze said. I’m going to get us out of this. I promise.

You bloody well better, you alien git, her gaze answered.

The Doctor swallowed, and turned toward the monarch, who was leaning forward eagerly on his throne, observing them with what Donna thought was a rather disgustingly avid gaze.

“Your Majesty,” the Doctor said, obviously trying for a reasonable tone. (If he'd tried for that earlier, she thought snarkily, they might not be in this mess.) “Our people do not mate publicly.”

His Majesty smiled–at least, Donna thought it was a smile. It wasn’t a pleasant expression, in any event.

“You will mate for Our viewing pleasure,” he said. “Or you will die.”

“Somehow I knew you were going to say that,” the Doctor muttered. He glanced at Donna, visibly gathering his thoughts, and then spoke firmly.

“Our people’s most sacred rule,” he said, “is that once we mate, we are mated for life. Therefore, if we do this, I must insist that you release us afterward. The woman will be mine, forever. I cannot share her with another, not even your Royal Majesty. Our religion forbids it.”

There was a brief stirring around the chamber as the Isara soldiers discussed that string of lies. The muttering voices sounded respectful, almost impressed, and she recognised that the Doctor had hit on something that impressed their captors. Apparently sacred rules and religion meant something here.

“Couldn’t tell him our most sacred rule is no shagging in public?” she hissed.

He had the grace to look embarrassed. “Didn’t think of it fast enough,” he whispered back. “Anyway, I really don’t think they’re gonna let us out of that one.”

Given the avid expression on the monarch’s face, she suspected he was probably right. His Majesty clearly wanted to see some hot xenobiological action. Right now, however, the monarch was looking Donna over as if she were a slab of beef, rather to her annoyance. She opened her mouth to tell him to keep his five eyes firmly in his head, but the Doctor shook his head, very slightly, and she subsided. For now.

“Very well,” the monarch conceded at last. “She is not attractive enough for my harem in any event. I would only give her to my soldiers as a toy, and I doubt they would care overmuch for her, either.”

Donna growled-- who are you calling unattractive, Tentacle-Boy?--, and the Doctor made a noise that might have been a snort of amusement. But his face was carefully neutral as he said, “Then we are agreed. We will demonstrate how our people mate, and then you will let the two of us go on our way peacefully.”

“As long as she never returns to Our planet with her hair dyed that color,” the monarch said.

The Doctor didn’t bother to explain that her hair wasn’t dyed. He only nodded. “Agreed.”

One of the soldiers unfastened the Doctor’s handcuffs. He lifted his hands, shaking them a bit, and then turned toward Donna. She shied back and glared at the monarch.

“Oi! Are all these soldiers going to stay in here?”

“My bodyguards,” the monarch informed her.

Bloody perverts, more likely, she thought, but didn’t say so. She only looked back at the Doctor, waiting for him to do something to get them out of this.

Instead, he caught her face between his hands and kissed her.

Her first instinct was to react the way she’d done the very first time he invaded her personal space–yank back and smack the daylights out of him. But his lips were firm and cool on hers, and her mouth tingled at the unexpected contact, and she almost instantly forgot about slapping him. Kissing him, she thought fuzzily, really wasn’t so bad. In fact it was sort of… pleasant.

If pleasant meant that it made her hot, wet and tingly in places other than her mouth. Yeah. It was definitely pleasant.

And then his tongue was slipping into her mouth, touching hers, and she thought vaguely about jerking away and yelling, Oi, mate, don’t need to do that in order to put on a show, do you? But there was something very sexy about the feel of his tongue against hers, and she felt that warm melting in her middle again, felt the tingling between her legs grow more urgent, and somehow she just couldn’t pull away.

God help her, but kissing the Doctor was incredible.

Not that she was ever going to admit that, not in a million years.

Anyway, they wouldn’t convince the monarch and all his drooling bodyguards to let them go by yelling at each other. They had to see this through, one way or the other. So she let her hands slide through his hair–all that nice, thick hair–and he groaned. Loudly.

A bit startled by the intensity of his reaction, she started to yank her hands away. Instantly he lifted his mouth from hers. “Play along,” he hissed, and then his mouth slammed back down on hers, and his hands went to her hair, too.

She stroked his hair, and he groaned again.

Okay. She got it. She understood the plan, now. It was kind of a dumb plan, but a dumb plan was better than no plan at all, she figured.

He touched her hair in a slow, sensual caress, and she moaned into his mouth. She’d had a long string of rotten boyfriends, and God knew she knew how to fake it. She was a bloody expert on the subject.

She ran her hands through his hair again–and no, she had never, ever fantasized about doing that before, because that would be weird, and she was so not weirdly attracted to the Doctor’s hair–and he moaned and sobbed and gasped so convincingly that it made her insides melt almost entirely. He was really putting his hearts into this performance, she thought. He was good-- really, really good. He was one hell of an actor.

Well, she could put on a show, too. His long, graceful fingers continued to slide through her hair, and she moaned in ever-increasing pitch and volume, and let her body undulate as if she were lost in the throes of passion.

All of which was completely, totally, and utterly faked, because she was not in the least turned on by the feel of his talented fingers stroking over her scalp. His gentle caresses didn’t arouse her in the least.

Oh, bloody hell, who was she kidding? The dreadful truth was that she wasn't having to fake it very much at all. Having her hair stroked by the Doctor felt quite a bit better than sex had with most of her boyfriends.

She wasn't sure if that said something about the Doctor's skill with his hands, or just about the generally abysmal quality of her boyfriends. Either way, it was depressing.

She ran her own fingers through the hair at the back of his head, down to the nape of his neck, and the Doctor uttered a rumbling noise that was so blatantly sexual it made her toes curl. Her fingers curled, too, digging into his hair, rather harder than she intended. The Doctor threw his head back, screwing his face up very convincingly, and sobbed as his whole body shook.

She was so caught up in watching him that she almost forgot she was supposed to be part of this too, but a yank of his hands on her hair recalled her. She threw her own head back and arched her spine, faking it as loudly as she could (which was of course pretty damn loudly, because if there was one thing Donna Noble did well, it was loudness), while chiding herself for getting distracted. It was really ridiculous for her to pause to watch the Doctor come, when he wasn’t coming at all.

Not that anyone would know that. The way he shuddered and cried out, you’d think he was in the throes of a spectacular orgasm.

She realised she was still gripping his hair tightly. She loosened her fingers, and his cries faded to gasps. He seemed to think the performance was over, because he leaned forward, resting his head on her shoulder and panting heavily. Then his knees seemed to give out, and he pulled her down with him.

They knelt there on the marble floor, faces buried in each other’s shoulders, giving a very convincing impression of a couple who’d just done the dirty and now were barely able to keep upright.

But would the Isara really be fooled by such a silly display? It seemed absurd to her, but then again, she had absolutely no idea how the locals copulated. For all she knew, they shagged with their ears. Maybe this would look perfectly believable to them.

Sure enough, His Majesty cleared his throat. He sounded hoarse and turned-on, she thought. At least his voice was decidedly different than it had been. She took that to mean that their performance had been satisfactory. She only hoped that His Majesty wouldn’t be watching it on DVD from now till the end of his reign.

“The two of you,” he decreed, “may go in peace.”

*****

“I can’t believe they fell for that!”

Donna threw herself down on the sofa in the TARDIS library, still wearing the green dress, and laughed in joy and relief. They’d left Isar in peace, as per the monarch’s orders, only stopping briefly on the way to free all the ginger ladies of the evening from His Perverted Majesty’s clutches. She imagined the two of them wouldn’t be welcome on Isar again any time soon, but that was absolutely wizard as far as she was concerned. She didn't have any intentions of inviting any of the Isara to visit her in Chiswick, either.

The Doctor sat down next to her, a little too close, as always, and put an arm around her shoulders. He smelled like leather and wool and warm male, and she wished he’d change back into one of his suits. The dark, smoldering leather look just didn’t suit him. Really, it didn’t.

“I knew they would,” he said, preening a bit. The Doctor never failed to congratulate himself on a job well done. “Y’see, while I was being bathed and dressed, I made some discreet inquiries of my captors, and discovered that the way they have sex involves the first digit of the left hand and one of their eyeballs.”

“Ewwwww.”

“You really don’t want to know the details,” he agreed. “At any rate, I knew they wouldn’t be expecting to see sex involving, er, the nether regions. They probably would have thought that we were faking it, frankly. And they certainly would have found it disgusting.”

She leaned her head on his shoulder, not because she wanted to breathe in the mingled scents of leather and sandalwood and spicy, sexy man–because there was no sexy man here, just the Doctor–but because she was rather tired after all the day’s events. “I suppose different people have sex all sorts of ways.”

“Oh, yes,” he agreed readily. “You wouldn’t believe some of the structures that have evolved just in the one galaxy. Eyeballs aren’t the strangest sex organ I’ve run across, not by a long shot. Why, I once encountered a race that–"

“Doctor.” She reached up and ruffled his hair affectionately. “Believe it or not, it is possible to talk too much.”

At the touch of her hand, he suddenly went very still, and she looked up at him. There was an oddly intent expression on his face, a look of hunger and wanting that made her heart ache even as a terrible suspicion occurred to her.

“Doctor,” she said, very slowly. “How did your people make love?”

“Um” he said. “Erhm. Wellllll…”

There was that word again, dragged out like it was being pulled through a time warp. That couldn’t be a good sign. But at last he got more words out.

“Much the same as your people do, actually,” he said.

She breathed a sigh of relief.

“We just have a few more erogenous zones,” he added.

She yanked her hand away from his head and sat up very, very straight. “Is one of those erogenous zones your scalp, by any chance?”

He turned red again, looking more abashed than she’d ever seen him. “It might be.”

“Oh, my God!” She whacked at his shoulder, not terribly gently. “I got you off, didn’t I? All that moaning and groaning–you weren’t faking it at all, were you? I really made you come!”

Well, more or less, anyway. The absence of a wet spot on the front of his jeans indicated he hadn't come quite like normal blokes did. But the fact that the Doctor wasn't a normal bloke was so obvious it hardly seemed worth remarking on.

He scrambled backward on the sofa, holding up his hands as a shield. “I didn’t mean for it to go that far,” he said, rather pitifully. “I thought I had better self-control than that. I just…”

“You just what?”

“I just couldn’t help myself,” he said in a very small voice. “Once you started–I didn’t want you to stop.”

The honesty and the shyness and the sheer aching need in his tone brought her to a sudden halt. She looked into his dark eyes, seeing there the lost and lonely little boy she’d seen so many times before.

Only he wasn’t a little boy. He was a fully grown man. A man who’d been cruelly cut off from his own society and the company of others like himself. A man who was very, very lonely, and who desperately needed to be touched.

Sympathy swept through her–and that was all it was, just sympathy, not any sort of lust inspired by the memory of his voice sobbing through an orgasm, or by the fact that he smelled good enough to eat with a spoon–and she slid along the upholstery toward him. He backed up against the arm of the sofa, his eyes wide and worried, and for once she found that she was the one intruding into his personal space.

She remembered her own words: No mating, just mates. They’d agreed to that. They’d both insisted on it, actually. But that had been before she really knew the Doctor. Before she’d really understood him. Before she’d seen all that terrible loneliness in his eyes, and realised exactly how much he longed to be touched.

I just couldn’t help myself.

Yeah. She knew how that felt.

Reaching out, she stroked a hand through his fringe, very gently. He closed his eyes, and she heard his breathing turn harsh.

“So that’s an erogenous zone?” she said.

“I’m afraid so.” His voice was rather unsteady, as if he could hardly keep himself from groaning again.

She let her hand run along the side of his head, just above his ear. “And this?”

“Mmmm-hmmmm.”

She trailed a finger along the fine hairs at the nape of his neck. “How about here?”

“Unnnnhhhhhhh.”

She’d never heard the Doctor make a noise quite like that before, not even on Isar, and it made her smile at the same time it made parts of her go tingly again. Really, all this tingling was getting out of hand.

Maybe, just maybe, she thought, the Doctor wasn’t the only one here who was lonely and isolated and aching for a little physical contact. Maybe she needed to be touched, too.

Before she could change her mind, she reached out, grabbed the Doctor’s hand, and placed his palm firmly against her breast. His eyes snapped open, and he stared at her, his mouth falling open in shock.

“That’s one of my erogenous zones,” she informed him.

“Really,” he said, very slowly. He sat there frozen for a long moment, as if totally baffled by what to do next, but eventually it seemed to dawn on him that she was waiting. He moved his hand, very cautiously, and she shivered as her nipple hardened beneath his palm. A dark heat began to glow in his eyes. “Are there others?” he said softly.

“Oh, yes,” she breathed. “Lots.”

“Really?” His hand squeezed her breast with slightly more confidence. “Where?”

She smiled. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”

He looked at her for a long moment, still very serious, then his bright, beaming smile broke out, and some of the loneliness faded from his eyes.

“It’s a deal,” he said.

And this time, when he moved into her personal space... she didn't mind.

-The End-

2011-10-18T06:44:00.002-04:00

Chlark
Futurefic AU, in which Clark and Lois were never together and Lois is just that somewhat ditzy reporter who’s never made a connection between Clark Kent and Superman.
3200 words, oneshot
Written for Secret Chlark, for moviefreak4634

When Chloe Sullivan walked into the office at 8:47 a.m., he was seated at her desk. She hesitated, just a minute, then regained control of herself and continued toward him. She ought to be used to him showing up at her workplace. He’d been doing it since they were teenagers, after all.

But five years ago, when she moved to Gotham, they’d drifted apart, and she wasn’t used to him just stopping by her desk any more.

He was reading a newspaper—the Gotham Gazette—apparently unaware of her approach, but she knew perfectly well he heard her footsteps. He’d probably heard them coming from the parking garage. She cleared her throat, and, in the perfect imitation of human mannerisms he’d developed over the years, he jumped a little in feigned surprise, and looked up at her.

“Oh, Chloe,” he said, just as if he hadn’t noticed her till this moment. “Hi.”

She perched on the edge of her desk, since her chair was currently filled with two hundred twenty pounds of Kryptonian. “Hello, Clark,” she said, feeling awkward. There had been a time when there was nothing awkward or unexpected about him showing up like this, when she’d counted on seeing him constantly, when a day hadn’t really been complete if he hadn’t come by to bring her a coffee or to consult about some meteor freak or just to say hi. But that day was a long distance in the past.

He was dressed in a blue t-shirt, old, worn jeans, and workboots, the customary outfit he'd worn as a teenager, but now those dreadful dark-framed glasses rested crookedly on his nose, giving him a geeky look. He lifted the newspaper and rustled it a bit, calling her attention to the oversized headline on the front page. “Nice article,” he said.

The excessively casual tone of his voice tipped her off as to what his purpose was here. He wasn’t happy about her article, for some reason. She wondered if perhaps he thought she was trying to expose this particular hero. He'd never liked any superhero's identity to be threatened. Of course, she'd never do that, and he should know that by now, but...

“Thanks,” she said.

His green eyes flickered up to meet hers, for just a moment, then he glanced back down at the headline: GOTHAM’S BAT. “You’ve written quite a few stories on him lately,” he said, and there was still that cautious note in his voice.

“He’s been very nice about allowing me to interview him,” she said, wanting him to realize she wasn’t trying to expose the man.

“You’re his official biographer, huh?”

“Something like that.” She consciously curled up the corners of her mouth, aware that her attempt at a smile was tight and uncomfortable. “The same way Superman's official biographer is my cousin.”

Annoyance flickered in his eyes at her mention of Lois Lane-- the perpetual and irritating thorn in his side, who was always doing half-insane things like throwing herself off buildings in order to get another interview with him-- and his expression looked just as tight as hers. “The thing is, you make this guy sound kind of… incredible.”

“Well, he is.”

“He’s just a regular guy,” Clark said. His fingers tightened on the paper, and she heard it crumpling a bit in his grasp. “Just an ordinary human.”

“An ordinary human who does extraordinary things.” She smiled, more naturally this time. “”In a way, I find that more admirable than superheroes with unusual powers.”

“You always have,” he muttered, and she knew he was thinking of Ollie.

“It’s just…” She waved her hands in the air. “The Batman can be killed, and yet he goes out there and risks his life every day, just to protect the city.”

She heard his teeth grind together. “I can be killed.”

“Yes, but it takes a lot more to kill you. You’re not risking your life the way he is.”

His eyes flashed behind the glasses. “So he’s braver than I am, is that it?”

She blinked at him. She hadn’t seen Clark in six months or more, and the last thing she’d expected was for him to suddenly show up and start an argument about one of her articles. He almost sounded… jealous.

Which was ridiculous. Superman had no reason to be jealous of any man on Earth. Superman was, well... super.

“Look,” she said, allowing her own voice to show irritation, “this isn’t Batman vs. Superman, and no one’s calling for a cage match. I write for the Gotham Gazette, and as such I naturally write about the superhero who’s protecting our city. We leave the gushing articles about Superman to the Metropolis papers.”

“He’s no superhero.” Clark sounded as sullen as he often had as a teenager. “He’s just a guy playing dressup.”

“He’s definitely a superhero.” She glared at him, so fiercely that his hair would have caught on fire if she had heat vision. “Didn’t you read the article? He saved all of Gotham this week, and probably most of the Eastern seaboard as well.”

“Beginner’s luck,” Clark retorted.

“Beginners--? He’s been doing this for most of a year, Clark. He’s saved so many people—done so much—“

Clark slammed the paper down on the desk and rose to his feet abruptly. Anger, and something else, something less definable, smoldered in his eyes. Chloe was aware that her co-workers were sending her anxious looks—should we call security for you? Or maybe the cops?—but she couldn’t quite look away from the gleam in those eyes.

“You’re in love with him, aren’t you?”

Startled, she snorted. “In love with him? Where did you get that idea from?”

“It’s in your words.” He leaned forward, planting his hands on the desk and glaring, so that she was suddenly afraid for her hair. His voice lowered, but the intensity in his eyes didn't fade. “I’ve seen it before, Chlo. Starting way back in high school, when you wrote that article about ‘Superboy.’ I knew you were halfway in love with him, just from reading it. And now—this... this Bat thing—“

“Batman,” she growled. “He’s called Batman.”

“Batman.” He spat out the syllables as if spitting out something that tasted disgusting. “You’re in love with him.”

“Lois is in love with you,” Chloe pointed out. “Maybe journalists always fall in love with the biggest story of our lives.”

He rolled his eyes, as he always did at any mention of Lois. She’d been chasing Superman for years now, and still hadn’t figured out that he was the same man who sat across the desk from her. Chloe loved her cousin with every fiber of her being, but she had to admit that Lois Lane was not the sharpest tool in the shed.

She could write a hell of a newspaper article, though. It ran in the family.

“Lois is in love with Superman,” he said. “She doesn’t know I exist. She doesn't even see me, most of the time.”

Chloe sighed. “And if I have any sort of… interest… in Batman, it's in the hero, and what he accomplishes. I wouldn’t recognize the man himself if I walked past him on the street, and odds are I wouldn’t even like him if I met him. When a grown man dresses up as a bat, you have to figure he's got some unresolved issues. I doubt he's really my type.”

“Women always go for heroes,” Clark said, and she heard the bitterness in his voice. Heard it—and understood it. Despite his moviestar good looks, he’d always cultivated an aura of invisibility. He was the quiet guy, the student who sat in the back of the class and industriously scribbled down extensive notes, the reporter who turned in all his articles on time but never wrote anything really outstanding. He’d never win a Pulitzer, because he would never let himself stand out that much. He'd never be recognized as brave, or daring, or even particularly intelligent. Most people just described him as nice.

Superman was a world-renowned figure, but Clark Kent was just an ordinary guy.

In that moment, she understood that he wasn’t really jealous of Batman, as much as he was jealous of himself. He was tired of seeing women fall for heroes, masked men, caped avengers, rather than for the men themselves.

Which was ridiculously ironic, because she’d been in love with him since they were both fifteen—long before she’d known he was a hero. She’d loved him back then for his quiet smile, and his love of books, and his gentle sense of humor. She still did.

He was the one constant in her life, the one man she’d always loved. And he'd never really known it. Oh, he'd been aware she had a crush on him as a teenager, of course. But she was pretty sure he hadn't realized that her love for him had never faded. Even through Jimmy, Ollie, and a few other relationships-- she'd never stopped loving him.

“Maybe when women go for the ordinary men,” she suggested, “the men just don’t realize it.”

He snorted.

“Idiot,” she said gently, putting her hand on his arm. He jolted with real surprise this time, and looked down at her hand on his arm with an expression of genuine shock. “I’m not in love with Batman. I’m in love with you.”

His gaze shot up, and his eyes locked with hers. He still looked like she’d hit him over the head with a Kryptonite club. The naked doubt in his eyes made her smile a little.

“Always have been,” she said softly. “Always will be.”

“But I thought—I thought—“ He swallowed hard. “I thought you were into heroes, Chloe. You were always into heroes.”

“I am into heroes.” Her hand squeezed his arm. “Only my hero is a mild-mannered farmboy from Kansas who wears glasses.”

He looked at her, as if trying to gauge her sincerity, and at what he saw in her expression, something blazed into life in the depths of his eyes. Something hot and bright and dangerous.

“Oh, no,” she said in response to the unmistakable look in those eyes, holding out her hands. She'd never made love to him-- she hadn't kissed him in years-- but she recognized lust when she saw it. “I just got to work, Clark—I can’t— I can't possibly--"

He leaned forward, till their noses almost touched. “I want you,” he said in a low, throaty growl.

She blinked against the fierce brightness of his eyes, and the sudden tears in her own, and sighed in surrender.

“All right,” she agreed meekly.

*****
Superman could have swept her away to anywhere—a bed, a tropical island, Los Angeles.

Clark Kent took her to the dark alley behind her workplace.

Before she could draw a breath, she was pressed up against a brick wall, his warm, big body all but crushing hers, and she was being kissed senseless.

She decided she liked being senseless. She lifted her arms, let her fingers dig into his thick, dark hair, and pulled him against her harder.

A strangled noise rose from his throat, a noise of desire and joy and need, all tangled together. A noise she’d never imagined she could draw out of him. She'd left Metropolis because she'd known she could never make him need her that way, and she'd been afraid of staying, afraid of watching him fall for some other woman. All her insecurities had compelled her to run, to leave him far, far behind.

And it looked like she'd been wrong. He did need her that way after all. Maybe he always had.

She sighed against his mouth, suffused with a happiness she’d never thought she would feel. She’d kissed Clark a few times, back in their youth, but never like this. This wasn’t the sort of kiss they’d shared back then, hesitant and naïve and cautious. This was a savage flare of need and desire, an aching desperation that had gone unsatisfied for far too long.

But it clearly wouldn’t go unsatisfied for much longer.

His big hands were all over her, sliding up under her clothes, discovering and exploring, caressing her stomach, her ribs, her… She jolted, and a little ahhhh came out of her, a sound she couldn’t have held back for all the world.

He made a little noise of satisfaction, and began caressing her there, and her nipple hardened beneath his questing finger until it ached. Her own hands reached beneath the t-shirt he wore, stroking the satiny skin of his back, stretched tight over powerful muscles. It was his turn to sigh into her mouth.

And then he was lifting her, and her panties disappeared somehow—ripped off? thrown aside? She wasn’t sure, but she never saw them again—and her own hands were fumbling at his jeans, unbuttoning, unzipping, and then…

Their bodies seemed to merge somehow. Not like normal sex, she thought hazily, not just his body sliding into hers, not just the usual joining of bodies. It was more like the two of them becoming one. They moved together, melding in a smooth and easy rhythm, and a wild and wonderful pleasure suffused her.

He groaned, throwing his head back, his eyes clenched shut, and she knew somehow that he felt the exact same way.

His fingers dug into her ass, holding her tightly against the rough brick wall, and she wrapped her legs around his hips, letting him sink into her as deeply as humanly—or Kryptonianly—possible. He sobbed into her mouth and moved faster.

Friction and heat and ecstasy coiled in her, and a climax overtook her, shaking her so powerfully she could hardly bear it. He must have felt it, must have felt her body squeezing his own, because he suddenly surged into her, quivered violently, and then collapsed against her, squashing her against the wall.

There was a long silence. At last she spoke in his ear.

“Sometimes I wish I could write about the things that really matter to me.”

He lifted his head and looked at her. A small grin tilted a corner of his mouth.

“Heroes matter,” he answered. “Even..." He made a little face. "The Batman.”

She chuckled at his residual jealousy. “They do matter,” she agreed, stroking his damp, ruffled hair gently. “But not as much as these ordinary things. Kissing. Making love. Talking afterward. It doesn't make for interesting newspaper articles, but I think… I think maybe this is what matters most in the world, Clark.”

His arms tightened around her. “Only when you do it with the person that matters most to you,” he answered.

He’d answered her question just as clearly as if she’d asked it, taken all her insecurities away with one sentence, and she felt herself grinning foolishly. “I’d like to do it again,” she said, “but I really have to get to work.”

“Yeah,” he agreed. “I have some work to do, too.”

She knew that he must have a great deal to do. Working for the Daily Planet, and patrolling Metropolis' skies as Superman, represented an enormous time commitment. She wondered if he could make time for this and for her, wondered if she really mattered enough to him. Hesitantly, she suggested, "Maybe this evening…”

“Definitely this evening.” He squeezed her, then let her go. “And all the evenings to come.”

Her throat tightened at the sincerity in his voice. He lowered her to the ground, and she straightened and smoothed out her skirt, then watched beneath lowered lashes as he straightened out his own clothes, zipping his jeans and unrumpling his t-shirt. He was, she thought, at his most beautiful like this. Despite the glasses, despite the maturity now stamped on his features, he still looked like the boy she’d loved in high school, so familiar and so lovely that her heart ached.

She loved him as a man, and as a hero. But she also knew that he never would have grown into the hero that he’d become without the man he always had been. The mild-mannered farmboy.

Her mild-mannered farmboy.

*****
Above them, in the shadows, a figure watched silently. He hadn't intended to be a voyeur, and he'd carefully looked away during their moments of intimacy. But he'd been unable to leave the area, because he'd been trapped. He'd known that if he moved, the slightest scrape of his foot against the fire escape where he perched might betray him to the man below. He was a detective by training, and he could recognize Superman readily enough without his costume, even if no one else seemed able to manage that feat. And everyone knew that Superman had better-than-canine hearing.

He was glad to see that the golden-haired reporter had finally gotten together with the man she loved. He'd done research into her, of course, just as she'd done research into him. He'd stumbled across Superman's identity by studying her past, but he'd also come to understand the sorrow and loneliness that always haunted the blonde's eyes. She'd run away from Superman-- or rather, from Clark Kent-- a long time ago, and Superman had let her go.

All of which proved that a superintelligent alien was just as prone to stupidity as anyone else on the planet.

But they seemed to have worked out their problems now. He watched them kiss, watched them walk out of the alley with their arms around each other, and he smiled just a little-- something he all too rarely did. He liked the blonde reporter. In fact, he thought he could have felt more for her than that, but for the plainly writ sorrow that told him clearly that her heart belonged elsewhere.

The next time he saw her, he knew the sorrow would be gone from her eyes.

That was, he thought, something superheroes couldn't do. They could save lives, they could prevent tragedies, they could even protect the world. But so much sorrow in the world didn't arise from tragedies, but from the little things that heroics couldn't fix, from the ordinary grief of living.

There was only one man in the world who could take away the shadows of grief in the reporter's eyes.

And thankfully, he'd done so.

The alley beneath him was empty. The Batman turned and silently glided through the shadows, the faint smile still curving his mouth.

Even he wasn't immune to happy endings.

-The End-

Rose Red 2: Every Rose Has Its Thorns

2011-06-03T15:26:00.003-04:00

Kal/Chloe futurefic
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...

Cherry on Top

2011-06-02T21:28:00.007-04:00

Kal/Chloe
Season 7 or thereabouts (AU)
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 Cherry Pie.

There was only one thing Clark Kent liked more than a hot fudge sundae.

And that was a hot fudge sundae with a cherry on top.

Sitting in a booth at Friendly's, across from his girlfriend Chloe Sullivan, he carefully spooned the cherry off the top of his sundae and popped it into his mouth. He closed his eyes in bliss, chewed carefully, and swallowed it.

"Mmmmm."

Chloe chuckled. "You and cherries. Ever since the Cherry Red incident, you've had a thing for them."

He opened his eyes and grinned at her, remembering the "incident." He'd drunk an energy drink his mom had in the fridge, not realizing it was made from cherries that had absorbed red kryptonite, and the effect it had on him had been... well, it had turned a mild-mannered farmboy into a sex maniac.

He and Chloe had lost their virginity together that night. And since then, they'd had a couple more experiences with red K-laced cherries.

But this cherry was perfectly safe. It had to be. This was Friendly's in Metropolis, and the odds that they used Smallville cherries in this particular restaurant were miniscule. He just liked the way cherries tasted-- he associated them with sex and fun.

Even so, he was aware of a nice warm feeling of lassitude spreading through him. He scooped up another spoonful of whipped cream and ate it, but the mouthful of sweetness wasn't quite enough to satisfy him. He reached over and swiped her cherry.

"Hey!" she objected, trying to defend it. But he had superspeed, and she couldn't move quickly enough. The second cherry followed the first, and he sighed happily.

"Clark Kent," she said, frowning. "You stole my cherry."

"Ha," he answered with a grin. "You totally gave it to me, baby."

She blinked, and then her frown deepened. He saw her brows lower and her forehead furrow as she studied him carefully.

"Oh, no," she said at last. "Your eyes are turning red."

Huh, he thought. Who'd have guessed he might run across a Hobbs Farm cherry in Metropolis? Old Man Hobbs must have expanded his operation, because he knew she was right. He could feel the nice warm sensation swirling through him, heating him from the inside out.

The pleasant warmth began to turn into something a little more urgent, and she sighed, reading his mood change with the ease of a woman who'd known him intimately for years.

"We'd better go," she said.

"I think we'd better come," he countered.

"Clark." She leaned toward him and hissed, "This is a family restaurant. Don't you dare start doing the double entendre thing."

He looked around, seeing that a couple of booths were filled with little kids and their tired-looking parents. Even under the influence, he wasn't going to say anything he shouldn't in front of little kids. He shrugged, reached into his wallet, and tossed two twenties on the table-- enough to cover dinner and give the waitress a really nice tip.

"Okay," he said. "Let's go."

"Good idea. And keep your head down so no one notices the glowing eye thing, okay?"

He supposed that glowing ruby eyes would be kind of difficult to explain. Not that he cared all that much. Still, he didn't want to freak anyone out too badly. He got to his feet, swaying slightly, and followed Chloe from the restaurant, keeping his eyes downcast.

The minute they were outside on the street, he picked her up in his arms and swooshed.

"Hey!" she objected, looking around to see where he'd brought her. "How come you always get to run things?"

He put her down on the bed in the apartment they shared in Metropolis and grinned at her. "I like being in charge, baby."

She scowled up at him. Her golden hair was windblown from their speedy trip, and he thought it looked adorable. "Did it ever occur to you that maybe I like being in charge sometimes, too?"

He frowned, and she reached up, grabbing his arms and yanking him down onto the bed beside her. He didn't have to fall, of course, but he was more than willing to join her there. She put her hands on his shoulders and shoved him, rolling him over onto his back. And then she was climbing on top of him, her thighs on either side of his, her warm body cradling his. His eyelashes fluttered shut, and he heard himself utter a soft but extremely heartfelt moan.

"This time," she told him, "I'm going to be on top."

*****

Clark uttered a little whimper as she began to rub her body against his. Even through jeans, she could feel the heat of his erection. She rubbed a little faster, and felt him twitching through the fabric. When he was on cherries, she thought with amusement, he was spectacularly easy.

"Unhhhh," he said, and his hands reached up to grab her arms-- probably, she suspected, as a prelude to shoving her over and taking charge. She reached for his arms instead, and pinned them against the mattress.

Of course he was about a million times stronger than she was, and there was no possible way she could hold him down unless he permitted it. But she had a feeling he'd permit it.

She was right. His arms relaxed, and he let his body arch up against hers. Another low groan rumbled its way out of his chest.

She slid off him, eliciting a grumbled complaint, and rummaged in a nearby dresser drawer. Seconds later, she'd tied his arms to the bedposts with two silk scarves. Of course, he could have torn the scarves like tissue paper, but they both understood the rules of the game.

This time, she was in charge.

This time, she was going to be on top.

She settled back down onto him, her thighs on either side of his, and moved against him. Almost instantly, he was grinding against her, hard and fast, little gasps and moans escaping him, and she knew he was going to come in fifteen seconds or less if she didn't find a way to put the brakes on. She backed away from him, sliding down his thighs, and he opened his glowing red eyes and glared at her.

"See," he said, grumpily. "This is why I don't like it when you're in charge. You always stop before we get to the good part."

"If you wait a while," she said, as persuasively as she could manage, "the good part can be even better."

"Hmmmppph," he snorted.

She managed to suppress her smile, and reached out, unfastening his jeans. His eyelids drifted shut again, the long dark lashes lying against his cheeks like fans, and a long sigh slipped from between his parted lips. She unzipped his jeans, revealing red boxers with a really impressive swelling beneath them.

She let her fingers slip over the swelling, and his hard, hot flesh shuddered beneath her touch.

"I'm ready for the good part," he gritted between his teeth.

She laughed softly. "You can wait."

She pulled down the red fabric, exposing his cock, a dark, dusky pink already glistening with precome, and lowered her head. As her tongue slid over the head, he gave a low, deep groan, and his biceps flexed. She lifted her head and glared at him.

"Do not even think about tearing my good scarves," she growled. "You're not flipping me over this time. For once, I'm staying on top until the end."

He grumbled, but his arms relaxed, and she lowered her head again. Her tongue slipped over his flesh, finding all the most sensitive places with the ease of long familiarity. His big body quivered all over.

"Good. Part. Now."

"No. Relax, Clark. You know I'll let you have it eventually."

"I don't want it eventually," he grouched. "I want it right now."

More to come...

No Good Deed

2011-06-02T13:51:00.006-04:00

Sullivan Kent/Barri Allen
Futurefic
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: These characters belong to the CW and DC, sort of. At least they're based on characters that do!

One question haunts and hurts
Too much, too much to mention:
Was I really seeking good
Or just seeking attention?
Is that all good deeds are
When looked at with an ice-cold eye?
If that's all good deeds are
Maybe that's the reason why

No good deed goes unpunished
All helpful urges should be circumvented
No good deed goes unpunished
Sure, I meant well --
Well, look at what well-meant did...
-"No Good Deed," from "Wicked"

"Barri!"

As the last echoes of a shot died away, Superman-- otherwise known as Sullivan Kent-- zoomed toward a dark back alley in Metropolis. He landed beside an inert body on the pavement, so hard that his boots cracked the concrete, and fell to his knees.

"No, no, no." He spoke in a desperate whisper, listening for the sound of her heartbeat. It was there, but just barely. Barri Allen (a.k.a.Impulse) possessed superspeed-- she was one of the very few people on the planet who could outrace him-- and unusual strength, but she wasn't invulnerable, the way he was.

Which explained why she was lying on the pavement, a crimson puddle forming beneath her.

He knelt there, frozen with indecision. Moving her might prove fatal. And yet if he didn't move her--

He listened to her heartbeat, which was fading fast, and came to the bleak realization that if he didn't get her to a hospital in the next minute or two, she wouldn't survive. He couldn't wait for an ambulance or paramedics. He had to move her now.

Pushing his fear and indecision aside, he scooped her up in his arms and rocketed toward Metropolis General.

*****

His fault. It was all his fault.

Dressed in tattered jeans and a Nickelback t-shirt, Sully paced back and forth in the hospital waiting room. Barri's parents sat near him, holding one another. He wished he had someone to hold him. He'd called his mom, and she was on her way, but she'd been working on a story some distance outside of town, and it'd take her a while to get here. He'd stripped Barri's suit off to protect her identity, and passed the whole event off to his mom and the doctors as a mugging, but he was miserably aware that it wasn't.

Barri was in danger of dying because she was a hero.

If only... he thought wretchedly. If only he hadn't met Barri, if only he hadn't become friends with her, if only she hadn't followed his lead and gone back into the hero business she'd left behind...

There was no doubt in his mind that if she hadn't met him, she would have been safely in her dorm room, studying industriously for her next big exam. She wouldn't have been out on the streets, trying to save people and getting shot in the chest as a reward.

When he'd assumed the mantle of Superman, when he'd put on his father's suit, he'd been seeking redemption. He'd been trying to make himself a better person. But Barri hadn't needed to become a better person, damn it. She'd always been incredible, one of the most amazing people he knew.

He'd led her into this. And he'd been wrong. He saw that now, as clearly as he'd ever seen anything. He shouldn't have gotten her into the hero business. Hell, maybe he never should have gotten into the hero business. He'd told himself he wanted to save people, but deep down, he suspected maybe he was just trying to convince himself he wasn't a loser. He'd wanted people to think better of him. And Barri had. She'd fallen for the new him, convinced that he was a hero.

He remembered the sight of her on the sidewalk, motionless, a puddle of crimson beneath her, and he knew that he wasn't a hero. He was still the same damn loser he'd always been, only in Technicolor.

If Barri bled to death, it would be entirely his fault.

She can't die, he thought firmly, as if one of his superpowers was positive thinking. She just can't. I won't let her die.

He'd lost his father half a year before, and he couldn't stand the thought of losing someone else who mattered to him. But holding back death wasn't one of his abilities, either. If she'd been mortally injured, she'd die, and there was nothing in this world he could do about it.

He stopped his pacing, sank into a chair, and buried his face in his hands.

*****

Two hours-- two very long hours-- later, a surgeon appeared.

"Mr. and Mrs. Allen?"

Sully had been listlessly staring at the television, so lost in his own misery that he hadn't even heard the surgeon's footsteps approaching. At the voice, he jerked his head around and listened.

"Yes?" Bart answered, getting to his feet. He was a small, graying man who didn't look at all like one of the world's greatest superheroes, and his eyes were filled with the same mixture of hope and dread that Sully knew was reflected in his own eyes.

The surgeon held out his hand in a reassuring gesture. "I just wanted to let you know that your daughter is out of danger."

Sully looked at the man with gratitude, mixed with a little awe. It was a little humbling to realize that for all his superpowers, this ordinary human man had far more power over life and death than he himself did.

Bart broke into a wide grin. "Thank you," he said. "Can we see her?"

"When she wakes up, you can see her." The surgeon looked at Sully for the first time, and offered a kind smile. "I think we can allow her friend to see her for a moment, too."

*****

Naturally, Barri's parents got to go into the room first. But after fifteen minutes or so, they came back to the waiting room. Bart dropped a sympathetic hand on Sully's shoulder.

"She asked for you, Sullivan."

Sully swallowed, then stood up and headed down the hall. At the door of her room, he paused and looked at her. Against the stark white sheets, she looked very fragile and pale, and terror gripped his heart anew at the thought that he had come so close to losing her.

He'd been fighting against his feelings for her, telling himself he didn't have time to fall in love right now. But all at once he realized love didn't wait around till you had time for it.

It came, whether you were ready for it or not.

"Hey," he said.

She turned her head on the pillow and smiled slightly, as if the effort were exhausting. "Hey yourself. Come sit for... a minute."

The words came slowly, as if they too were exhausting. He sat in the chair next to her bed and took her hand in his, very carefully. It seemed very small in his. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

He heard a faint snort. "How... did I know... that was going to be... the first thing out of your mouth?"

He sighed. "Barri, it's all my fault..."

"And yep... I knew that... would be the second thing."

He refused to be sidetracked. "I should have been there to protect you. In fact, I should never have let you help me at all..."

"Help you?" Despite her clear exhaustion, her eyes blazed, and her words grew stronger. "I told you before, Junior, I'm not a sidekick. I do... my own saves... and I make my own decisions. Going back to work... was my choice, not yours."

"I should have tried harder to talk you out of it. If you hadn't been out there--"

"Then a lot of people... would have died." Her eyelids flickered, and her voice subsided. "But going back out there... was the right decision, Sully. It was the right thing to do..."

Her voice trailed off, and she fell asleep. He sat there for a long moment, holding her hand, just watching her breathe, just listening to the sound of her heartbeat.

She was okay. She was alive. And she'd be fine. This time.

And somehow-- somehow-- he had to make sure there wasn't a next time. He had to make her see that she couldn't go out there again. It was just too damn dangerous.

He'd almost lost her today. And he damn well wasn't going to lose her again.

*****

"He seems like a nice kid," Bart said in the waiting room.

"Yes." Andrea Rojas Allen's voice was still lightly accented. She had a beautiful, musical voice. In fact she was still a gloriously beautiful woman, and Bart wondered, as he had so many times in the past, just how he'd been so lucky as to marry her.

Love moves in mysterious ways, he thought wryly.

He thought of the young man who'd waited out here with them, grief and guilt written clearly in his emerald eyes, and he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Sullivan Kent was in love with his daughter.

And that only made him feel worse.

"It's too bad..." he started.

Andrea shushed him. "He has superhearing, remember?"

Bart sighed, because if there was one thing in this world it wasn't good at, it was shutting up. "I just don't like what's being planned, Andrea. He's a really good kid. And he and Barri... well..."

"We have no choice," she answered. "It has to be done."

Bart drew in another breath, and nodded in resignation.

"Yeah," he said. "I guess it does."

But just because something had to be done, didn't mean he had to like it.

*****

Chloe Sullivan Kent stood up as her son walked back into the waiting room. She'd been on the trail of a story, three hours north of Metropolis, and had just gotten here. She looked at Sully as he walked into the room, seeing the weariness stamped on his face.

He looked so much older, she thought, studying him. He wasn't the boy he'd been six months ago. There was a tiredness in his movements, the exhaustion of those who carry the world on their shoulders. Atlas Syndrome, she'd once dubbed it. It was a familiar expression, one she'd seen before. On Sullivan's father's face, and on every hero she knew.

She wondered how on earth she'd failed to see it before now.

Two nights ago, she'd seen Sullivan stripping off his clothes to reveal the costume beneath, and she'd realized with a jolt that her son was Superman 2. The shock had nearly driven her to her knees. She should have realized, long ago, but somehow... she hadn't.

Somehow she hadn't been able to see him as anything but the same amiable, lazy kid he'd always been, a boy who'd been into mischief from the day he was born, a boy who'd never applied his formidable intelligence and all his superhuman strength to make something of himself.

And while she'd been lecturing him on college, his laziness, and the need to apply himself, he'd made something of himself.

And she hadn't even noticed.

Sully looked up, noticing her for the first time, and smiled. His smile was tired, too, and something about it-- the pain and sorrow it inadequately concealed, maybe-- made her open her arms. He went to her wordlessly, wrapping his arms around her and pressing his face into her shoulder.

"Mom," he whispered.

Her eyes smarted with tears. He wasn't her boy any more, but he still needed comforting, and that made her happy somehow. She wanted to blurt out the secret she'd carried for two days-- Sully, I know you're Superman 2, tell me how this happened, I'm so proud of you, why on earth didn't you tell me?-- but she remembered her experience with Sully's dad, long years ago, and held her tongue.

When he was ready to tell her, he'd tell her. And until then, she wouldn't ask.

Because Chloe Sullivan Kent could keep a secret with the best of them.

-The End-

Rain on the Scarecrow

2011-04-26T22:59:00.008-04:00

Clark and son (possible implied Clois marriage)
Futurefic angst
Rating: G

Scarecrow on a wooden cross, blackbird in the barn
Four hundred empty acres that used to be my farm
I grew up like my daddy did, my grandpa cleared this land
When I was five I walked the fence while grandpa held my hand

Rain on the scarecrow, blood on the plow
This land fed a nation, this land made me proud
And son I'm just sorry there's no legacy for you now
Rain on the scarecrow, blood on the plow
-John Mellencamp, "Rain on the Scarecrow"

"It's so empty."

Clark Kent looked down at his son's dark head. The boy was five years old, and he'd grown up amidst the bustle and commotion of Metropolis. His green eyes were wide as they gazed over the seemingly endless fields that had once constituted the Kent Farm.

"I grew up here," he answered. "I guess it might seem empty to you, but I always loved it."

"Really?" The green eyes turned up to his. "Then why don't we live here?"

Clark sighed. "Your grandma gave me the farm for a wedding present, but... well, I decided that it was time for me to leave this all behind. So... I sold it."

"So it's not ours any more."

"No. It's not ours any more."

He looked over the land, the land his father's father had cleared, the land his father and mother had worked so hard to make profitable, and regret clenched in his chest. He remembered long hours spent feeding the cattle, watering and weeding and picking vegetables, selling produce at the local farmers' market. He remembered seeing his father get up at five every morning to get the work done, remembered watching his parents struggling to make ends meet, remembered hearing his mother weep hysterically at the thought of losing the farm.

Once upon a time, this farm had been everything to his family. Once upon a time, this farm had been his home.

This land had been his father's pride and joy, his family's legacy. And he'd sold it as casually as if it were merely property.

But now, too late, he realized it had been so much more.

His son tugged on his hand, recalling him from his dark thoughts. "If it's not ours, then why are we here?"

Clark looked down at the green eyes, so like his own, and then out over the empty acres. In the distance, a tattered scarecrow that had once guarded a cornfield stood alone in an overgrown, weedy field.

"The man I sold it to couldn't make it profitable, either," he answered at last. "So we've come to say goodbye."

Perhaps reacting to the sorrow in his father's voice, the boy fell silent and stood quietly, still holding Clark's hand. Clark stared out across the land where he'd grown up for long moments. At last his son tugged on him again.

"Daddy, it's starting to rain."

With a start, Clark realized the boy was right. A light drizzle was beginning to fall from the leaden clouds. He smiled apologetically down at his son.

"Okay, kiddo. Let's go."

With his son holding his hand, he turned his back on what had once been the Kent Farm for the last time. The rain drenched them both as they walked back to the car, parked on the rutted dirt road that bisected the farm.

As they drove out onto the main road, heading back to Metropolis, they passed a large sign posted at the front of the property:

Kent Acres, another LexCorp project. New homes starting at $300,000.

LexCorp: Making America a better place to live!

-The End-

In Memoriam

2011-03-13T09:53:00.009-04:00

Clark/Chloe angst (character death)
Futurefic, PG
Disclaimer: These characters belong to the CW and DC Comics, not to me.
Written on the fourth anniversary of my soulmate's death.

I sometimes hold it half a sin
To put in words the grief I feel;
For words, like Nature, half reveal
And half conceal the Soul within.

But, for the unquiet heart and brain,
A use in measured language lies;
The sad mechanic exercise,
Like dull narcotics, numbing pain.

In words, like weeds, I’ll wrap me o’er,
Like coarsest clothes against the cold:
But that large grief which these enfold
Is given in outline and no more.
-from "In Memoriam," by Alfred, Lord Tennyson

SUPERMAN IS DEAD.

She looked at the yellowed clipping framed on her wall, and sighed, remembering how much it had hurt to write it. She'd covered every moment of Superman's time in Metropolis for the Daily Planet, from the moment he'd first arrived, wearing the yellow and scarlet sigil on his chest, to his triumph when he'd finally succeeded in putting Lex Luthor behind bars.

But this had been the hardest story she'd ever written.

She remembered sitting at her desk at the Daily Planet, trying to type, while tears ran down her face, obscuring her vision. Her editor Perry had stopped next to her chair and put a hand on her shoulder.

"Chin up, kid," he'd said gruffly. "We're all broken up about it. But Sullivan, the best way to deal with grief is to work. Anyway, writing the news is what we do... no matter how much it hurts."

She'd sniffled, and nodded, knowing he was right. Even though he couldn't know that her suffering was greater than anyone else's in Metropolis, even though he couldn't know that she had been Superman's wife... he was right. She was a reporter, and her most important job had always been to report on Superman.

And that meant reporting on his death as well as his life.

She stood there in front of the clipping, four years later, and felt a single tear trickling down her cheek. Most of the time, she tried to focus on the positive aspects of his life-- all the times he'd saved Metropolis and the planet, all the people he'd saved from muggings or robberies or suicides, all the hope he'd brought to the world.

And on a more personal level, all the times they'd laughed together, all the times they'd worked shoulder to shoulder, whether writing or doing "hero work." All the times they'd kissed, or made love, or held hands.

He'd made a tremendous difference to the world, and to her, in his too-short life, and that was something to celebrate. And yet she couldn't help mourning for his loss, even four years later. Not only did she find herself thinking of all the things he could have accomplished if he were still alive... but she missed him terribly.

And so did everyone else. Today the TV stations were full of tributes to Superman, news footage of his most famous rescues interspersed with people talking about how much he'd meant to the city, or telling stories of being saved by him. And because she'd been his unofficial biographer, there were interviews with her, too-- some of them dating from fifteen years ago, when he'd first arrived in the city, and some of them dating from just after his death, when she'd been visibly distraught and barely able to formulate coherent sentences.

She had only been able to bear watching the tributes for about an hour. She'd watched a few shots of him leaping into the air, his dark hair blowing back, his crimson cape rippling behind him, and she'd found herself sobbing. She'd turned off the TV and retreated into her sanctuary, the office where she sometimes wrote at home.

But even here, reminders of Superman were everywhere. Every major story she'd ever written about him lined the walls, photographs of him decorating almost every article. In every photo, he looked noble, courageous, an avenging angel sent from above to protect Metropolis. Even her coffee mug bore his sigil.

And now he was gone. The thought made her heart ache.

She sat down in her leather chair with a little sigh, admitting that he'd been too much a part of her life for her to escape. She could never forget him, not even for a day. She could never even learn to think of him without a little pang of pain and sorrow in her chest.

Not that she spent every day moping. Of course not. He wouldn't have liked that. The best way she knew to pay tribute to his memory was to go on living and working, and doing her utmost to help the world. Her mothods of helping the world weren't as spectacular as his had been, of course, but they still mattered.

So she didn't sit around grieving over him, most of the time. But there was always a faint shadow of sorrow somewhere deep within her. And today, on the anniversary of his death, she couldn't seem to escape her grief.

She squared her shoulders. The best way to cope with grief, she reminded herself, remembering Perry's words, is work. And the best way to deal with his death is to celebrate his life.

She drew in a long breath, then turned to the computer and began typing. Words appeared on the screen.

SUPERMAN: A LIFE.

She looked up at the pictures on the walls, remembering his life as well as his death, and smiled a little.

And she typed faster.

-The End-

Earth Girls Are Easy, Chapter 1

2010-11-07T22:23:00.005-05:00

Clark/Chloe
Season 3
Rating: Adult. If you're under eighteen, please go elsewhere now.
Disclaimer: These characters belong to the CW and DC Comics, not to me.
Inspired very loosely by my story Kryptonian Boys Are Easy.
Manip by Khyla. Used with permission of the artist.

Birthdays suck.

I mean, they really, really suck.

We're not talking minor sucking here. We're talking full-blown, hardcore, total suckage.

It's bad enough that Dad totally forgot. I know that for him, "forgetting" means oh, sorry, honey, I had a date tonight. Dad's having a midlife crisis, I guess you'd call it, and right now some thirty-year-old hottie with plastic boobs means more to him than I do. That's not really a surprise.

But what really surprises me, and bugs me, is Clark. Where the hell is Clark?

I mean, yeah, he's mopey as hell, and he spends all his spare time thinking about some wildly hypothetical future with Lana even though they aren't even talking to each other right now, but still... it's not like him to totally forget about me, his best friend.

But today in school he didn't seem to notice the date, and he hasn't shown up to escort me to the Talon, or bring me a cupcake, or any of the lame and totally adorable sort of things he usually does for my birthday.

So... yeah. Birthdays totally suck.

Especially this one.

*****

Holy shit, look at the time. Chloe's gonna kill me.

No, not really. She'll be so glad to see me she'll let me live. Well, probably. Especially since that was Mr. Sullivan who just tooled by with some bimbo. Hey, jerk, it's your daughter's birthday, you know! Why the hell are you going out on a date when it's Chlo you should be taking out?

Gah. Parents. I'm glad mine aren't total assholes. Mr. Sullivan used to be okay, but lately...!

Oh, well. At least Chloe has me. And aren't I an awesome friend, showing up at seven-thirty? Poor Chlo, she probably figures I've totally forgotten about her.

And that was what I wanted her to think. But I didn't mean for it to get quite this late. I just got busy with... homework.

Oh, fine. I was thinking about Lana. But I'll never admit that to Chloe. As far as she's concerned, I've been doing calculus all evening.

Anyway, I wish I had something really awesome to give her. She deserves it, what with the way her jerk dad's been acting lately. Plus, she's my best friend in the whole world, and she deserves better than this lame book. I should have baked her a cake or something.

There's gotta be something better I can give her.

Better think fast, Kent. You'll be at her house in three point five seconds.

What could Chloe possibly want from me?

*****

"Hi, Clark."

Clark looks scruffier than usual, like he ran the whole way over to my house. I look around, and don't see his truck parked on the road or in the driveway. I'm not really surprised. It's too far for any normal person to walk, but Clark has this way of just materializing out of thin air. Almost literally. I guess his parents must have dropped him off, but that doesn't explain the way his hair's all windblown.

But I know he doesn't want me wondering about how he gets around so fast, so I'm not going to. Much. I step aside and let him come in. I notice with approval that he's holding a gift. At least he remembered my birthday.

This is why he continues to maintain his best friend status. He's slow, but he gets there.

He offers the package to me. It looks sloppily wrapped, and I'm oddly touched by that, because it means he wrapped it himself, instead of having Mrs. Kent do it for him. I take it from his hands and look it over.

"It's not much," he says, looking adorably awkward. Only Clark can make awkward look so damn cute. "Just, you know, a little something."

I know he's being perfectly honest, and it's not much, because the Kents are organic farmers, which does not translate to having lots of money to spend. But I don't mind, because it's the thought that counts. I smile, and begin ripping open my gift.

More to come...

Find Yourself

2010-07-08T19:53:00.012-04:00

Clark/Chloe, some Clark/Lois, Chloe/Ollie, and Lois/Ollie
Season 10
Rating: PG
3000 words
Disclaimer: These characters belong to the CW and DC Comics, not to me.
The music is "Find Yourself," by Brad Paisley.

When you find yourself
In some far off place
And it causes you to rethink some things
You start to sense that slowly
You're becoming someone else
And then you find yourself

"This..." Clark Kent raised his voice as he tugged impatiently at his long black leather coat. "... just isn't right."

"I do not understand what you mean, Kal-El" the Fortress intoned, its somber English tones coming from somewhere far over his head. "You have been wearing this costume for almost a year now."

"Yeah, and at first I thought it was right, but I've started to figure out it's not. I just..." Clark dropped his hands away from the lapels and started to stalk restlessly across the icy floor. "It's kind of hard to explain. It's just not me."

"In what way?"

Clark blew out an irritated breath. "Some of the things the newspapers have been saying about me... they're calling me a vigilante, Father. Even... a terrorist. In these clothes... I scare people."

"Are you certain it is the clothes that are to blame?"

Clark stopped his stalking and lowered his head. "No," he whispered. "Not entirely. Some of it is the things I've done. The way I've gone about being a hero-- it isn't right, Father. I've screwed this up pretty badly."

"You have saved many people, Kal-El."

"Yes. And that's something to be grateful for. At least that much, I've done right. But some of the other things I've done, like... like knocking down those towers with my heat vision. I frightened everyone."

"You made certain no one was in danger."

"But they didn't know that." Clark looked down at his dark clothing, frowning. "This isn't me, Jor-El. This isn't what my parents-- my adoptive parents-- wanted me to be. It's like I've become someone else, and I really don't like the person I'm becoming." He sighed again, seeing his breath puffing white in the Arctic chill. "If I'm really going to be the city's hero, I can't ever terrorize the people of Metropolis. I want them to look at me and see hope, not fear."

The AI did not respond. Clark considered the matter a moment longer, then stripped off the long ebony coat and threw it to the floor.

There was a long silence. At last the Fortress spoke.

"You are certain about this, my son?"

"I'm certain," Clark answered. "I've let myself give into anger too many times. I've let myself frighten people. Even threaten people. That isn't how heroes are supposed to behave. That isn't who I am-- or at least, it isn't who I want to be."

"Do you intend to do away with your costume entirely?"

"Not exactly. I still want to wear this symbol..." Clark tapped the S sigil on his chest. "But not quite this way. I've made mistakes, Father. I want to start over, and do better this time."

There was another long silence. At last the Fortress' voice echoed through the vast chamber, its tone warmer than Clark had ever heard it.

"Well done, my son," it said. "You have passed your first great test."

Clark blinked up into the shadowy ice above. "Test?"

"Humans have an old saying about power."

"Power corrupts, but absolute power corrupts absolutely?"

"Precisely. Once you accepted your full powers, once you accepted your destiny, there was a danger that you might embrace your darker side. Lurking within you is a certain ruthlessness, a certain lack of care for humans and their fragility. We have both seen this side released by the influence of red kryptonite, and we both know it still lives inside you... and that sometimes it is closer to the surface than it should be."

Clark lowered his head and said nothing. Jor-El went on.

"I have watched you this past year, and worried, but I dared not intervene. I had to know if you could be tempted into using your powers to harm, to intimidate, to terrorize."

"And I was," Clark said softly.

"You were, although never as seriously as I feared. At least you did no real harm to anyone. And you have turned away from the wrong path, recognized your errors, all on your own. I am glad, my son. Several times this past year I have worried that you would embrace the darkness inside you. It relieves me to know that you have repented of your too-violent actions. But in order to turn away from violence and terrorism entirely, you must find a way to deal with your anger."

"I'm not angry anymore, Jor-El. I'm over it."

"My son..." The AI sounded mildly exasperated, as if Clark were a wayward teenager who'd swiped the car keys. "We both know that many of your wrong actions this year have stemmed from anger and loneliness-- an anger that is too deep to simply ignore. You cannot 'get over it' without facing the problem head-on. Even a hero cannot walk his path alone, Kal-El."

"I'm not alone. I have Lois."

"And yet you are still angry."

"If you're talking about Chloe--" Clark crossed his arms defensively. "Yeah, we were once really good friends." And something more, something we never really got to explore. "But those days are over. She's made it clear I don't matter that much to her any more."

"Then you must either find a way to deal with your remaining anger... or find a way to bring her back into your life. An angry superman is a great danger to the world, Kal-El. Surely by now, you realize that. You must find some sort of resolution for this matter."

"Fine," Clark bit out. "I'll see what I can do."

"That is all I can ask."

Clark changed the subject deliberately, gesturing toward the dark leather on the floor. "What about the suit? Do you mind if I trade it in on something a little brighter?"

"Of course not, Kal-El. I never intended you to wear this costume for long. I did not send you to this world to be a symbol of darkness. On the contrary..." The AI's voice echoed in the chamber, solemn and profound. "I hope that you will become a symbol of light."

When you make new friends in a brand new town
And you start to think about settlin' down
The things that would have been lost on you
Are now clear as a bell
And you find yourself
Yeah, that's when you find yourself

"So this is your new apartment." Chloe Sullivan turned around, looking at the tiny space dubiously. "Well. It's..."

"Larger than a shoebox," Clark finished. "And that's about the best that can be said for it. I know."

She nodded, and a rueful smile touched her mouth. It was, he thought, only a pale shadow of the happy smiles she'd once flashed on a regular basis. "I figured you'd get around to moving to Metropolis eventually."

"Well, my mom rented out the farm, you know. I think that was her way of kicking me out of the nest." He started digging his belongings out of a box. A man couldn't be expected to live without his iPod, after all. "Anyway, my friends all live here now."

"And Lois."

He glanced up, startled by the slight edge of bitterness he thought he heard in her tone. He remembered his conversation with Jor-El a couple of weeks earlier, and wondered if Chloe was carrying around some residual anger from their broken friendship, too. She'd seemed so indifferent to him, so wrapped up in her fling with Ollie, that he'd assumed she no longer gave a damn about him.

Maybe he'd been wrong.

"And Lois," he agreed. He and Lois had been dating for about six months. He was really quite fond of her, although deep down he suspected it was because she reminded him of another reporter he'd known, once upon a time.

That reporter had lost her way.

Clark knew how that felt.

He glanced at Chloe now, only three feet away, but so distant emotionally that she might as well be on another planet. There was so much standing between them now, anger and attachments to other people and a chilly reserve that neither of them could seem to break through. But once upon a time, she'd been his very best friend. And Jor-El was right. Losing his friend-- his support, his rock, his foundation-- had made him angry with the world.

He of all people couldn't afford to be carrying anger around.

Desperate to bridge the distance between them somehow, he dug into the box and found an old issue of the Torch, the high school newspaper he and Chloe had worked on . "Hey, look," he said, handing it to her. "It's that article we wrote together about that kid who could shapeshift. Remember? He was breaking into lockers by flattening himself to the width of a sheet of paper."

She took the yellowed newspaper and looked at it with a half-smile. "I remember," she said softly.

He straightened up and looked down at her. "We worked great together, Chlo."

She seemed oblivious to his hesitantly offered olive branch. Her nose wrinkled as she perused the article. "I don't know, Clark. This is pretty juvenile. The first paragraph really sucks."

He couldn't help laughing. After all these years, she was still an editor at heart. He took it gently out of her hands and looked down at it reminiscently. "Those were great days, Chloe."

"They were," she agreed. "But they're gone now."

"Are they?"

She stared up into his eyes for a long moment, her hazel eyes wide with surprise, then looked away. "Of course they are," she answered, her voice curter than before. "I'm never going back to journalism, Clark. I have another path now."

She didn't say the rest, but he heard it: I'll never be your best friend again. I have another path now.

He remembered what Jor-El had said to him two weeks before, and persisted. "Are you sure it's the right path?"

She stiffened, as if his intrusion into the icy space between them alarmed her. "Of course I'm sure."

"Okay," he said gently, because the last thing he wanted was to piss her off. She, like Lois, would jump on him if she got annoyed. In many ways, Lois reminded him of Chloe, which was, he thought, probably why he and Lois had started dating in the first place. There'd been a void in his life, an emptiness caused by the distance that had developed between him and Chloe, and he'd tried to fill it with Lois. Lois was Chloe's cousin, and a reporter, and on the surface they were a lot alike.

But for the first time he realized how foolish it was to try to replace one girl with another, as if people were interchangeable. A void left by Chloe's absence couldn't be filled by anyone else. It was as futile as trying to cram a square peg into a round hole. Chloe was Chloe, and no matter what path she walked, she'd always be one of the most important people in the world to him.

And anyway, he hoped that someday she'd come back to the path she belonged on. Journalism... and friendship with him. Things might never be exactly the same as they'd been, but he thought he could live with that. What he couldn't live with was this cold distance between them.

"Want to help me with this box?" he said, deliberately changing the topic.

She looked at him, and in the golden depths of her eyes he saw an echo of their long friendship, undimmed by time and the distance that had grown up between them. He found that brief glimpse reassuring. Some things, he thought, never changed, no matter how much you tried to change them. Some things couldn't change, not really, and he very much wanted to believe his friendship with Chloe was one of them.

"Sure," she answered. "I'll help you."

She came around to his side-- right where she belongs, he thought-- and began helping him unpack.

Where you go through life
So sure of where you’re headin'
And you wind up lost and it's
The best thing that could have happened
‘Cause sometimes when you lose your way it's really just as well
Because you find yourself
Yeah that’s when you find yourself

"I didn't mean to write this." Sitting in his apartment a few months later, Chloe passed him a sheaf of paper, chewing on her lip and looking adorably confused. "It just kind of happened."

Clark glanced through the neatly printed sheets. He was grateful that she'd brought this to him. It was, he thought, another sign that their formerly shattered friendship was struggling back onto more solid ground. "Whoa," he said. "This looks like an expose on LexCorp's new Phoenix project."

"Yeah. It is." She swallowed. "Ever since Lex came back, I've been wondering what he's up to. Eventually I started snooping around. I couldn't help it, Clark. I had to know."

He could barely restrain a snort of amusement, because that was the Chloe he remembered, before she'd lost her way. "Every reporter in Metropolis has been after this story, Chlo. Even I haven't been able to figure out what Lex was up to, thanks to the fact that he hides everything behind lead walls and Kryptonite shields nowadays. But this..." He finished speed-reading the article, then looked up. "You have documentation for all this?"

"Hello? Have we met?"

He laughed. "Of course you do. Chlo... this is huge. This is going to totally make your career."

"Whoa there, cowboy. I don't have a career. At least not in journalism."

He handed her back the sheaf of paper, gazing into her eyes.

"Give this to Perry White," he told her seriously, "and I can guarantee you will."

When you meet the one
That you've been waitin' for
And she's everything that you want and more
You look at her and you finally start to live for some one else
And then you find yourself
That’s when you find yourself

As he'd begun to realize he was using Lois as a substitute for someone he couldn't have, the relationship between him and Lois had kind of petered out. They'd always be good friends, but that was really all they had. Lois was a great girl, but there could never be as much depth between the two of them as there had been between him and Chloe.

He didn't like to be the kind of guy who'd use a woman to ease his loneliness. And although he knew Lois had had real feelings for him, he also had a strong suspicion she'd been using him as a substitute, too. They'd used each other, without really meaning to.

One night the two of them had finally admitted that things weren't just working out between them. No tears, no recriminations... just two people facing the truth that they weren't meant for one another.

He'd kissed Lois goodbye, very gently, and said simply, "Tell Ollie I sent you."

She'd looked at him, her eyes huge and oddly vulnerable. "Ollie and I... but Ollie and Chloe are... well, it's too late, Clark."

"I don't think so," he'd answered. "For some things, it's never too late."

And he'd been right.

His own words came back to him as someone sat down at the desk next to him. Tired of what she termed "this long-distance crap" with Ollie, and tired of being stuck in the Planet's basement, Lois had accepted a better job at the Star City Journal, near Ollie's permanent residence. The desk next to him had sat empty for a couple of weeks, although he'd gotten about fifty chatty emails from Lois, who seemed to be very happy with her new job and her new boyfriend.

But the desk next to him finally had an occupant. At last, he had a new partner. The partner he'd always been waiting for, deep down. He grinned at her, and Chloe looked over at him and smiled, the old, bright smile he remembered from high school. In her eyes, he saw genuine friendship-- not just echoes of the past, but a reflection of the friendship they'd finally put back together.

"Hi," she said.

He smiled back at her, knowing his feelings for her were reflected in his own eyes.

"Hi," he answered.

When we go through life
So sure of where we're headin'
And we wind up lost and it's
The best thing that could have happened
‘Cause sometimes when you lose your way it's really just as well
Because you find yourself
Yeah that's when you find yourself

He flew past the Daily Planet's glittering golden globe. It was weird, but once he'd cast off that black coat, and all the darkness that went with it, he'd found himself slowly learning to fly. Or maybe the flying had more to do with Chloe's re-entrance into his life. Maybe Jor-El had been right, and all that suppressed anger and loneliness had been weighing him down. He wasn't sure, and tried not to overanalyze it too much.

All he knew was that he'd been lost for a while. But now, finally, he knew exactly who he was and where he wanted to go... and who he wanted to be with.

He glanced into the Art Deco building as he flew past, seeing Chloe typing away, her eyes intent on the screen, her fingers flying over the keyboard. Chloe, he thought, had finally figured out who she was, too. They were both back on the paths they'd always been meant to walk.

And they were walking those paths together, as partners... and maybe a little bit more. He wondered if he'd ever have gotten to this point if he hadn't gotten lost a little along the way. Maybe sometimes a guy needed to take a wrong turn. Maybe, he thought, it was the only way to be certain of the right path.

But what mattered was that in spite of his mistakes along the way, he'd finally found himself, and he was grateful for that.

He flew once around the globe, then headed off to patrol Metropolis, his red cape fluttering behind him, his yellow sigil shining brightly in the morning sunshine.

-The End-

Baby, Baby

2010-06-24T09:36:00.006-04:00

Shelby, Clark/Chloe futurefic
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: These characters belong to the CW and DC Comics, not to me.
Sequel to A Dog's Life.

"Urrrrrgggghhhhh."

It was Saturday afternoon, and The Girl and I had been relaxing together in the farmhouse-- her on the couch, me on the old threadbare rug. But the sounds The Girl had suddenly begun making were not like any sound I'd ever heard before. I got up from my comfortable spot on the rug, cocked my head, and then pattered across to her.

Hey. What's going on? You sound like I did the time I ate that whole bag of dog food.

"Ummmppphhh." Despite the horrible groans, she reached out and rumpled my ears. "Shel, I think... I think the baby's coming."

I stared at her. I understood enough of people barks to get the general gist of what she was saying, and it worried me. If you want someone to defend the house and bark at the mailman, I'm your guy. I'm good at chasing rabbits out of the garden, too. But this was not my area of expertise. The puppy? Now?

She groaned again, and I wrinkled my forehead. I know dogs can have puppies pretty easily (not that I'd know from personal experience), but humans... well, humans are something else again. I whined uneasily.

"Yeah. Now." She looked at me with intense eyes. "I called for Clark already, but I don't think he's listening. He's so stressed, and he has so much on his mind... You'd better go find him, I guess. Understand me, Shel? Find Clark."

I understood. I got to my feet, shook out my fur, and took off to find The Boy.

*****

I found The Boy out in the back forty, fixing a fence. Apparently he was fairly absorbed in what he was doing. I knew he should have been able to hear The Girl's groans from here-- his hearing was better than mine, which is highly unusual in someone of the two-legged persuasion-- but he was humming tunelessly as he worked, and evidently hadn't thought to tune her in. Which was kind of dumb, to be honest, but from listening to him and The Girl talk, I knew he hadn't expected the puppy to arrive quite yet. Anyway, My Boy had never been the sharpest tool in the shed.

I ran up to him, sat down, and barked. I was panting pretty hard from my long run-- I was getting kind of old to run at all, let alone half a mile-- but I did my best to make my bark sound deep and serious.

"Hey there, boy." He reached down and tried to pat my head, but I ducked, and barked again, more sharply this time.

Come home, kid. The Girl needs you.

He frowned at me. "Something wrong, buddy?"

I barked again. Come on, kid. I know I'm not Lassie, but I think I'm being pretty damn clear here.

He put down the wooden board in his hands, and his eyebrows drew together. "Is it Chloe? Is she...?"

One more bark, as emphatic as I could make it. GO HOME NOW.

He stood there for another few seconds, frozen. I saw him tilt his head very slightly, and I knew he was listening to The Girl's groans of pain. He looked as terrified as I'd ever seen him.

And then suddenly he was gone.

Amazing how he did that. I'd met a lot of the two-legged persuasion in my life, and not a single one of them had been able to move like that. My Boy was unique. I knew he'd gone to the house, so trotted back in that direction, taking it easy now that I'd delivered my message. Once upon a time I could have moved pretty fast myself (if not fast enough to look like a blur), but those days were way behind me now. The run had taken a lot out of me, so I trotted... and slowed down to a walk once or twice, too.

When I went through the dog door and into the house, I heard The Boy. His voice sounded high-pitched, loud, and frantic.

"I have to get you to the hospital, Chlo. We have to get to Dr. Hamilton. I can't... I mean..."

"It's... too... late." The Girl sounded as if she were talking through a mouthful of nails. Every word was hoarse with pain. I sat down at the entrance to the room and whined in sympathy. "It's coming... right... now..."

"But the baby's early. It's too early."

"Maybe... not... I mean, it's part... Kryptonian..."

"Still, we can't take the chance, Chlo. Something might be wrong. I can pick you up, and get you right there..."

He bent to pick her up, putting his arms around her very gently, and she immediately screeched in pain. He jumped back, looking as wide-eyed and panicked as I'd ever seen him.

"I'm sorry, Chlo, I didn't mean to hurt you..." He looked around wildly. "Maybe if I call an ambulance..."

"And tell them... we're having... a half-human baby?" She groaned again, very loudly. "It's coming... oh, God..."

He stood there, looking scared to death, as if he didn't have a clue what to do. I wanted to help him, but I didn't know how. She lay there on the couch, gasping, almost sobbing. And then she opened her eyes and stared at him imploringly.

"Help me, Clark."

He swallowed, and then he lifted his chin, and the panic faded from his eyes. He knelt beside her, taking her hand.

"It's all right, sweetheart." His voice was no longer high-pitched, but calm and deep and soothing. "I'm here, Chlo. I'll help you through it. Breathe, sweetheart. Just like we practiced, okay?"

She sobbed and clung to his hand fiercely. "Help me, Clark. Please, help me."

"I will," he said softly. "Always."

*****

The puppy had no fur.

I tilted my head on one side, considering the small morsel of humanity that was being presented to me. Of course humans are mostly lacking in all that nice fur that we canines wear with pride, but The Boy had a nice head of dark fur, and The Girl had pretty golden fur (not unlike mine) on her head.

But their puppy was... well, furless. I wondered if it had mange.

Even so, it was kind of cute. It had little tiny fists that waved around aimlessly, and a little squinched-up face. It made a funny sound that hurt my ears but made me want to protect it, all at once.

I decided I liked it. I would have licked its face, except I sensed that The Girl would have gone ballistic if I had, so I simply waved my tail in approbation.

"Good dog, Shel." The Boy was holding the puppy in one arm, but he reached out with the other hand and rubbed my head. "You know, I might not have gotten back to help Chloe in time if you hadn't come to find me. You're a good dog."

Very true, kid. Glad you appreciate how helpful I am. I accept payment in Milkbones.

"So we were thinking..." He grinned over at The Girl, who was still lying on the sofa, looking utterly exhausted. "Well, we have to name the baby after Mom. So her first name is Martha. But we thought... we thought maybe we'd call her Martha Shelby."

I thumped my tail on the floorboards. Good name. I like it.

He laughed. "Glad you approve."

I do. But... well... I looked up at the small bundle and wagged some more. I hope you don't mind... but I'm just going to call it Pup.

The End

Back to the Future, Chapter 1

2010-05-06T07:52:00.004-04:00

Clark, Bart, Chloe
Season 6
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: These characters belong to the CW and DC Comics, not to me.Sequel to Men in Black and Ghostbusters.

Don't bet your future on one roll of the dice
Better remember, lightning never strikes twice
...So take me away, I don't mind
But you better promise me I'll be back in time
-"Back in Time," Huey Lewis and the News

"You get slower every day, old man."

Clark Kent put on a burst of speed that brought him nearly up to Bart Allen's heels. "I'm just taking it easy on you," he answered. "You being just a kid and everything."

"Ha. You are such a liar. You're gonna run out of gas any minute now."

"No," Clark answered. "I'm gonna kick your ass any minute now."

"You have to catch it to kick it, Supes." Bart started drawing away from him, without any apparent effort whatsoever. He grinned back over his shoulder. "See ya."

He hit the accelerator, metaphorically speaking, and started to draw away. Clark ground his teeth and ran faster, faster than he'd ever run in his lifetime.

But it wasn't enough. Bart was still drawing away from him.

The truth was that Bart could run circles around him, and they both knew it. But Clark was a guy, and his ego didn't really like being bested at something he'd once figured he was the best at. He strained even harder, and started to gain ground again.

Bart looked over his shoulder again. This time there was surprise in his eyes. "Easy there, old man. You're gonna strain something."

"No." Clark found he was breathing hard, something that had never happened before. "I'm... going... to... catch... you."

He moved up on Bart, until he was running just behind him. Bart turned his head, looking startled, and then he grinned.

"In your dreams, man."

He strained, too, and suddenly he was nothing more than a red blur, even to Clark's eyes.

And then suddenly the world shifted, in a weird, stomach-twisting way that Clark couldn't define, but definitely didn't like.

The two of them fell out of superspeed with shocking suddenness, and hit the ground hard.

*****

When Clark opened his eyes, it was to brilliant fall sunshine and the chatter of hundreds of young voices. He got to his feet, a little unsteadily, seeing that they were at Smallville High School, of all places.

Beside him, Bart was blinking in confusion, too. "Weren't we in California?" he said.

"Thought so. I guess we got going pretty fast."

That still didn't explain how they'd wound up in Smallville, of all places. But at least he didn't have to go far to get home to Metropolis-- which considering the way he felt right now, was a good thing. He felt oddly burnt out. He'd obviously strained way too hard trying to catch Bart.

The kid was right. He was getting old.

He looked over the crowd of kids, smiling a little at the memories they evoked... and then froze.

"What's wrong, man?"

Clark didn't say anything. He couldn't. He was caught in the icy grip of horror and disbelief. Bart followed his gaze, and his mouth dropped open, too.

"Holy shit, Supes. That guy looks just like you."

Clark watched as the younger version of him-- tall, gangling, and awkward, with a skateboard over one shoulder-- walked toward Lana, and then tripped over his own feet and fell to the ground in a tangle of arms and legs.

"Jesus," Bart said. "The guy's a total dweeb. He's like a weird Twilight Zone geek version of you."

Clark finally found words. "That is me, Bart."

"Say what? Are you going senile on me or something?"

"No. This was..." Clark could barely force the words out. "This was six years ago, Bart. Back in my freshman year of high school."

Bart's head jerked around in shock. "Are you telling me we traveled in time?"

"I guess..." Clark swallowed. "I guess we went a lot faster than we thought."

"No." Bart started to shake his head emphatically. "No freakin' way, man. No, no, no. We could not possibly have... I mean, it's just not possible that..." He trailed off and stared into the crowd of students. "Holy crap, there's the hottie."

Clark knew who he'd see even before he followed Bart's pointing finger. In the crowd, not far from his younger doppelganger, there stood Pete and Chloe, laughing together.

Chloe, he thought, looking at her sweet, young face with a wave of nostalgia. She'd been so pretty, so open, such a good friend, and yet he'd hardly noticed her back then, because he'd been so damn focused on Lana Lang. It had taken a long, long time for him to realize he was crazy about Chloe.

"Wow," Bart said. "She looks so young..." He trailed off and thought about it, then heaved a long sigh. "Holy shit," he said again. "We really did travel in time, didn't we?"

"Looks that way," Clark said.

"Dude, we better get the hell out of here before we screw something up. You know, like in Back to the Future, where he stops his parents from meeting? We don't want something like that to happen to us."

"We didn't go that far back in time, Impulse. Only six years."

"Still, we're bound to do something wrong. We gotta go home."

"I'd love to get back, Bart. But how exactly are we going to do that? I don't even know how we got here."

"Superspeed, dude. Something about us going so fast made us time travel."

"So how are we going to reverse it? If we do it again, we might just go back further in time. I don't want to wind up hanging out with dinosaurs, you know?"

"Maybe if we ran in the other direction..."

Clark rolled his eyes. "You're going to be a T Rex's dinner, Bart. I'm warning you."

"Well, Supes, just standing around here isn't going to do us any good. It's only a matter of time before you do something stupidly heroic, like save someone who should have died or something, and totally alter the timeline."

Clark nodded slowly, realizing that Bart was right. He wasn't sure how to reverse the effect that had gotten them here, to this point in time, but just standing here wasn't going to get them back. They had to try something.

"Okay," he said. "Let's go."

The two of them burst into a run, but within a few feet, they slowed and came to a halt, looking at each other with horror.

"Crap," Bart said. "Our superspeed's gone."

More to come...

Pitbull, Chapter 17

2010-05-04T10:53:00.007-04:00

Perry and full cast, from "Perry"
Season 3 and later
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: These characters belong to the CW and DC Comics, not to me.
Read the story from the beginning here.
Read Chapter 16 here.

The Watchtower was gone.

Chloe Sullivan sipped morosely at her coffee, barely tasting it. Everything she'd worked for in the past year was gone, just like that.

You should always back up your data, she thought glumly. She'd known that, of course. But Ollie and Clark had insisted she couldn't back up her databanks, that the information they contained was too sensitive, too earthshaking, and she'd let them win that particular argument.

Foolishly, as it turned out.

She should never have let Ollie and Clark have a say in the matter, even if Ollie's money was footing the bills. She'd let Ollie upgrade the Watchtower, too, and look what had happened. The safeguards had been inadequate, and as a result she'd almost been killed.

She didn't doubt that Ollie and Clark were heroes, but that didn't mean they had brains.

She sighed, wondering what she was going to do next. She'd known for a while that being Watchtower wasn't for her. Working with heroes was a great destiny... but it wasn't her destiny. It wasn't what she most wanted to do. At least not like this, barricaded in a huge stone tower, hiding from everyone and everything. For a while, the Watchtower had been her refuge, but she'd gotten past the traumas of the past year, and she no longer wanted refuge.

She wanted to rejoin the world.

Don't be stupid, Watchtower, Ollie had said earlier today, when she'd brought the subject up. What would we do without you?

Not a problem, she'd answered. I have a replacement all lined up.

A replacement? Are you kidding me? Who the hell else can do what you do? Who could we trust that much?

She'd smiled a little. She's a friend of mine. And believe me, she's the most trustworthy person you'll ever meet. Her name is Barbara Gordon...

No, Watchtower wasn't for her, not any longer. Maybe it never had been, really. But what was for her? That was the big question. She sipped her coffee thoughtfully, remembering something her father used to say: As one door closes, another opens.

But where was her open door?

As if in answer to her question, an older man sat down at her table. Chloe blinked, startled by the intrusion into her privacy. She glanced at the man, and her eyes widened.

"Ms. Sullivan," he said.

"Mr. White," she answered.

Perry White lifted a mug of coffee to his lips and took a long swig, then put the mug on the table with a thunk. "A little birdie told me you were looking for a job," he said with his roguish smile.

Clark, Chloe deduced. Or possibly Ollie, who co-owned the Daily Planet. She bristled slightly.

"I'm currently unemployed," she said, "but I'm still weighing my options."

"Of course," Perry answered. "I'm sure after over two years out of journalism, offers from newspapers are just flying into your inbox."

"Why would you think I'd be looking for a job in journalism?"

He snorted. "I do know something about you, Ms. Sullivan. I know you've wanted to work at the Daily Planet since you were eight years old. I know that you managed to win an internship there in your freshman year of high school, and that you even managed to talk old Kahn into hiring you your first year of college. What else would you want to do?"

"The Daily Planet," Chloe said between her teeth, "is just a promotional rag for LuthorCorp now, and everyone knows it."

"Ow. You wound me, Ms. Sullivan. I've been doing my best to turn the Planet around."

"Which explains the gushing puff piece on LuthorCorp's pharmaceutical division last week. That was a long ways from fair and balanced journalism, Mr. White. It's obvious the Planet is still LuthorCorp's lapdog."

Perry sighed, and the humor left his eyes. "Okay, kid. Let me lay my cards on the table. I'm doing everything I can to get the Planet's reputation back..."

"You've been trying to do that for a year and a half, Mr. White. The Planet is still producing crap."

Perry looked like he might be grinding his molars together. "Here's the thing. Since the LuthorCorp CEO went missing, the stockholders have been in an uproar. I don't know all the wheeling and dealing that's gone on behind the scenes, but the upshot of it is that LuthorCorp's half of the Planet is being sold to some big corporation in Gotham."

Her eyebrows shot up. Ollie, you jerk, why didn't you mention any of this to me? "Gotham?"

"Yeah, Gotham. Wayne Industries. And from what I've heard, the company isn't looking to make the Planet its bitch. The CEO is genuinely interested in serious, old school journalism. In short..." Perry fixed her with a mournful stare. "This is our big chance to finally make a difference, kid. But you can't make a difference if you're sitting in coffee houses sipping lattes, instead of chasing down stories."

Chloe picked up her spoon and began idly stirring her coffee. Her heart was thumping in her chest, but she strove to conceal her sudden excitement. "I don't get why you would need me."

"You do know why. When I hired your friend Kent, I'd lost all my best journalists. Anyone with the ability to write a coherent sentence packed up and fled for greener pastures the minute Lex Luthor bought the Planet. And I still don't have enough real reporters. I'm training up all these kids, but it's slow going, let me tell you. I need all the journalists who can write I can get."

She shrugged. "I haven't written in two years, Mr. White. So again I ask, why me?"

He looked at her for a long moment. The corners of his mouth curved up slightly, but his eyes were solemn.

"Because," he answered, "you were once the kind of reporter I would like to be."

She stared back at him, struck dumb. For Perry White, Pulitzer winner and renowned journalist, to utter those words to her... well, she couldn't imagine a greater compliment. It left her at a loss for words. At last she lifted the mug to her lips and took a long sip of coffee. She noticed her hand was trembling-- whether with fear or excitement or both, she wasn't certain.

"I'll think about it," she said.

*****

"Welcome to the bullpen, kid."

Clark tried not to gape foolishly as he looked around at the vast Art Deco space, with brightly colored Tiffany lamps hanging overhead. He tried to look cool, as if this wasn't the biggest damn moment of his life. But inside he felt like a kid on Christmas.

Wow, he thought. Wow. Just... wow.

He'd never really dared to imagine he'd get promoted out of the basement, let alone up here where the big boys worked. Chloe had worked here for almost three years, and never gotten promoted. But of course things had been different then. Back then the Daily Planet had been a well-respected paper with some of the best journalists in the world writing for it. And now...

Well, maybe now that the management had changed hands, things would improve. He hoped so. He'd been visiting the Planet for years, but since he'd started working here, he'd grown to love the newspaper and its great history as much as Chloe had. He wanted to help it win back its former glory.

Still, he thought to himself that it was a pity Chloe wouldn't come back to work here. The thought of working beside her under the Tiffany lamps gave him an odd twinge of longing. It felt like the logical extension of the two of them working together in high school. Ever since he'd started working here, he'd imagined her sitting at the desk next to him, and thought how right it would feel to be her partner again.

He sighed. Some things just weren't meant to be, he told himself, and headed for his desk, his box of personal belongings clutched in his arms.

"Oh, just a couple of things, kid," Perry said behind him. "First of all, you're not partnered with Lane any more. The two of you fought more than you wrote, and anyway, she's wasted on the city beat. That piece she did on the Mexican uprising last year was terrific. I've put her on the foreign desk."

Clark considered that, and nodded. It was a nice step up for Lois, and she'd always been kind of bored with the city beat anyway. The occasional big stories got her fired up, but she wasn't enthused about turning out the duller, everyday stuff, and tended to foist it off on him. He figured the foreign desk meant she'd be traveling overseas a lot, which she'd probably love. She'd grown up a military brat, and she'd never quite lost the wanderlust.

Even so, he'd miss Lois. She was a lot of fun to be around, when she wasn't snarking at him and irritating the hell out of him. He hadn't minded having her as a partner, though he did have to admit the two of them had squabbled more or less constantly.

He wondered who Perry was partnering him with. Anyone was fine, so long as it wasn't Parsons. The guy had serious gas issues, and the odors he produced caused Clark's sensitive nose genuine anguish. He went toward his desk, thinking, Anyone but Parsons, anyone but Parsons...

He saw Parsons' nameplate on the desk next to his, and groaned inwardly.

"I'll be working with Parsons, huh?" he said over his shoulder, trying to sound enthusiastic.

"No," Perry answered. "You'll be working with someone new."

Clark glanced at the desk on the other side of him. Whoever the newbie was, they hadn't gotten their nameplate up yet. He looked over the neatly arrayed items, seeing a coffee mug, a small stack of books, a Smallville High sticker on a binder...

Smallville High.

He blinked, and looked back at the coffee mug. He'd seen it before, many, many times. It was a small green alien head with slanty black eyes, and it had sat on Chloe's desk at the Torch for years, and on her desk in the basement of the Planet as well. He gaped at it, barely daring to hope.

"You're in the way," a familiar voice said behind him. "Move over."

He turned around and saw Chloe Sullivan pushing by him, a box of stuff in her arms. He stared as she walked by, and he felt a big stupid grin spread over his face. She looked up at him, and he saw a twinkle in her eyes, a twinkle he hadn't seen in a long, long time. For the first time in a long while, she looked happy. And no wonder.

She was finally back where she belonged.

He looked at his desk, right next to hers, and smiled even more broadly.

He was right where he belonged, too.

*****

Perry stood back and watched as Kent tried very, very hard not to grin too broadly at the sight of his 'lady editor." He liked Kent. He had to admit he'd hired the kid at least partly out of curiosity about any abilities he might have, but after a year and a half of observation, it was clear that Kent had no special powers. He was just an ordinary young man, but he did have a surprising way with words.

Kent had confessed more than once that he was still going to Chloe Sullivan for help on running down stories quite frequently. Apparently you could take the girl out of the Daily Planet, but you couldn't take the Daily Planet out of the girl. Perry felt a bit pleased with himself for finally managing to bring Ms. Penchant for the Truth back into the fold. If the new management really wanted the Planet to turn itself around-- and so far, it seemed that they did-- he still needed good journalists. He couldn't run a paper by himself.

And Kent, Sullivan, and Lane might be youngsters, but they had a hell of a lot of potential.

He remembered his meeting yesterday with the Planet's co-owners, Oliver Queen and Bruce Wayne. "You're the Editor in Chief now," Queen had said, his words filling Perry with a joy he had to fight hard not to show. "We're counting on you to get the Planet back to its glory days."

"Congratulations," Wayne had added. "You have a great opportunity here, White."

And he did. He knew that. He had the opportunity to give the grand old lady of Metropolis her dignity and reputation back. And even more importantly, he had the opportunity to do some real, serious journalism. For the first time in almost two years, there was nothing fettering him, no one dragging him down, no superior trying to stop him from reporting on what really mattered.

He did have an opportunity here, and by God, he was going to take it.

He glanced at Kent and Sullivan, both industriously setting up their desks and conspicuously not chatting, even though he knew perfectly well they were both bursting with things to say to each other. The future of the Daily Planet, he knew, rode on them and the other youngsters that filled the room... but it rode on him, too. He might be old and gray, but he still had the wisdom and the experience and the sheer grit necessary to turn the Planet around. And Kent and Sullivan, along with the rest of his young staff, had the youth and the fire and the boundless energy that the task would require.

He looked at the bustling bullpen-- his bullpen-- once more, and then turned and headed into his office to plot out his strategy. He had a hell of a lot of work to do, but he didn't doubt for a moment that he could do it.

The Daily Planet was damn well once again going to be the world's greatest newspaper... or his name wasn't Perry "the Pitbull" White.

-The End-

Triptych, Chapter 3

2010-05-03T21:47:00.005-04:00

Goosebumps, Chapter 2

2010-05-03T20:33:00.004-04:00

Clark/Chloe
Season 6, sequel to She Bop
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.

It wasn't every guy who found goosebumps wildly attractive, Chloe thought.

In fact, it wasn't any guy she knew of. Except Clark Kent.

He lowered his head, pressing his face into her shoulder and uttering a low, sensual murmur that was somewhere between a growl and a purr. Even through jeans, she could feel his cock give a hungry throb. She rubbed against him, and he growl-purred again.

"Here," she whispered, pulling up her shirt. "You can rub right against my goosebumps."

He made a tortured sound of need, and his hips jerked, pressing his immense erection against her. She could feel its heat through the fabric. "I'm still mad at you," he gritted out through bared teeth.

"I can tell," she said, rubbing her belly against him, bare skin against denim. His head fell back, and something more than a growl rose from him. It was a long sound of mortal anguish, as if he were about to die of pleasure.

"Chloe..."

She loved hearing him say her name that way, as if was being dragged out of the deepest part of him. His hips jerked harder and faster, and she knew he was about to lose control. Goosebumps had that effect on him. Where goosebumps were concerned, Clark Kent was seriously easy.

She let him thrust twice more against her belly, then pushed him away, very gently. "Wait," she murmured.

"Wait?" He sounded indignant. "I can't wait."

"Of course you can."

"Chlo," he growled, his voice in a lower register than usual, "I'm already pretty damn pissed off with you. Do not try my patience or I'll-- I'll--"

She unbuttoned his jeans and slowly unzipped them, then looked up into his eyes. "You'll do what?"

He tried to look fierce, and failed utterly. "I'll screw you."

"Oh, my, I'm terrified," she mocked gently. "What a horrific punishment. Please, Clark, oh please spare me. I'm terrified of the prospect of multiple orgasms and a good hard--"

"Do not say that word," he rasped.

"Why not?" She smiled at him. "Will it make you come?"

"It might just. Shut up for once, Chlo. You talk too much."

"I only talk," she said softly, "because it turns you on."

She pushed his blue boxers out of the way, then stepped back a pace and looked at what she'd unwrapped. His erection was huge, glistening with precome, and as she stared it did an eager little dance, pulsing as if begging for her attentions.

"Very nice," she said softly. "How do you want to come?"

He bared his teeth at her. "I told you, I want to screw you."

"You mean you want to fuck."

At the blunt word, he closed his eyes, and his breathing shifted to erratic gasps. She watched his cock with interest, seeing it jolt hard. He was almost there already.

So amazingly easy.

She stripped off her clothes. His eyes snapped open at the sound of her shirt hitting the floor, and he stared at her. "What are you doing?"

"Stripping, obviously."

"Uh..." She watched his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed convulsively. "Chlo, I can't... I mean, I'm about to..."

"I know." She stripped off her shorts and stood in front of him, dressed only in a bra and skimpy panties. God, it was cold. She was starting to shiver. But it was so worth it to make Clark's eyes gleam like that.

"There you go," she said softly. "Lots and lots of goosebumps."

Clark made another sound, this one an unnnhhhh, a primitive, animal sound of hunger. He reached for her, but she stepped back, shaking her head.

"You know what I want to see," she said softly.

"Chlo..." His voice was tight, strangled by lust and need. "I can't... I want you..."

"Later," she answered. "But first, I want to watch you."

He shuddered, as if unable to resist her demands. And then his hand wrapped around his long, thick cock, and he began stroking himself hard.

"That's it," she whispered. "That's good, Clark. Let me see you come."

"Oh... God." He sounded as if he were suffocating. "I can't... Chlo... I want you... I want to wait... but I can't..."

"Don't wait," she whispered, staring avidly at his cock. It was flushed a deep rose now, gleaming wet with the copious moisture that pulsed from him, and with every motion of his hand, it darkened. She watched, seeing his balls pull up against his body, seeing his cock jerking even in the encircling prison of his hand. What she could see of his body was covered in goosebumps, and he was shaking as if with cold, even though she knew he was impervious to extremes of temperature.

His green eyes were focused on her intently, staring at her bare flesh, covered in goosebumps. He looked enraptured, almost drugged. And then the first long burst of come exploded from him, all over her naked body, all over the wide planks of the floor, and he threw back his head, his mouth falling open in a long cry of pleasure. She watched his cock spasm over and over again, watched his body shuddering, watched his face contort in ecstasy.

At last it ended, and he released himself with a gasp. She saw his legs shaking, saw how drained he was, and moved to him quickly.

"Sit down before you fall over," she whispered.

He dropped onto the old couch, pulling her down into his lap. His chest was heaving with long, desperate breaths, and his face dropped into her hair as if he just couldn't hold his head up. But he spoke into her hair, proving that he was indeed conscious.

"Your turn," he said.

More to come...

The Big Boob Theory

2010-05-03T08:25:00.004-04:00

Clark/Chloe
Preseries (eighth grade)
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: These characters belong to the CW and DC Comics, not to me.

When Chloe Sullivan walked into Smallville Middle School that Monday, guys stared.

She didn't mind. That was kind of the idea, after all... to make guys stare. But if she was going to be honest about it, there was only one guy she really wanted to stare at her.

With that guy in mind, she marched down the long hall. And there he stood, at his locker, yanking out books and papers. His dark hair, shaggy and overgrown as always, fell into his green eyes, and he wore an old flannel shirt that was a little too short in the arms, and jeans that looked like they were about to pop holes at the knees.

He definitely wasn't Prince Charming, but she didn't care. She liked him, shaggy hair and all.

"Hi, Clark," she said, stopping next to him and thrusting out her chest.

He looked up, blinked at her... and burst into a sudden explosion of laughter.

A bit put out by his reaction, Chloe crossed her arms over her chest defensively. "What's so funny?"

"Are you... are you kidding me?" He sounded like he was trying to choke back laughter, but not succeeding too well. If he hadn't been her best friend, she would have kicked him in the shin, really hard. "Chloe, you look like you're wearing a pair of bowling balls on your chest."

She flushed a little, realizing her bra stuffing might have been a little less than subtle. "So maybe I'm growing up," she retorted.

He made a visible effort to sober himself. "You are," he said. "But not quite--" A strangled snicker. "That fast."

She sighed, irritated by his reaction. Her cousin Lois-- a year older, and a whole lot more developed-- had come to visit this weekend, and the way the boys in her neighborhood had reacted to Lois had given her the idea. They'd practically drooled. So if guys liked boobs, she'd theorized, then maybe Clark would look at her if she had bigger and better boobs.

She'd wanted him to stare at her with that odd, hot gleam she'd seen in the boys' eyes when they'd looked at Lois.

She hadn't expected him to start laughing like a hyena.

"I'm just tired of having people look at me like I'm a little girl," she said sulkily. Mentally, she added, I'm tired of having you look at me that way.

"You're not a little girl," he answered. His laughter had died down, but he was still grinning. "Since I met you, you've gotten all..." He made an hourglass shape with his hands, blushing a little. "And you're almost as tall as I am now. If anyone here's a late bloomer, it's me."

"I bet you'll be taller than me soon. A lot taller."

"Maybe," he said, sounding glum. "Or maybe I'm just doomed to be a shrimp for the rest of my life."

She looked up at him, and the truth she'd been struggling to keep quiet suddenly burst from its bonds and popped out of her mouth. "Clark," she said, "I think you're cute even if you're short."

His mouth fell open, and he gaped at her for a long moment. At last he managed to close his mouth. "Uh," he answered. "Thanks. And I, uh, think you're cute too. Even if you don't have, uh..."

"Boobs the size of watermelons?"

"Yeah." He blushed red, then blurted out, "I kind of like the real ones, actually."

"Oh." Startled by his awkward confession, she blushed too. "Thanks."

He kept staring at her. And not at her huge fake boobs. Just at her. He stared right into her eyes for an endless moment, and she stared back.

And then he bent to kiss her.

So maybe boys weren't all that attracted to big boobs, she thought hazily as his lips brushed over hers. Or maybe Clark was just an unusual guy. But at least her fake boobs had caught his attention, in a manner of speaking. Even if he'd laughed at them instead of lusting over them... they'd helped get him to notice she was a girl.

And now Clark Kent was kissing her, right in the middle of the school hallway.

She heard the predictable chorus of oooooohs go up around them, but didn't pay them any attention. She'd waited months for this moment, and she wasn't going to let anyone ruin it. She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him back. And it was heaven.

Clark Kent was short and skinny, with scruffy hair and old tattered clothes. He wasn't the best-looking guy in the school by a long shot, but that didn't matter, because she liked him. Not just liked him, but liked him.

And judging from the length of the kiss, Clark seemed to like her back, even if she didn't have boobs like cantaloupes.

At last he broke away from her and stood there, staring into her face, looking dazzled. She felt like she was floating above the clouds, and struggled to get her mind back on earth before they both got in trouble.

"The bell's about to ring," she pointed out.

"Oh." He blinked, as if coming out of a dream. "Yeah. I guess it is. We better go to math class."

"I'll be right there," she answered. "But first..." She grinned ruefully. "I think I better get rid of the boobs."

He nodded solemnly. "That's good, Chlo. Because I like you better the other way."

She felt like she was walking on air as she turned and walked away. So what if her boobs weren't that big? So what if she didn't have every guy in Smallville staring and whistling at her, the way Lois had? She didn't care if a thousand guys overlooked her, as long as Clark looked at her that way.

She looked back over her shoulder and saw him still standing there, staring at her.

And when she walked into math class a few minutes later, her boobs no longer resembling bowling balls, he was still staring, like he was seeing her for the very first time. He offered her a hesitant smile, and she smiled back.

And then she sat down next to him, and tried to focus on math. But she saw him shooting shy glances at her all the way through the class. And after the bell rang and they were heading for Earth Science, he stole another kiss in the hall.

So much for the big boob theory, she thought, smiling against his mouth.

Clark Kent liked her just the way she was.

-The End-

Red Rain

2010-04-21T06:42:00.010-04:00

Kal/Chloe
Season 5
Adult. If you're under eighteen, please go elsewhere now.
Disclaimer: These characters belong to the CW and DC Comics, not to me.

When Chloe Sullivan woke up, her hands were tied.

Literally.

She stretched sleepily, but came abruptly awake as she realized someone had tied her wrists to the metal bedframe. Her eyes snapped open, and she looked around wildly.

Sitting on the edge of her bed was her best friend, Clark Kent.

"Clark?" Her voice came out as a startled squeak. Clark was a sweet, mild-mannered guy, and she knew perfectly well that he would never tie a girl to her bed while she slept.

But the way he was staring at her...

She looked into his gentle green eyes and saw a reddish glow there, and understanding flooded her mind even as fear gripped her chest.

Red kryptonite. Somehow he'd gotten exposed to red K.

"Um," she said, trying to get her voice back into its normal register. The squeaky thing was just not her, no matter how startled she might be. "What's this all about, Clark?"

He looked as gorgeous as ever, his finely honed, masculine bone structure shadowed by the faint light that shone through the dorm window. His dark hair was wet, plastered to his head, and that made her aware that rain was lashing against the windows. He looked down at her, and a small, cold smile curved his lips. He looked like a wolf contemplating a rabbit caught in a snare.

"I've decided to screw you," he said.

Oh, God. She'd pretty much figured that out, but even so, hearing it said in such blunt, crass terms... this was so not Clark. On some level, she had to admit she didn't mind the idea of having Clark make love to her. But she'd wanted it to be a surrender on both sides, not this. This would be rape.

And Clark would never, ever forgive himself for it once the red K wore off.

"Clark," she said, trying to sound authoritative. "Let me go."

The cold smile didn't waver. "In case you haven't noticed," he said, "you're not in charge."

"Clark." She let a hint of pleading creep into her voice. "Please. You don't want to do this."

"Oh, believe me, I definitely want to do this."

His voice was low, a predatory growl that sent tingles down her spine. Tingles of fear, and something even more primal. She tried to ignore her body's reaction and tugged at her ropes. Naturally, they were tied tightly.

Rain pounded against the window as he reached out for her. She couldn't do a thing to resist. His big hands caught her flannel nightgown and ripped it as if it were tissue paper. He tossed the shredded material aside, and stared at her with hot eyes.

"That's better."

"Clark..." She felt herself blushing from head to toe. She considered herself fairly sexually confident, but being stripped naked in front of her best friend and stared at like a steak was a bit on the embarrassing side.

"You should never wear flannel." His voice was low and sensual, brushing over her raw nerves like silk. "You should always be naked for me. From now on, every time I come here, I want you to be naked."

She shivered at the thought, whether from fear or arousal she wasn't sure. Maybe both. "Clark," she said, more urgently than before. "You don't want to do this. It isn't even you, not really. You've been exposed to red K."

He seemed oblivious to her words. His eyes were on her naked body, staring hungrily. He reached out with one big hand and brushed it over her left breast.

The nipple tightened instantly.

No... if she was going to be honest about it, the nipple had already been hard and crinkled with anticipation. The touch of his hand only made her arousal that much more intense.

Damn him.

She'd wanted Clark forever. She knew that. But he'd never wanted her, not really. He'd always been focused on Lana Lang, who'd been his girlfriend up till recently. A week ago, he'd broken up with her, afraid of hurting her any more than he already had.

That's what this is, she thought. Rebound-- red K style.

"Clark," she said, a little desperately, trying to ignore the feel of his fingers teasing her nipple. It wasn't easy. There was a deep throbbing between her legs. "What about Lana?"

He pinched her nipple, rolling it gently between his forefinger and thumb, and she was hard pressed not to writhe with pleasure. "What about her?"

"She's the one you really want."

"If she was the one I really wanted," he said, "then I'd have tied her down."

She blinked at him, recognizing the truth of those words. Clark on red K didn't need to seek her out because he was on the rebound. If he'd wanted Lana, then he would have gone to Lana.

Maybe on some level, he really wants me.

She tried to discard the thought, because it scared her. She didn't want to imagine that Clark was attracted to her. She'd been burned too many times before, had her hopes dashed too many times before. But it hung around the edges of her consciousness, tantalizing her.

Meanwhile, his hand kept toying with her nipples, squeezing and stroking and playing with them until the throbbing was one long, relentless ache. He had been staring at her breasts, but finally he lowered his gaze. She blushed at the direction of his gaze.

"You're wet for me," he said softly.

She wanted to deny it, but there wasn't a lot of point in it. She did try to close her thighs, but he caught her legs gently and pushed them apart again.

"Let me look," he whispered.

There was nothing she could do to prevent him from looking, but she was aware that she was enjoying being looked at. Clark had so rarely looked at her with visible lust in the past. But she could see the crimson tinge of lust glimmering in his eyes now, and even knowing that it was induced by red K...

Well, the way he'd explained it to her was that red K didn't cause him to do things he didn't want to do. It just loosened his inhibitions and freed him to do what he really wanted. If he'd really wanted Lana, then he wouldn't be indulging in rebound sex. He simply would have found Lana and tied her to a bed.

So on some level... he really wanted her.

The thought made her stomach melt.

He shifted position and bent over her. Her breath caught in her throat as his tongue gently slipped over one of her aching nipples. She barely managed to bite back a cry of pleasure.

"Go ahead," he said softly, every word a puff of air against her taut flesh. "Let me hear you."

She didn't want to let him know she was affected, but as his tongue swept over her nipple, over and over again, she found she didn't have much choice in the matter. Her head fell back, her mouth dropped open, and soft sounds of submission and pleasure rose from her throat.

And then he drew her swollen nipple into his mouth, suckling it gently between his lips, and she knew vaguely that she was crying out, and didn't care. She felt as if she were floating away on a cloud of pleasure, her body no longer her own, but his, all his.

His hand slipped between her thighs, finding her most intimate flesh. He delved into her slick moisture, then slid his finger over her clit. She gasped with shocked pleasure, and her hips jerked.

He was relentless, mouth on her nipple, hand on her clit, and she quivered helplessly, straining against the ropes, as the pleasure rose inside her like a tide, drowning everything else. She knew vaguely that she should be protesting, that this wasn't right, that Clark wasn't right, but all she could do was surrender to the sensations he was creating in her body.

Rain pounded on the windows, echoing the rush of blood in her veins. The waves of pleasure beat higher and higher. But just as the last wave was building... he stopped.

She lay there, quivering, unfulfilled. At last she cracked open an eyelid and looked at him. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, looking at her. The gleam of lust was still there.

"Clark?" she said, hesitantly.

He grinned. It was a cynical flash of teeth, nothing like his normal warm smile. "You didn't think you were going to get it that easy, did you, sweetheart?"

She wanted to lash out at him-- I didn't ask you to come over here and tie me to the bedframe, asshole-- but she held her tongue, because Clark on red K wasn't just sexy. He could be dangerous, and it wasn't smart to piss him off.

"Um," she said, trying to ignore the desperate pulsing of her womb. "Maybe it's just as well you stopped. I mean, I know that you don't really want to... you're not really you, and..."

"We're not done yet," he interrupted.

"But I can't... Clark, you're not..."

His lips curved up in that sexy, almost cruel smile.

"We're a long ways from done, Chloe."

More to come...

The Switch, Chapter 3

2010-03-31T09:57:00.006-04:00

Clark/Chloe, Clark/Lois, Chloe/Ollie, Lois/Ollie (offscreen)
Season 9 (my version; spoilers for "Escape")
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 2 here.

Clark was scared out of his mind, but his anxiety eased off a bit when Chloe stared at him with an expression that didn't make him think she was comparing him to Ollie. She looked... well, impressed.

"Clark," she said, very softly. "You're gorgeous."

He knew he wasn't. He was kind of big and bulky compared to Ollie's honed, lean body. Not that he was fat or anything-- in fact, he was pretty sure he couldn't get fat-- just big. And his face was nothing special, either. He was just a regular guy.

"Um..." His mouth was dry. "I, uh, this really isn't a good idea, Chlo..."

"Hush." She took another step forward and placed her hand on his shoulder. His heart began thudding more heavily than before, and he realized that he was hard. Not just sort of hard, but really hard.

Which wasn't surprising. He'd been waiting for this moment for years.

He closed his eyes, feeling a touch of shame for how he'd treated Lois. He liked her. He'd always liked her, deep down, even when she was making his teeth grind together by saying obnoxious things. And she was undeniably a very pretty woman. Hanging out with her had been a way of assuaging his loneliness and the empty hole that the loss of Chloe's friendship had caused in his life.

But he hadn't ever let himself admit quite how much Chloe meant to him. If he had, he wouldn't have gone out with Lois at all.

She leaned forward, brushing her mouth over his shoulder, and he shuddered. It had been a long, long time since he'd been really physical with a woman. He'd forgotten how good it felt. He'd forgotten how much it turned him on.

She kissed him again, and his cock throbbed. Great. He was going to come from her kissing his collarbone. Wouldn't that just impress the hell out of her?

She continued to kiss him, and rather to his surprise, he didn't come. He let his eyes drift shut, let the sensation wash over him. Her mouth was soft and gentle, sexy and yet so tender it made something prickle behind his closed eyelids.

Chloe, he thought helplessly. Chloe Chloe Chloe.

He'd wanted her for so long. He'd thought he'd lost her, and yet here she was.

If only he had the nerve to reach out and take her, and everything she was offering.

He was still scared, terrified of the thought of what he could do to her with just a touch, the terrible awareness of how easily he could hurt her. And yet, totally of their own accord, his hands lifted and settled onto her waist, just above the curve of her hips.

And God, she felt so soft beneath his hands. So velvety. So...

Squishable.

Suddenly yanked back into reality, he jerked his hands away as if she'd scalded him, and jumped backward.

Any other woman would have either laughed, or been offended and stalked off in a huff, but Chloe knew him better than anyone, knew all the fears that lurked inside him. She looked at him steadily. "Clark," she said, very gently. "Stop panicking. It's fine. You touched me, and it didn't hurt."

"Wait till I forget what I'm doing and crush one of your bones," he said grimly.

"That's not going to happen. I trust you, Clark."

"Glad one of us does."

She laughed softly, and stepped toward him. He backed up, and found himself against a tiled wall. She braced an arm on either side of him, trapping him.

She didn't possess a thousandth of his strength, and he could have escaped from her easily enough. But then she cheated, pressing herself right up against his erection, the soft, satiny skin of her belly rubbing right up against his most sensitive flesh.

His body throbbed helplessly, and he knew he was lost. He closed his eyes and uttered a little moan of pleasure.

And then she was kissing his shoulder again, and this time he didn't even try to say no.

More to come...

The Switch, Chapter 2

2010-03-31T09:15:00.006-04:00

Clark/Chloe, Clark/Lois, Chloe/Ollie, Lois/Ollie (offscreen)
Season 9 (my version; spoilers for "Escape")
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.

Clark didn't drop the towel. He lowered one hand and clung to it, staring at her. "YouandLoisdecidedtoswitch? What?"

"We got to talking," she said softly. "I was talking about how I'd loved you in high school, but how I'd grown past you. She was talking about how she'd loved Ollie, but how she'd gotten over him. And the more we talked, the more we realized we were just fooling ourselves." She looked at him solemnly. "I've never stopped loving you, Clark. Never."

His mouth hung open for a long moment. At last he closed it with a snap. "But... but Lois..."

"She loves Ollie, Clark. Surely you've seen the way she looks at him."

Yeah, he'd noticed. But women all stared at Ollie. He wasn't just a good-looking guy; he had a face that was practically as well known as a movie star's. He'd been on that damned Top Ten list, after all. His picture was featured in the Daily Planet all the time. Last year he'd been on the cover of People three separate times. Complete strangers stared at him with lust.

But he had to admit that what was in Lois' eyes when she gazed at Ollie was more than just lust.

"So..." He made a helpless gesture with the hand that wasn't clinging to his towel. "The two of you just decided to swap boyfriends? Is that it?"

"Ollie was never my boyfriend."

"Right, I forgot. He's just the guy you've been using to get off with."

"You don't have to be snippy about it, Clark. You're not exactly pure and virginal yourself, you know. And it's not like I belonged to you. You were dating Lois. You weren't even talking to me."

"You quit talking to me over the whole Jimmy thing," he said, a bit sullenly.

"I know. And I was wrong. I can admit that now." She sighed. "After he died, I just wasn't thinking straight. But I know as well as you do that it's not safe to mess around with destiny. Asking you to rearrange the whole cosmos just to take the guilt off my shoulders was wrong."

"Chlo," he said softly. "If there had been anything else in the world I could have done to help..."

"I know." Her gaze was understanding. "But I didn't want anything else in the world. I was angry that you wouldn't do what I wanted, and I got irrational. I'm sorry."

"And I'm sorry I didn't try harder to get your friendship back," he answered. "I shouldn't have let you drive me off like I did. You needed me and I let you down. I'm really sorry, Chloe."

Her lips curved. "Water under the bridge, Clark. What I want now is..."

"The towel is not going anywhere," he said firmly.

"Oh, for heaven's sake." She rolled her eyes. "You need to get over your sex phobia."

"Maybe it's not a phobia. Maybe it's just that I came here with Lois. It isn't really gentlemanly for me to bring one girl here for a romantic weekend and wind up in bed with another one. My dad wouldn't have approved."

"Well, since Lois is currently rolling around under the covers with Ollie..."

"Oh, there's an image I really did not need burned into my brain."

"Clark." She spoke with gentle humor. "Lois and I discussed this for a long time last night, and we just talked about it out in the hall, too. Trust me, she's fine with it. Ollie is hers and you're mine."

It was weird, but the idea that his girlfriend was planning on sleeping with another guy didn't faze him. It didn't even give him the slightest twinge of regret. All he really felt was a lot of relief, which was probably a clear indicator that he'd been right. He didn't love Lois. He liked her a lot, but he didn't love her.

Even so, he didn't see where Chloe and Lois got off making all the decisions about everyone's sex lives. He narrowed his eyes at her.

"Don't I get a say in this?"

"Of course you do." She spread her hands. "Want to have sex with me, Clark?"

He'd given up hope a long time ago that those words would ever come out of her mouth. And yet there they were, hanging in the air between them, a chance he'd never expected to have. Longing hit him hard, curling tautly in his chest, making him breathless with hope and anticipation.

He wanted her. God, he wanted her so much. But...

"I can't," he answered at last. His voice sounded so hoarse it shocked him. "You know I can't, Chlo. The whole superpowered thing..."

"Has to be dealt with sometime. And I'm just the girl to help you with that, since I know your secret. At least I'm prepared for any strangenesses that may occur."

"Are you prepared for being ripped into tiny little shreds? Because I'm not."

"Clark. You worry too much."

"And you don't worry enough. This is a serious issue, Chlo. You know what I could do to you."

"I do." She took a step toward him, and his chest constricted. "And I also know you won't.. You could never hurt me, Clark. I trust you not to hurt me."

Still he hesitated. The I-might-squish-you thing was a good reason to hesitate. But he also knew there was something deep down inside him that was a little less noble. It was.. well, it was the fear of having his ego punctured like a balloon.

Chloe and Ollie had been sharing benefits. He knew Ollie was a playboy with a ton of experience, whereas he himself was limited to two fumbling and awkward experiences. They'd been great, from his perspective at least, but he wasn't at all confident he could make a woman really happy. Especially not a woman who'd been sleeping with a famous, handsome, rich, sexually experienced guy.

There was no possible way he could hope to measure up. He could feel his ego shriveling up already.

"Clark." She took another step toward him. Now she was only two feet away, within touching distance, and his heart started to pound heavily. "Drop the towel."

He stood there frozen for a long moment, his mind racing wildly as he tried to figure out what he should do.

And then he unknotted the towel and let it fall to the tile floor.

More to come...

The Switch, Chapter 1

2010-03-31T07:21:00.013-04:00

Clark/Chloe, Clark/Lois, Chloe/Ollie, Lois/Ollie (offscreen)
Season 9 (my version; spoilers for "Escape")
Rating: Adult. If you're under eighteen, please go elsewhere now.
Disclaimer: These characters belong to the CW and DC Comics, not to me.
Author's note: This story displays a cheerful disregard for much of season 9's canon.

Chapter 2

When Clark Kent stepped out of the shower, dripping wet and stark naked, Chloe Sullivan was standing there.

Taken utterly by surprise, Clark uttered a long, high-pitched scream and ducked back behind the dubious protection of the floral shower curtain. On the other side, he heard Chloe burst into laughter.

"That was great," she gasped out between giggles. "You sounded exactly like a thirteen-year-old girl who's just spotted Robert Pattinson."

He pulled back a corner of the shower curtain and glared at her, being sure to remain hidden... or as hidden as possible behind the flimsy vinyl. "Chloe, what the hell are you doing here?"

"Getting quite an eyeful."

He could feel himself blushing all the way down to his toes. "I don't mean what are you doing in my bathroom. I mean, why are you here? At this bed and breakfast? We're an awfully long way from Smallville."

"Oh, that." He heard her voice shift toward a more serious tone. "Come on out, and we'll talk."

"Could you possibly hand me a towel first?"

"Gee, I don't know, Clark..."

"Chloe."

She giggled again and tossed a towel over the shower curtain. He wrapped it around his waist and knotted it tightly-- very tightly-- and stepped out of the shower again. She looked him over.

"Nice," she said. "Even with the best parts covered."

He blushed again, because Chloe hadn't teased him in a long time, and he wasn't used to being mostly naked in front of her, anyway. He glared at her again, simply because he couldn't think of anything else to do.

"So how did you wind up at the very same B&B as me and Lois?"

She smiled up at him. "Lois invited me."

He frowned. "Invited you? Why? Lois said she wanted to come up here for a romantic weekend because things between us have gotten a little.. well, not as romantic as she likes."

"Meaning you're too busy to pay her any attention. Yeah, I know how that works, believe me."

He heard the bitterness in her voice and bristled, because she wasn't being fair. He hadn't been the one to back away from their friendship. She had. She'd asked him for something he couldn't give, begging him to go back in time and save Jimmy, and when he'd refused, she'd gotten very cold and angry with him. She'd hardly spoken to him since.

He missed her a lot. And yeah, he knew it was partly his fault, because he'd responded by acting just as cold around her. He couldn't seem to help it. He knew he ought to be more sympathetic after everything she'd been through, but he'd just been really hurt by her behavior.

"Things have been a little rocky with Lois lately," he said with dignity-- or as much dignity as a guy dressed only in a towel could manage. "I'm just trying to smooth things over."

"Yeah, but here's the thing." She looked straight into his eyes, a faintly accusing expression on her face. "You're not in love with Lois."

He could barely stop himself from cringing. Oh, God, here it came. The protective cousin thing. Lois and Chloe were as close as sisters, and they always had each other's backs. Woe to the guy who hurt one of the Sullivan-Lane girls, because the other one would be right there to kick him in the balls.

He didn't want to make her mad, or to make their already rocky friendship worse, and he wished he could deny her words. He wished he could claim he loved Lois madly. But they both knew he didn't.

"Um," he said. "Well, Lois and I-- we work well together-- and we've gotten to be pretty good friends--"

"But you don't love her."

He couldn't argue it. He'd started dating Lois mostly due to an aching void in his life. Over the course of the past year, he'd lost his girlfriend, and then his best friend, and he was lonely. And Lois was a lot of fun, when she wasn't driving him crazy with her nagging and her little snide remarks.

"Um," he said again. "I like her a lot."

"So you were going to sleep with her because you're in like with her?"

"Sleep with her?" He boggled at her. "Chloe, you know that I can't-- I mean, I have powers and she doesn't, and--"

"Clark." She gave him a look that was almost pitying. "Couples come to B&Bs to have sex. You know that, don't you?"

He gazed blankly at her, and she sighed, shaking her head.

"Lois said you were naive enough that you wouldn't plan on sex," she muttered. "But naive doesn't begin to cover it."

"I don't understand."

"Obviously not. Clark. You do not bring a girl to a B&B unless you intend to sleep with her."

"Um..." He frowned. "But Lois said they have a really good brunch here..."

She snorted. "Pathetic."

He didn't see why it was all that pathetic to take a girl away for a nice weekend and not have sex with her. Girls didn't want to be used for sex all the time, did they? Didn't they like it when guys took it slow? Didn't they appreciate guys who respected them, instead of guys who just wanted to screw? He shrugged, declining to argue about it, and squinted suspiciously at her. "You still haven't explained exactly what you're doing here."

"Oh," she said airily. "Ollie brought me."

Sparks exploded behind his eyes in a sudden brilliant flare, and he felt his eyebrows drawing down. Way down. "Excuse me?"

"Ollie," she repeated. "We've been planning this for a while. We thought we'd take a weekend to get away from it all."

Her words ran through his brain: You do not bring a girl to a B&B unless you intend to sleep with her. The sparks behind his eyes snapped and sizzled and grew hotter.

"Are you telling me," he said through his teeth, "that you and Ollie...?"

"Well, of course," she answered, as if it were completely obvious. "Didn't you know?"

"You've been sleeping with him?"

She lifted an eyebrow regally. "Is this a problem?"

Yes. It was definitely a problem. It was absolutely, totally and completely a problem. Fury swelled in him, beating at him like waves on a shore. He wanted to rip the room apart with his bare hands.

He wanted to rip Ollie apart with his bare hands.

"Chloe," he said, trying to sound like he wasn't mad enough to spit nails. "I didn't know you and Ollie were even dating."

"Well, we aren't, really." She smiled sweetly. "It's more of a sex thing."

Fireworks exploded in his brain, so hot he thought his heat vision might go off. "A sex thing," he repeated in a low growl.

"Yeah. You know, like friends with benefits."

Friends with benefits? Seriously? She'd been friends with Clark for years and years, and she had never ever suggested to him that there should be benefits involved, goddamn it.

"Benefits," he repeated, very carefully trying not to spit out the word.

"Benefits." She smiled more sweetly than before.

Gah. Rage exploded inside him. So Chloe would sleep with Ollie, but it had never occurred to her to sleep with him, the guy who'd been her best friend since middle school. And okay, so he wasn't fabulously wealthy and well-dressed, and he'd never been on People's list of the Ten Most Gorgeous Men in America. Still. Why would she pick Ollie instead of him?

He ran back through his thoughts, and realized he'd answered his own question all too well. Hello, genius, you're an ordinary-looking farmer, and Ollie's a rich, handsome celebrity.

Even so, he'd known her a lot longer than Ollie had. Didn't that count for something?

Apparently not, moron.

He told the snide inner voice to shut the fuck up and ground his teeth together. "So you and Ollie came here for... more benefits?"

"Something like that."

"Which still doesn't explain why you're in my bathroom. Get lost on your way to a booty call?"

"Not exactly."

He scowled, because the words friends with benefits were still swirling around in his head and making him very, very angry. "Well, you need to get out," he said, more harshly than he intended. "Lois will be back any minute so we can go down to dinner."

"Actually... she won't."

He blinked. "What?"

"Lois and I..." She sighed, and all the mischief drained out of her expression. She looked at him seriously. "We got to talking last night, and realized we were both coming here with the guys we like, not the guys we love. So..." She shrugged and flashed him the mischievous wide grin that had been so much a part of her when they were younger. "We decided to switch."

He gaped at her. "I don't understand."

"Oh, I think you do." Her grin grew wider. "Drop the towel, Clark."

Read Chapter 2 here.

Butterfly

2010-03-29T15:15:00.012-04:00

Clark/Chloe
Season 9 (my version); spoilers for upcoming episode "Charade"
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: These characters belong to the CW and DC Comics, not to me.

As Clark Kent knelt in his mom's garden, pulling weeds, a butterfly fluttered right past the end of his nose. He looked up from his work, smiling a little as he watched the brightly colored wings flitting lightly through the spring flowers.

He recalled the words that had passed through his mind, and shook his head wryly. His mom's garden. His mom hadn't lived here in two years. It was his garden now, and he tended it just as carefully as his mom ever had. Maybe it wasn't really manly to work in a flower garden, but he enjoyed it. He liked seeing things poke up out of the dark earth, and slowly blossom in the sunlight. He liked the mingled scents of rich soil and flowers. He enjoyed weeding out the bad plants, and encouraging the good plants to grow.

He ran his hands through the dirt, letting himself enjoy the sensation of the soil against his skin. It was good to feel something. He hadn't felt much of anything this past eight months or so. He'd thought he'd just learned to be cold, learned to shut out his human emotions so that he could be a better hero, the hero the world needed. Instead it had turned out a guy named Maxwell Lord was manipulating him, trying to change him into something he wasn't, trying to turn him into a puppet.

Lord had succeeded pretty damn well.

Clark still remembered standing on top of a building in Metropolis, watching twin towers collapse, with a crowd of people on the sidewalk just beneath them. At the time, he hadn't been at all concerned about his actions. But now, in retrospect, the memory made him break out in a cold sweat. Thank God no one had been hurt. Thank God.

He could have killed so many people. Probably would have, sooner or later, if it hadn't been for Chloe.

He remembered his bitter feelings of betrayal when he discovered she'd been stockpiling kryptonite weapons. Not for use against him, she'd assured him, but against the Kandorians. He'd been angry-- anger being one of the few emotions that was left to him at that point-- and felt that she was unjustly assuming all aliens were monsters.

He hadn't realized that he was becoming a monster.

In the end, the only thing that had saved the world had been Chloe. When he'd defeated Zod, killing him and exiling his followers into the Phantom Zone, and then decided that he should be the one to rule the world... Chloe had been the one to stop him.

She'd used one of her kryptonite weapons on him. It had hurt like hell.

He remembered her standing over him, her eyes wide with pain and confusion, a sharpened rock glowing emerald at his throat. "Something's wrong, Clark," she'd whispered, her voice hoarse. "I don't know what, exactly, but something. For most of this year, you've been drifting away from me, and I thought... I thought you were just growing out of our friendship somehow, so I let you go. But... but you've gotten worse and worse. Hurting people, taking risks with human lives, siding with the Kandorians even when they were doing experiments on humans... something is very wrong with you."

"Nothing... is wrong... with me," he'd gritted out through clenched teeth. "You bitch... betrayed me... always knew you would, sooner or later..."

He saw her flinch, but she didn't back off. The kryptonite spear was still at his throat, and he didn't doubt she'd use it if she had to. He could see the grim determination in her eyes, along with grief and sorrow.

"I can't let you take over the world, Clark," she answered steadily. "I don't think you really want to, anyway. It used to be one of your greatest fears, that you'd turn out like Jor-El wanted, that you'd grow up to rule the world instead of helping it. You've never wanted that. Never before now, at any rate. Something is so wrong, and I don't know what it is. But I have to get to the bottom of this somehow."

He struggled against the pain, straining to get up but only succeeding in baring his teeth at her. "The world needs me," he snarled. "They need someone, someone to help them, to watch over them, to rule them..."

"No, Clark." Her voice was very quiet, but very firm. "The world doesn't need a dictator. Not even you."

He struggled, because something in his mind was beating at him, telling him he must fulfill his destiny, the destiny that had been laid out for him so long ago. The world did need him, the world was lost without him, and one little blonde couldn't stand between him and his destiny, a destiny he'd killed Zod to fulfill, a destiny that he'd once fought against but now embraced with open arms.

Lois, he thought bitterly, wouldn't do this to him. Lois would understand why the Blur she adored so much must be the one to save the world, by any means necessary. Lois would stand by him when she knew who he truly was. He knew that. But Chloe... Chloe would fight against him with everything she had, which was why she'd had to be kept at arm's length, why his friendship with her had fallen apart...

He blinked blurry eyes against the sickly green glow of kryptonite. The truth was he hadn't understood exactly why his friendship with Chloe had collapsed so abruptly. All he knew was that she was an impediment, that she was holding him back somehow, that her support had been forcing him down the wrong path, moving him further and further from the path his Kryptonian father had laid out for him so long ago.

When Lois knew who he was, she would embrace his destiny, encourage him, love him no matter what he did. But Chloe... Chloe didn't love him enough to support him. He and Chloe no longer had the same goals. She didn't understand why he needed to be in control. She didn't understand how badly humanity needed him. She simply didn't accept his destiny.

Which was why she'd wound up standing over him, a kryptonite spear against his throat and a look of agonized sorrow in her hazel eyes.

From this vantage point, kneeling in his garden, his mind entirely his own once again, he knew that Chloe had been right. He'd been under the influence as surely as if he'd been wearing red kryptonite. Someone else's thoughts, someone else's motivations, had begun carving at his own personality, wearing it away like rock beneath a steady flow of water. The changes had been subtle at first, but eventually...

In his mind, he saw the towers collapsing again, and shuddered.

The sound of a car drew him out of the haze of dark memories. He looked up, seeing Chloe's yellow car bouncing up the dirt drive, a cloud of dust in its wake. They hadn't talked much since her discovery that he was being used. She'd captured Clark so that the JLA could make him "disappear," then gone undercover, working with Tess Mercer and Checkmate, so that she could break into their records and find out exactly what was going on.

Once she knew, it hadn't taken much effort for J'onn J'onzz, who possessed telepathic abilities, to help Clark break free of the alien thoughts poisoning his mind.

When he shook off Lord's influence, two days ago, he'd been pathetically grateful, profusely apologetic. Chloe had assured him it was all right. But in her eyes, he could see it wasn't. Too much water had flowed under that particular bridge. After eight months of him giving her the cold shoulder, she couldn't quite bring herself to reach out to him again.

He understood that, but it depressed the hell out of him. Chloe was his best friend. She'd always been his best friend. And before all this had happened, he'd begun to realize that maybe she was a little bit more than just a friend.

He understood why Lord had pointed him toward Lois. Lois had just been a pawn in Checkmate's game, a distraction, a way of keeping him away from the woman who knew him best. If he and Chloe had remained as close as ever, Chloe would have figured out what was going on long before she did. As it was, it had almost been too late for her to stop him.

He'd come so damn close to putting his plan to rule the world into operation. He broke out in a cold sweat just thinking about it.

Chloe's car door opened and closed, and he heard her footsteps moving toward him. He looked up from his weeding, and offered a tentative smile. "Hi."

She didn't smile back. "Hi." She stopped about ten feet away from him and looked at him solemnly. "I just came by to see how you were doing."

He appreciated that. God knew it had been a long time since he'd stopped by to see how she was doing. He still remembered, with a dull throb of shame, her efforts to tell him how unhappy she was, with the state of their friendship and with life in general. He remembered how he'd blown her off, ignoring her hesitant efforts at conversation and her hopeful overtures of friendship, and gotten right down to business. As if he and Chloe had never been anything more than co-workers.

The memories of his own chilly demeanor, his own icy words, made him cringe. He understood it hadn't been him. Not really. But even so, he couldn't forget his callousness and coldness toward her. He was uncomfortably certain she couldn't forget it, either.

"I'm okay," he said gruffly. "Things look kind of different, though."

"Yes." A very faint smile curved her lips. "I imagine they do."

He rocked back on his heels and looked at her. Suddenly he wanted to make certain that she understood, to convince her that everything he'd done and said had been influenced by someone else. "I haven't really seen the sky in months," he blurted.

She lifted an eyebrow. "You mean you never looked up?"

"I mean..." He floundered, finding it hard to explain how his perceptions had shifted under Lord's manipulation. "I mean I stopped seeing things. I stopped seeing everything around me. I couldn't think about anything except what Lord wanted me to think about. I was..." His gaze fell on the butterfly, still fluttering aimlessly around the garden, bright wings flashing in the sun like jewels. "It was like I was wrapped up in a cocoon," he said, looking back at her earnestly. "Like everything was dark gray."

"And now?"

He looked up at the clear blue sky, drew in a long breath of warm spring air, and sighed. "It's like a whole new world, Chlo."

"I can imagine," she said softly.

He knew that wasn't hyperbole, that she could imagine, perhaps better than anyone else could. She'd been slowly taken over by an alien computer last year, had her memories erased one by one. If anyone in this world understood what he'd just been through, it was her.

So why couldn't he talk to her about it?

He stood up slowly, brushing his hands off against his jeans, and stared at her, feeling every inch of the space that separated them.

"Chloe," he said, his voice choked. "The things I did... everyone I hurt..."

She stared at him for another moment, and then she crossed to him, wrapping her arms around him. He hadn't realized till that moment how badly he needed to feel her arms around him. It had been so damn long since he'd hugged her.

Overcome with relief and gratitude, he buried his face in her hair.

"I never wanted to hurt you," he mumbled into the golden strands. "Of all the people in the world, the last person I ever wanted to hurt was you."

"You didn't hurt me."

"Didn't--?" His arms tightened around her waist. "Chlo, I almost killed you."

He'd managed to escape from the JLA's prison, and driven by the demands in his mind, he'd gone to find her. He'd had his hands on her throat, had her up against a wall. He still remembered her desperate struggles, the fear in her eyes, the strangled sound of her voice pleading with him, begging him to stop.

"No," she said softly, lifting a hand and stroking his hair, the gesture so gentle and loving it brought tears to his eyes. "You weren't the one who almost killed me. That was Maxwell Lord."

It had been his hands at her throat, but he didn't say so. He knew she was right, but that didn't make it any easier to know that he'd come perilously close to killing his best friend with his bare hands. It didn't make it any easier to forget the memories that haunted him every time he closed his eyes.

"I couldn't stop myself," he said hoarsely, clenching his eyes shut against the tears that burned his eyelids. "If it hadn't been for J'onn..."

"Actually," she answered, "you did stop yourself."

He was silent for a long moment, trying to process that. "What?"

"I was talking about it with J'onn yesterday, and he told me that he couldn't get there fast enough to stop you. He tried to make mental contact with you, but by the time he managed it... you'd already let me go."

"But I..." He swallowed hard. "It was like I heard someone in my head, telling me to let you go..."

"Yes," she said softly. "That was you, Clark. Fighting against Lord."

A warm feeling of relief spread through him. He'd done a lot of terrible things under Lord's influence, but it was good to know that even with someone taking over his mind, he couldn't be forced to kill his best friend.

He held her a little more tightly, enjoying the feeling of her in his arms. She fit so well there. He closed his eyes and pressed his face into her hair again, enjoying the feel and smell of her.

At last it dawned on him that the hug's length was getting dangerously close to exceeding just-friends limits. Reluctantly, he opened his eyes. The first thing he saw was the butterfly, its jeweled wings fluttering as it lifted toward the sky. He loosened his grip on Chloe and stared at it as it rose upward.

"What is it?" she whispered.

He glanced down and saw her looking at him intently. He looked back, staring into her eyes. "I was just thinking..." He hesitated, remembering how he'd plummeted from the Statue of Liberty like a safe in one of those old cartoons. "I was certain I was ready to fly this year. I was sure of it. But when I tried... it was like something dragged me right down to the ground."

"Lord," she said softly.

"Yeah. I guess. It was like there was this incredibly heavy weight inside me. But now... well, the weight isn't there any more."

She looked up at him, tilting her head in that inquisitive way she had. "Do you think you can fly now?"

He hesitated, because after everything he'd done in the past eight months, all the harm he'd caused, there was still a lot of guilt weighting him down. But he also knew he had to move beyond the guilt, the same way she'd moved past everything Brainiac had done to destroy her life. He couldn't let his bad memories weight him down forever.

"I can try," he said at last.

She smiled.

"That's all anyone can do," she said.

He smiled back. It was, he thought, the first time he'd really smiled at her in eight months. It felt like the first step on his road back to normalcy.

He tightened his grip on her, holding her against his chest. He was shocked to realize how much he'd missed having her in his arms, and in his life. On some level, no matter how much Lord had tried to change his feelings and his perceptions... he'd missed her an awful lot.

He tried consciously to let go of the past eight months, to forget the pain and the guilt and the bad things he'd done under another's influence. He tried to let go of the darkness, and to let himself enjoy the sunshine. He tried to let go of everything that had weighted him down, and to hold onto everything good in his life, everything that helped lighten his load. Like Chloe.

He looked up at the butterfly, fluttering far above their heads, so high it was only a silhouette against the brilliant blue sky.

And then, with Chloe in his arms, he slowly followed it, and rose into the sky.

-The End-

Triptych, Chapter 2

2010-03-29T09:30:00.007-04:00

Clark/Kal/Chloe
Season 9
Rating: Adult. If you're under eighteen, please go elsewhere now.
Warning: Some threesome aspects and general weirdness.
Disclaimer: These characters belong to the CW and DC Comics, not to me.
Sequel to Triangulation.
Read Chapter 1 here.

And the very first priority on my list is...

Oh, come on, do I even have to say it?

What the hell, I'll say it anyway. It's sex time, baby!

*****

"Hey there, sweetcheeks."

At the familiar sound of her boyfriend's voice, Chloe Sullivan turned around with a welcoming smile on her face. She felt the smile freeze on her lips and melt away as she looked him over, from ebony leather boots to black wife-beater to tousled dark hair. The green eyes that were usually so gentle and kind glinted with arrogance. The beautiful lips she knew so well were quirked into an almost cruel smile.

"Kal?" She tilted her head on one side, studying him. "Is Clark letting you drive on purpose, or did you hijack him again?"

"No hijacking required." Kal spread his arms and grinned. "It's all me, baby. One hundred percent bad boy."

Her chest squeezed with sudden fear, but she tried not to show it. "Kal," she said, keeping her voice steady. "What did you do this time?"

He waved a careless hand. "Clark's fine. Don't worry about it. In fact... don't even think about him. You don't need him any more, babe. You got me."

He glided toward her, his eyes gleaming with unmistakable lust, and she took a step back. "Kal," she said, letting her voice take on a sharper edge, adopting the tone that said Don't mess with me, buddy, or I'll shove kryptonite up your ass. "What did you do?"

"God, you're so suspicious," Kal complained. She could barely restrain herself from rolling her eyes at his indignation. Oh, yeah, right, like she didn't have good reason for being a little suspicious. Like Kal was a perfect angel who'd never done anything bad in his life. Kal was closer to devil than angel, and they all knew it.

She crossed her arms, refusing to back up any further, and glared at him. "Spit it out, buddy. What's going on?"

He shrugged one big shoulder. She noted absently that he looked incredible in the sleeveless shirt, a whole lot hotter than Clark usually looked in the loose flannel shirts he favored. Exposed for all the world to see, his biceps were simply... guh.

Not that she needed to be drooling over his rippling musculature right now. She needed to figure out what Kal had done, and exactly what his plans were this time. She averted her gaze from his bulging muscles and looked straight into his eyes. At her accusing glare, he lowered his gaze and shifted from foot to foot, looking like a schoolboy who'd been caught in mischief. She knew it was an act, just one of his many ways of getting out of trouble, but she had to repress a smile at his chastised expression anyway.

"I got tired of always being repressed, that's all," he whined. "I never get to do anything myself. Clark makes all the decisions for both of us. And I'm sick of it."

"And speaking of Clark... where is he, exactly?"

"Well, he was chasing me all over Metropolis, but I lost him. I imagine he'll get here before too long, though. He's as fast as I am, after all. I'm just a little more devious."

"Chasing you?" She frowned, trying to figure that out. "Did you trick him into someone else's body again?"

"No. He's in his own body." Kal lifted his head and grinned like a little kid on Christmas. "And so am I."

She frowned at him a moment longer, then slowly, it came to her. Black K. Somehow Kal had learned about black kryptonite-- that was no real surprise, since he had access to everything in Clark's head-- and he'd manage to split himself from Clark. It would actually be a nice, neat solution except for two things. The first was that she didn't think Kal was ready to be a responsible citizen of Metropolis. Kal was all too likely to wind up on a wanted poster.

And the second was... well, God help her, she liked Clark/Kal.

It wasn't that she didn't love Clark for his better traits-- his sweet and clueless ways, his oddly persistent naivete, his generous and noble nature. She admired all those wonderful, heroic traits a great deal.

But she also knew that Kal was part of him. Sometimes a bad part, a selfish part, a horny part, but part of him nonetheless. And the truth was that Clark without Kal was sort of... a stick in the mud.

Some of her churning thoughts must have been reflected in her eyes, because Kal flashed his white grin.

"Don't worry about it, sweetheart. Like I said, you don't need him any more. You got me. I'm all yours, baby."

He strode toward her, a black panther stalking its prey, and she skittered backward, holding her hands out.

"No," she said, a little desperately. "We can't, Kal. Clark's my boyfriend, not you."

"Last I checked," he answered, backing her up against the wall, "we were both your boyfriend."

"Uh..." Up close, the sheer masculinity of him was overpowering. Clark was undeniably a sexy guy, handsome and well put together, but Kal was... well, he was pure male. Something about having his big, powerful body so close made all her hormones snap to attention. "Um, Kal, I was dating someone named Clark Kent..."

"And Clark Kent was both of us." A flash of teeth, more a snarl than a smile. "Until about twenty minutes ago, anyway. I don't see why he gets to have you just because of the name."

He had a point, she had to admit. She'd been dating Clark/Kal, since the very first time Kal had tricked them and forced Clark to acknowledge his continued existence. She'd been dating both of them, in a manner of speaking. And the truth was, there was a lot to be said for Kal. He might be infuriating, childish, and amoral... but he was also very good in bed.

"Um..." She put her hands on his shoulders, trying to gently push him away. It was like trying to move Mount Everest. "I don't think I can get involved with either of you till all of this is straightened out..."

"It's already straightened out." He lowered his head and looked into her eyes, his eyes darkening. "I'm not going back into the slammer, 'kay? This is how things are gonna be from now on."

Oh, fabulous, she thought, but kept the words to herself. Kal was a little touchy, and she didn't want to insult him to his face. She didn't think he'd hurt her, but she didn't need Kal on an angry rampage through town, either. A pissed Kal was a dangerous Kal.

He lowered his head a little further, and kissed her.

There wasn't much she could do to stop him, but if she was going to be honest about it, she didn't even try. She wanted to kiss him.

She'd expected him to be forceful, demanding, but instead his kiss was a little tentative, as if he wasn't used to being in control of his own body. Which made sense, really. Most often he was just a bystander, watching from some distant corner of Clark's brain. He'd rarely been in charge.

But he gained confidence quickly, and the kiss got hotter and more intense. His tongue swept boldy into her mouth, and she shivered, wrapping her arms around his neck in a gesture of submission.

She ought to be pushing him away. She ought to be trying to get the situation back under control. But how could she, when she was rapidly spiraling out of control? The way he tasted, the way he felt, the way his big hands tightened on her, the way his body felt against hers...

"Get your hands off her!"

Suddenly Kal was being yanked away from her, none too gently, and flying through the air. There was a thud as he slammed into a wall, and she heard the crunching sound of plaster breaking at the impact of his two hundred and twenty pound body. She looked up and saw Clark standing in front of her. He was wearing his customary flannel and workboots-- apparently Kal had taken a detour to acquire a new outfit-- and he was crouched and ready for a fight. He looked about as pissed as he was capable of.

"Chlo," he said, glancing over his shoulder and giving her an imploring look. "I know this is confusing, but that wasn't me. That's--"

"Kal. I know."

His eyes went wide with hurt shock, and suddenly she realized he'd assumed she was kissing Kal under the misapprehension that he was Clark. The realization that she'd known the guy was Kal, and still kissed him, hurt. She could see the pain reflected in his eyes as he stared at her.

She could understand his expression of betrayal. From his point of view, she'd been passionately kissing another guy. The fact that until a few moments ago that guy had been part of him probably didn't matter all that much, from his point of view.

"She likes me best," Kal said, getting to his feet and shaking his head like a wet dog to get the plaster dust off. "Get lost, Boy Scout. You're not the one she wants."

Clark's head whipped around. "Go to hell," he said shortly, bristling. "She's my girlfriend, Kal. You're the one who wanted out of my head, so now you don't get her, either."

"Fuck off. She's mine."

"Forget it, asshole! She belongs to me!"

"Excuse me," she said mildly, stepping between them before things got physical. A fight between the two of them wouldn't hurt them at all, but it would wreak hell on her apartment-- and possibly the entire apartment building. "If the two of you could quit quibbling over me like I was a candy bar, I'd appreciate it."

"Fine," Kal said. "Tell him, Blondie. You want me, don't you?"

Clark looked at her, his eyes anxious. "I'm your boyfriend," he said softly. "I'm the one you want. Aren't I?"

She looked back and forth between them-- one so arrogant and cocky, one so hesitant and hopeful-- and her heart felt like it was breaking in her chest. How could she make a decision like this? How could she possibly choose between two men who together made up the man she loved?

She considered the problem for a long moment, then held out her hands, one stretched toward each of them.

"I want both of you," she said.

Read Chapter 3 here.

Triptych, Chapter 1

2010-03-12T14:02:00.009-05:00

Empty

2010-03-12T07:49:00.004-05:00

Clark/Chloe futurefic angst
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: These characters belong to the CW and DC Comics, not to me.
Written on the third anniversary of my soulmate's death.

She wanders around the empty rooms aimlessly. She finds herself doing that a lot lately, drifting silently through the house they shared, with no particular destination in mind, and no particular work to be done. She feels rudderless, lost, even in a home that she knows as well as her own name.

She enters the study, the book-lined room where he liked to work, and slowly crosses to the leather wing chair in which he sat in the evenings, typing articles on a netbook that looked far too small for his big fingers. Slowly, she reaches out and touches the yielding leather, worn smooth and soft from years of him sitting there.

There's a book still sitting on the table next to the chair, and she picks it up and looks at it. A History of Metropolis. Research for an article he was writing, maybe, or perhaps just a topic he was interested in. Although he'd been raised in Smallville, he'd adopted Metropolis as his own, and protected it with all his heart and soul. She'd sometimes thought he loved Metropolis even more than he loved her... but she hadn't been envious, because she'd understood. She loves Metropolis too.

She puts the book back down and walks on, into the bedroom they shared. The bed is neatly made, because every morning, spurred by habit, she gets up and makes it. Heaven knows he never made it, in all the years they were married. He always laughed at her and said he didn't see the point in straightening out the sheets when they were just going to get rumpled again that evening. And the two of them had rumpled the sheets on a regular basis, she thinks with a faint smile.

Her hand smooths gently over the quilt on the bed-- handstitched by his grandmother Kent, given to them by Martha as a wedding present. The intricate wedding ring design reminds her of the simplicity and beauty of Smallville, a town he'd 'd left behind physically, but not emotionally. She knows that part of him had always remained in Smallville.

Sometimes she'd caught him at his desk at the Daily Planet, gazing out the window at the huge buildings, and she'd seen a look in his green eyes that she knew was homesickness. When she saw that wistful expression, she'd always suggested they take a trip to the farm. He always demurred, saying they had too much work to do, but she insisted. And every time, he let her take him to his childhood home.

Even so, they spent most of their adult lives in Metropolis. She walks around the room, looking at the photos of them together, working at the Planet, at society balls, walking side by side on the streets of the city. Last of all, she picks up their wedding photograph and gazes at it. Clark had suggested getting married at the farm, but she hadn't wanted echoes of her first disastrous wedding to mar the happiest day of her life, so she'd suggested they get married in Metropolis. He'd liked the idea, she could tell. And so they'd been married in the park near the Hobson's Bay Bridge, with tulips blooming and spring sunshine streaming down on them.

She looks at the photograph more closely, seeing Clark's proud smile, her own bright grin. The sight of the two of them-- so young, so happy-- makes something twist inside her, and she puts it down quickly. Maybe one day that photo will help her recall happier times, but right now it just taunts her with the memory of what she's lost.

She walks on into their closet and flips the lights on, smiling a little at the sight of what he always referred to as his "half" of the space-- racks and racks of dark suits and red and blue ties taking up three quarters of the closet. Clark had never worn anything but flannel and Levis and t-shirts when they'd been kids growing up together in Smallville, but somewhat to her amusement, as an adult he'd become something of a clotheshorse. He religiously wore suits and ties even when most men at the Planet had switched over to more casual wear. He swore it was camouflage, to make him look stodgy, so no one could guess his secret identity, but she always suspected he just had a weakness for nice suits.

She runs her hand over the fine woolen fabric of a navy blue suit. And then she sighs, and presses a small hidden button behind the suits, and a concealed door slides open noiselessly.

The suit is hanging inside. Not one of his work suits, but The Suit.

She stares at it for a long time. She'd thought it was rather silly when he first started wearing it. It had been based on a drawing by a twelve-year-old boy, after all, and it looked very much like something that might have come out of the pages of a Warrior Angel comic. But somehow it had come to represent him, and all he'd done for Metropolis, and it no longer looks silly to her, or to anyone else. She knows most citizens of Metropolis would give anything to see it again.

But they won't. Because there's a huge rent in the fabric, right across the S he wore on his chest. Rusty dark red stains the edges of the tear, hinting at his fate. She stares for long moments, but doesn't touch it. She can't bear to touch it.

He died wearing the suit. Intellectually, she knows that he wouldn't have minded giving his life to save Metropolis. He would have been proud to sacrifice himself for the city he loved. He died doing what he most wanted to do, what he'd been born to do, and that shouldn't be a cause for tears.

But she wasn't ready for him to leave her, and the sight of the torn, bloodied suit makes her throat clog and ache.

She turns away, closing the panel and turning off the lights in the closet, and walks back out into the apartment. It looks familiar and comfortable, filled with the clutter accumulated over a long marriage. And yet it feels empty.

Everything the two of them shared together, every memento of their love and friendship, every anniversary and birthday gift, every photo of every important moment they ever shared together, is right here in this apartment. Everything that ever really mattered in her life is here.

Everything... except him.

-The End-

Pitbull, Chapter 14

2010-03-04T13:56:00.002-05:00

Perry and full cast, from "Perry"
Season 3
Rating: PG-13D
isclaimer: These characters belong to the CW and DC Comics, not to me.
Read the story from the beginning here.
Read Chapter 13 here.

Perry felt a wild mixture of panic and exhilaration as he plummeted over the edge of the scenic outlook, toward the gorge below. He came to a very abrupt halt, thanks to the rope he'd tied around his ankle. But he hadn't counted on having two hundred pounds of Kansas farmboy holding onto him, and the jolt was tremendous. He realized he was lucky his leg hadn't snapped like a twig.

Clark's momentum carried him further. He barely escaped plummeting into the gorge by grabbing onto Perry's hands. Perry dangled there, his spine stretched to the point of real pain, and looked down into the farmboy's eyes.

"Fun's over!" he yelled, as jauntily as he could manage, considering he was hanging upside down, dangling from a rope like an overgrown spider. "Time to unleash those awesome powers!"

Young Kent looked back at him, and the panic and terror in his eyes was unmistakable.

"I don't have any powers!" he shouted.

*****

Lana and Pete leaned over the railing of the outlook. Below them, Perry and Clark dangled above oblivion on a too-thin rope. Clark looked up at them, his eyes huge.

"Pete!" he shouted hoarsely. "In the camping gear-- there should be a rope!"

Pete took off for the car, and Lana shouted, "Hold on, Mr. White!"

To her horror, she saw the rope beginning to unravel under a strain it hadn't been designed to withstand. Clark stared up at her, wordlessly pleading for help. She couldn't remember ever seeing him look truly afraid, but there was no doubt that he was terrified.

Pete darted back and tossed the end of the rope down to them. Clark grabbed it just as the other rope broke. Perry started to fall, and Lana screamed. But Perry somehow managed to grab onto Clark, and clung to his waist. He started to slide, but caught Clark's legs and hung on desperately.

She looked over the railing, seeing Clark clinging to the rope, Perry's not insignificant weight hanging on him. Clark was strong from working on the farm, she knew, but she also knew he couldn't possibly hang on long. But even as she watched, he began struggling upward, hand over hand, a look of grim determination on his face.

Admiration filled her. But she knew he couldn't make it all the way up on his own. She saw the strain in every muscle of his big body. He might have been able to pull himself up on his own, but it was too much for any man, no matter how strong, to pull himself and another man's weight up a rope.

And then he looked up at her, his eyes imploring.

"I can't hold on much longer!" he cried.

Pete had tied the rope to the bumper of his car, and now he was beginning to slowly back up. She turned and waved her hands at him in a hurry-up-do-it-now gesture.

"Pete!" she shrieked. "Get moving!"

Pete hit the accelerator harder, and Clark and Perry began moving upward. She saw Clark's hands slip, saw him grab hold again. It must have hurt, because his face contorted with pain and effort.

"Hang on!" she cried. "Hang on!"

They rose slowly to the outlook. The men grasped the chain-link fencing and scrambled over, with her assistance. And then Clark dropped slowly to his knees, looking more stricken than she'd ever seen him. He had the white-faced look of a man who'd confronted his own mortality, and had been well and truly frightened by the experience.

Perry sat there, panting, staring at him. Clark stared back, and said nothing at all, only slowly held out his hands.

They were covered with blood.

*****

Perry stared at the kid's outstretched hands, and then looked up into his accusing green eyes. A terrible anguish filled him.

His reporting instincts had led him astray this time. This kid was just... a kid. An ordinary Kansas farmboy. A decent, nice, good kid, who hadn't hesitated to risk his life in trying to save a worthless old alcoholic whose best days were way, way behind him.

And he, Perry, had almost caused the young man's death.

Self-loathing swept through him, and he blinked hard.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm sorry."

Read Chapter 15 here.

Goosebumps, Chapter 1

2010-03-03T11:02:00.007-05:00

Clark/Chloe
Season 6, sequel to She Bop
Rating: Adult. If you're under eighteen, please go elsewhere now.
Disclaimer: These characters belong to the CW and DC Comics, not to me.

Chapter 2

"Go away, Chloe."

Clark Kent did his best to sound cold and indifferent. He'd heard his girlfriend's footsteps from the moment she'd stepped out of her red Beetle-- hell, he'd heard the Beetle coming from two miles away-- but he didn't turn to look at her. He was still smarting from the argument they'd had earlier.

It had been their first quarrel. Well, their first quarrel as lovers. And he was still sulking. He was entitled to sulk, damn it.

"Clark." Her voice was gentle. Which was a nice change. Earlier she'd been shrill and grating, about as pleasant to listen to as nails scraping over a chalkboard. "I thought we should talk."

He straightened up, still facing away from her, giving her a nice view of flannel-clad shoulders. "I don't feel like talking."

"Clark..." He heard her soft footfalls as she walked toward him, the old warped floorboards creaking with every step. "I really think we should try to be mature and work this out."

His shoulders stiffened further at the implication that he wasn't being mature. Hello, he wasn't the one who'd started the argument, was he? He was being perfectly mature here. She was the one who'd started it. It was her fault.

"I think you need to go," he said, letting his voice drip icicles.

"Clark." Her voice pitched upward, as if she was forcing it out past bared teeth. "Could you please try to be a grownup for once?"

"Me?" He uttered a soft, contemptuous laugh. "You're the one who was screeching like a banshee. I'm dealing with this in a perfectly mature fashion."

"You're dealing with it like you always do!" She sounded annoyed, somewhat to his satisfaction. She deserved to be annoyed. "Sulking like a little boy in your loft instead of actually facing the problem!"

"I'm not sulking. I'm contemplating."

"Sulking," she snapped. "You won't even look at me."

He heaved a sigh, and turned around. "I'll look if you--"

And he stopped dead, gaping at her.

She gazed back at him, her eyes wide and innocent. "Something wrong?"

"Uh..." He struggled for several seconds to get his tongue in gear. At last he managed it. "It's January, Chlo. A little cold for shorts, isn't it?"

"I'm perfectly comfortable." He vaguely noticed a faint smile curving her mouth. Vaguely, because his attention was focused elsewhere. "Just a little chilly."

"Uh..." He couldn't help but notice that her beautiful, pale skin was covered in goosebumps. Every single little hair on her arms was standing up. His heart began to thud heavily in his chest, and he felt goosebumps rise on his own skin.

"I am a little cold." She moved toward him. He stood frozen, as if he were the one turning into a block of ice. "Maybe you could wrap me up in that blanket over there."

He could, but that would mean warming her up, which would mean fewer goosebumps. He wasn't sure he was in favor of that. Then again, he didn't want his girlfriend to freeze to death, either.

"Let's try warming you up this way," he gritted out, and wrapped his arms around her.

Read Chapter 2 here.

Experimentation

2010-02-17T07:05:00.009-05:00

Clark/Chloe, Lana
Season 5
Rating: Adult. If you're under eighteen, please go elsewhere now.
Disclaimer: These characters belong to the CW and DC Comics, not to me.

Celibacy sucked.

And okay, he was prepared to admit that squashing a girl to smithereens in the throes of passion would suck a whole lot worse. He knew that. That was the reason he'd been celibate so long. Still, that didn't mean he had to like it.

And he didn't like it. Not at all. Teenage guys weren't meant to be celibate. Anyone who'd ever been a teenage guy knew that.

Still, he could manage. It wasn't like there weren't plenty of other guys in the world forced into celibacy by circumstance. Heck, some guys even chose celibacy.

Though why, he couldn't begin to imagine.

Anyway, he could manage just like any other guy. Sex had been fun during that brief period when he hadn't had his powers, but now it was a big no-no, as far as he was concerned. So instead he looked at the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue (which he'd had to use superspeed to swipe before his mom confiscated it or his dad drooled all over it), a few minutes alone in his loft, and... voila. Problem solved.

At least for an hour or so.

That remedy had to be used quite often, but it worked. Sort of, anyway. The important thing was not to think about sex. At all. If he didn't think about it, then celibacy was a lot easier to deal with.

Which was why Chloe Sullivan's questions were making him uncomfortable. Really, really uncomfortable.

"What about kissing, Clark?" she was saying now. She was seated on the arm of his old ratty couch, wearing shorts, one bare leg swinging casually.

He swallowed, and tried not to let his eyes be drawn to the hypnotic sight of her slim calf moving back and forth. It wasn't easy to avoid looking. She had nice legs. "Um... what about it?"

"I mean, can you do it? Without crushing a girl?"

"Uh..." He thought about it. "Well, sure. You know I can. I mean, you and I have..."

He broke off, and went red. She smiled a little, used to his blushes, and went on.

"Okay, then. That's a starting place. You can kiss a girl with your powers intact and not turn her into mincemeat. What else? Can you put your hands on her?"

"Um..." He thought about it. "I guess it depends."

"Depends on what?"

"On how..." He blushed more furiously than before. "How, you know, interested I get. I'm worried that if I get carried away, I might... well..."

"Crush her. Right." She nodded, as if this was all perfectly normal, and people talked about squashing other people by accident on a regular basis. That was one of the things he liked most about Chloe Sullivan-- she'd found out his secret a while back, but she continued to treat him like a normal person. Not in the sense that she ignored his abilities and pretended he was just like anyone else, but more in the sense that she accepted them as a natural part of him.

He really appreciated that.

He didn't appreciate her tendency to nosiness quite as much. But she pressed on, oblivious to his discomfort. "So you think you can kiss a girl safely, but anything past that is risky."

"Yeah," he answered with a sigh. "That's pretty much the size of it."

"Well..." She smiled a little. "It seems to me the answer is obvious. You need to experiment."

He stared at her, feeling his cheeks grew redder. "Experiment?"

"Yes. Experiment. With a girl."

"The problem is..." He stammered to an awkward halt, then spat the words out in a rush. "See, the thing is Lanadoesn'tknowmysecret."

She shrugged. "So?"

"So... well, see, I don't really think she's interested in experimentation, Chlo. If I kiss her, then she's kind of going to, uh, expect..."

"I see," she said, a faint smile curving her mouth. "You don't want to start something you don't dare finish, huh?"

"Something like that, yeah."

She nodded, slowly and thoughtfully. "What about some other girl?" she said at last. "Like... me?"

He gaped at her, feeling his cheeks attain new and previously unimagined shades of red. "B-b-but..."

"Look," she said, a trifle impatiently, "we're both grownups, right? I figure we can kiss a little without our hormones taking over. I mean, a kiss is no big deal, right?"

"B-b-but..." He shut his mouth firmly, got it under control, and then tried again. "The problem is," he said, "that I need to go a little further than a kiss."

She made a no-big-deal gesture with her hands. "We can do that, too, Clark. I mean, we know where we stand, right? Friends. Platonic friends. A little bit of experimentation isn't going to change that. The point here is to figure out at what point you start losing control of yourself. Then you can learn to get past that point. Work your way up to the next level, so to speak."

She made it sound like making love to girls was like a video game. The only problem was, it wasn't, and she only had one life to give. "What if I hurt you? What if I rip your arm off, or something?"

"Don't," she answered, a wry smile on her lips. "It's hard to type with only one arm."

"Anyway..." He waved his own hands, in an I-can't-begin-to-tell-you-how-freaked-out-I-am gesture. "I'm dating Lana, Chlo. I think there's an implied contract that I won't... practice... on other girls."

She lifted a golden eyebrow. "Even if it means you never get to kiss Lana? Even when you know she's not happy about that?"

She had a point, he grudgingly admitted. But then, she usually did.

She stood up and slowly approached him. He stood by the window of his loft, basking in the warm autumn sunlight, and as she walked toward him she stepped into the shaft of light. It lit her hair, gilding it, and her skin seemed to glow a fresh and lovely shade of peach that made his mouth water.

Oh, he thought, this was so not a good idea. When just the thought of kissing her made his mouth tingle and his hands itch to touch her, there was way too much potential for problems here. The possibility of him hurting her was very real, and it scared the hell out of him.

And the possibility of him liking this experiment a lot more than he ought to was pretty scary, too.

*****

Clark looked terrified, Chloe thought. Like he was the one risking his life here. But if he lost control, she was the one who'd be splattered.

The thought made her heart pound a little faster, but she steeled herself. She was determined to do this. She was tired of listening to Clark whine about how he wanted Lana so, soooo much, but how he just didn't dare because of his superstrength. She was tired of listening to Lana rhapsodize about the two glorious times she'd made love to Clark, and then moan about how he'd backed off and wouldn't do it again, no matter how much she threw herself at him.

If only Clark hadn't been such a typical guy, and taken advantage of his powerless state... but of course he hadn't known he was going to get his powers back. And now that he had them back, the thought of sex with a fragile human woman scared the crap out of him.

He couldn't reasonably practice on Lana, who didn't have a clue what she was getting into. But she, Chloe, did know, and she was willing to risk it. If this was what it took to make her friends happy, then she'd do it.

Sure, Sullivan, she thought wryly. It's all totally selfless on your part. Sure it is.

She looked at Clark, who was still standing there, looking wide-eyed, freaked out by the whole situation. He wore a blue t-shirt and old, worn jeans, and his dark tumble of hair, disheveled as usual, fell in an untidy fringe across his forehead, almost into his eyes. Despite the ratty clothing and the hair that was never really neat, he was an incredibly gorgeous guy.

And yeah, maybe if she was going to be honest about it, she was really just looking for an excuse to put her hands all over him.

But who wouldn't be?

*****

Chloe reached out and put her hands on his chest, and Clark jumped a little. Just the feel of her hands resting lightly on his pecs was enough to make him... well, not out of control. No. But he could feel something inside him awakening. Something that could be dangerous.

"Chlo," he said, his voice hoarse. "I'm not sure this is such a good idea..."

"This is okay, right?" She leaned forward, so that she was speaking almost against his throat. He could feel the warm puff of her breath with each word. "This doesn't make you lose control, does it?"

"Um... not exactly. But..."

"Okay." She began running her hands up and down his chest, and even through the blue fabric of his t-shirt, it felt great. To his embarrassment, he felt his nipples harden beneath her touch. His cheeks heated.

"How about that? Still in control?"

He wasn't sure. He could feel his cock beginning to stiffen in his jeans. Oh, beginning, hell-- it was already hard as a rock, if he was going to be honest about it. He focused on his reactions, and found that his fists were clenched tightly. If he'd been holding her, he would have smashed a bone or two, and not even realized it.

Or would he have? Would his hands have closed on her, or would a lifetime's worth of practice in not hurting humans have stopped him from injuring her? He honestly wasn't sure.

"Uh," he said. He was dismayed to note that his voice was a low rumble. He sounded, well, turned on. "I'm not sure."

"Put your hands on me," she directed.

"Chlo, I'm not sure that's such a good idea..."

"Clark." Her hands slid a little lower, across his abdomen, and she spoke firmly, with no hint of fear. "Put your hands on my waist."

He didn't seem able to say no to her for some reason. He unclenched his fists, very carefully, and placed his hands on her slim waist, just above the curve of her hips. He rested his hands there very lightly, wondering what would happen if he lost control and squeezed. At the last he'd shatter her hipbones. At the worst-- ugly images of blood and gore rose in his head, and he closed his eyes, trying to blot them out.

"You won't hurt me," she said softly, as if she could read his thoughts. Maybe she could, just from his reaction. She'd known him a long time, after all. "I trust you not to hurt me."

The words made a little warm flame glow in his chest, but they didn't really reassure him. He didn't trust himself. He just didn't. If his hands could clench when they were empty, then they could clench when they were on her. And if they did...

Her palms began to stroke over his abdomen, moving lower. He could feel the heavy throbbing of his erection, responding to the soft brush of her fingers. He stiffened, and tried to pull away.

"It's all right," she whispered.

It wasn't all right. He was going to crush her any minute. It occurred to him vaguely that his concern was all for her, that Lana wasn't even a blip on his radar, that he wasn't worrying at all about the fact that he shouldn't be getting a massive hard-on from another girl's hands right above his jeans. He ought to be feeling a little guilty. No, he ought to be feeling a lot guilty.

But he didn't.

*****

Clark's abdomen was taut beneath her hands. She could feel the leashed power in his body. She let her hands explore him, pushing up beneath the hem of the t-shirt, feeling granite-hard muscles beneath satiny skin, letting her finger trace over the thin trail of hair that led from his navel down into his jeans. He stood stiffly beneath her explorations, but she thought it was a good kind of stiff. Not an I'm-terribly-uncomfortable-with-this-situation reaction, but an I-like-this-a-hell-of-a-lot one.

And maybe, she thought with a touch of guilt, he was enjoying it more than he really ought to. Maybe she was, too. After all, he was dating Lana, and Lana wouldn't be at all happy to walk up the loft stairs and find Chloe with her hands on Clark's bare abdomen, right above his old leather belt...

She reminded herself that Lana wasn't happy with the situation with Clark as it currently existed, either. Already she'd gotten Clark to loosen up more with her than he'd gotten with Lana, judging from Lana's monologues on the subject. And she was still in one piece.

But as much as she was enjoying touching him, she needed to push forward, to see where his control started to break. She considered the matter, trying to figure out what she should do next.

And then she shoved his shirt up, leaned forward, and kissed his chest.

*****

Chloe's lips brushed over his chest, so lightly that he could barely feel it. And yet the sensation send a shudder through him, and his hands spasmed. He managed to stop himself from clenching his fists only with a conscious effort.

"Chloe!"

"It's okay," she said softly, pressing more kisses to his bare chest. "It's just kissing, right?"

No. It was not just kissing, particularly not when her lips brushed dangerously close to his nipple. It was hard and aching, and he really wished she'd-- wait, no. No, he didn't. That was not something he should be wishing for.

But anyway, the point was that kissing wasn't the same as a gorgeous girl's mouth all over his bare chest. It just wasn't.

The aching throb in his cock grew sharper and more intense, and he had a bad feeling he might just come in his jeans. But he couldn't. That would be embarrassing as hell, and impossible to explain away. The two of them were just experimenting, and he shouldn't be that turned on.

But he was. Oh, God, he definitely was. And if her mouth moved just an inch to the right...

As if she'd read his mind, her mouth moved in precisely that direction, exactly that distance, and her lips lightly caressed his nipple. His head jerked back, and an unnnnnnhhhhh sound escaped him despite his best efforts. His hands were suddenly beyond his control, and he dropped them to his side, letting them clench.

"Ah-ha," she said softly. "There it is."

He wasn't sure what she was talking about. He let his eyes open a crack and gazed at her blearily. "What?"

"That, right there. That's the point where you lose control."

He couldn't exactly argue it. He took stock of his physical responses, noticing that his breathing was harsh, all his muscles tense, and his cock throbbing with a violent intensity. Yeah, he'd lost control of himself, all right.

"Okay," he answered. "So I guess this is where we better stop."

Are you crazy???! his body clamored at him. What the hell is wrong with you???

He ignored it. His body wasn't in charge. Really. It wasn't.

But she shook her head. "No," she said seriously. "The idea is to find out where you lose control, make you aware of it, and then get you to regain control so you can go further."

Further? Was she kidding? Because if they went any further, he was totally going to...

"But if I squash you..."

"Focus, Clark." She stared into his eyes. "Put your hands back on my hips and pay very careful attention to what you're doing. Do not under any circumstances squash me. Understand?"

Panic rose up in him despite his undeniable arousal, but he nodded. "I understand," he croaked.

Slowly, reluctantly, he put his hands back on her hips. She felt good under his hands, soft and curvy, and he wanted to dig his fingers in just a bit and pull her toward him. But he didn't dare. He was finding it hard enough to concentrate already, without adding the distraction of a soft female form pressing up against him.

She leaned forward, and her lips brushed over his nipple, and he jerked, but somehow managed to hold his hands still.

"You like that," she said softly.

Oh God, he did like that, so very very much. Lana had never kissed him there when they'd... well, yeah, okay, she hadn't kissed him a lot, actually, or touched him, for that matter. She'd kind of acted like it was his job to do all the touching, and for her to just kind of lie back and close her eyes... not that he was criticizing. No. Making love to her had definitely been a great experience.

It was just that now that Chloe was running her hands and her mouth over him, he was kind of beginning to realize that he'd been missing something.

Anyway, the point was that Chloe's mouth on his nipple was like the best fucking thing ever, and he couldn't seem to stop himself from moaning. Which was embarrassing, but at least he wasn't squashing her, so he doubted she'd judge him too harshly.

Her mouth drifted across his chest and then kissed the other nipple, light, gentle caresses that practically sent him to his knees. He thought he might explode any minute now.

"Pay attention," she whispered against his chest. "No squashing."

He made a noise of acquiescence that was nothing more than an undignified little squeak, and carefully relaxed his hands again.

And then her mouth closed on his nipple and began to suck, and his cock throbbed so hard he heard himself crying out with pleasure.

God. Guys weren't supposed to like this. Were they? He didn't think they were, at least not this much. But oh God, he liked it, a hell of a lot. It was like there was a direct line from his nipple to his cock, as if she was actually sucking on his...

And there was an image that didn't help him calm down any. He panted frantically, trying to get himself back under control, but she didn't let up, kept sucking, and he had no idea if other guys liked it this much or if it was just a Kryptonian thing, but the pressure of her lips on the sensitive nub of flesh was so good, and he felt pleasure mounting in him, so intense and hot and desperate that it was a terrible strain to keep his hands relaxed.

"Chlo," he ground out. "Chloe please you have to stop or I'm going to... please I don't want to hurt you..."

She pulled back, just an inch, and whispered. "Focus, Clark. Focus."

And then her mouth was on him again, sucking his nipple, pulling relentlessly at something deep inside him, some dark primitive well of pleasure that had never before been drawn from. The throbbing in his jeans grew intolerable, so that he couldn't focus. He couldn't do anything except let the ecstasy rush up from its deep dark well and drown him in a long, delicious wave. He threw his head back and cried out as it pulsed through him and over him, hot and sweet and impossibly good.

When he came back to himself he found that he was on the floor. Apparently his knees had given out under the force of his orgasm. He blinked, focusing, and saw Chloe kneeling in front of him, rubbing ruefully at her hip.

"Chloe," he whispered, horrified. "Oh, my God. I hurt you."

"Not really." She offered him a reassuring smile. "I think it's just a bruise."

He squinted, activating his x-ray vision, and reassured himself that her hipbones were still in one piece. But he could also see the rapidly darkening purple blotches on her skin where his fingers had held her too hard.

"I'm so sorry," he mumbled, reaching out and putting a hand on her shoulder. Self-disgust washed over him in a sickening wave, and he lowered his eyes, ashamed even to look at her. "I never meant to... I would never..."

"It's my fault." She reached up and patted his hand gently. "I didn't let you stop and regroup, Clark. I kept pushing when I should have stopped and let you refocus."

"But I--"

"Actually," she said, her voice still very kind, "you did really well, Clark. We both know you could rip me to pieces very easily. The fact that you only gave me a little bruise is a good thing. You controlled yourself pretty well, even during... well..."

He was glad she hadn't said the throes of orgasm, because those were not words he was comfortable with hearing his best friend utter. He hadn't expected to come from her playing with his nipple, and he doubted she'd expected that, either. Apparently Kryptonians were a little easy. Either that, or they just had extra-sensitive erogenous zones.

Which was not necessarily a bad thing. It just made it hard to... focus.

He sighed.

"I'm glad I didn't seriously injure you," he said. "But the fact that I left you with bruises... Chlo, experimenting with me is dangerous. I tried to tell you."

"It's all right," she answered. "You did fine. With some more practice, you'll get the hang of it."

He blinked. "More... practice?"

She nodded, very seriously. "We need to experiment some more," she said. "So that you can learn how to control yourself even when you're..."

Coming like a rocket, he filled in mentally. But no. She couldn't have meant that. Because this had been sort of an accident. Experimenting was one thing, and deliberately making out until one or the other of them came was more like...

Well, sex. Or at least heavy petting. Either way, it couldn't be excused away as mere experimentation.

And he had a girlfriend. He did. Even if the orgasms he'd experienced with her had only been a pale shadow of the one he'd just experienced with...

He cut that thought off before it could go any further. Being with Lana had been great, damn it. She was the girl he loved, after all. Not that he didn't love Chloe. Just not quite in that way. And yeah, so Chloe had somehow managed to make him come so hard the top of his head blew off. So what? That didn't prove anything.

Did it?

He sighed again. God help him. He was confused.

"We can't," he said. "I mean, I bruised you... and if we... I mean, I wouldn't want to..."

"So what are you going to do, Clark? Are you never going to have sex again? Ever?"

He thought about a lifetime spent alone, imagined himself never able to truly be with a woman, and he closed his eyes. Deep down, he knew that wasn't an option. He liked girls and he liked sex and he liked orgasms. And he wasn't stupid enough to think he'd ever be able to have a real, genuine, close relationship with a woman if he couldn't have sex with her.

And he wanted that kind of relationship. He'd grown up with his parents' close, affectionate relationship as a model, and he wanted something like that for himself. He couldn't see himself spending his whole life alone. He just wasn't the loner type.

"No," he said at last, spurred to honesty. "I guess you're right. I need to learn how to do this, with someone who knows what they're getting into."

She flashed a wry grin. "And that makes me the logical crash test dummy."

He wanted to tell her that she was a lot more than that to him, that she was his best friend and he loved her and he really didn't want to use her that way. He wanted to tell her that he was confused, that he'd never had an experience that intense with Lana, that she'd somehow managed to make him feel things he'd never felt before. But he didn't know how to tell her any of that.

"Yeah," he said instead, gruffly. "You're the one I want to experiment with."

*****

Chloe felt her throat constrict at Clark's words. Deep down, she knew she wished he wanted more than experimentation from her. A lot more. But he didn't feel the way about her he felt about Lana, and he never would, and she'd come to terms with that a long time ago.

And if Clark was never going to love her, well, at least he liked what she'd done to him.

Not that there had been a lot of question in her mind about it, really. She'd heard his hoarse cries, felt him shuddering beneath her hands. It had been very clear that he was enjoying himself in a big way.

She wanted to make him shudder like that again.

And maybe that made her a bad girl, but she refused to feel guilty. The fact that she'd brought Clark to a sobbing, wailing climax with just her mouth on his chest... well, it gave her a little rush to the ego she hadn't expected. It made her feel like maybe she was a little more attractive to him than she'd ever imagined.

Anyway, there was something about making a big, strong guy so weak that his knees gave out and he sank to the floor.

"Okay," she said, trying to keep her voice brisk and businesslike. "So what's next?"

Clark looked at her. His green eyes were still heavy-lidded from his orgasm, but as he gazed at her, a little spark seemed to light in them.

"Next," he said, "I do the same thing to you."

*****

"Uh..." Chloe stammered, apparently thrown for a loop by Clark's words. He almost chuckled at the look of shock on her face. "We're trying to teach you control, Clark, not me. I don't think..."

"I have to learn how to touch women without losing it," he said, as reasonably as he could manage. "So the next step should be me touching you."

She stared at him with wide hazel eyes, and he grinned, and pulled her into his lap. One of his hands drifted down and rested on her breast, and she jolted.

"Clark!"

"Fair's fair," he said softly. "You got to touch me there. Quite a lot."

"It's not quite the same thing!"

Considering how sensitive his nipples were, he wasn't sure it was all that different. He pressed his palm against her breast and felt her nipple rise against his hand. Her nipples were bigger than his, and he was suddenly struck by the hungry desire to see them.

More to come...