#red kryptonite

His mouth was already on yours, your unsaid words muffled against his lips. He kisses you with a deliberately gentle intensity, gauging just how much of willing participant you would be in this. Your forearms wedges between you two, forcing him away from you.

You looked up at him, searching in bated breaths. "You can't just try to kiss me and —" firmer this time, "you need to leave." Your tone was final, and you step away to retreat back to your room.

The wall, inches away from you sizzled with a beam of scarlet right before your eyes. You'd flinched, damn near stumbling back into the couch, whipping your head to see the blistering paint left in its' wake.

Clark had never aimed it at you. Not his powers, nor his anger.

You stare at him, chest rising and dipping deeply. It's clearer than ever now that your eyes weren't playing tricks on you. There was a flicker of red in his eyes that lingered.

Red veins on his hand pulsed faintly from within, and when he shifted, the gleam of a crimson signet ring reflects in your lamp's glow.

"Clark, are you…okay?"

He ignores your concern, closing the distance. Clark's palm dwarfed your jaw with a firm hold, kissing you much harder this time. There wasn't patience in this, just taking what he'd wanted from you. His hands curled around your hips, pulling you flush against him with strength that bruised, as he drags his lips down to the curve of your neck.

The heat of him was dizzying, but the inkling of something being wrong ate at you. "No — " you mutter, turning your head away when he attempts to kiss you again. "Not like this. Not when…you're acting all weird."

Clark laughs into the sensitive skin of your neck, the sound humourless. "Weird?" His hold on you forces you to walk backwards until they hit the back of the couch. "You've been stubborn all day. Pushing me away. Ignoring my calls, texts. Do you…have any idea how much you're upsetting me?"

You swallow hard, feeling the guilt in his measured words. Intended and curated to pry and gnaw at your reasonable decision.

"I needed you." He pushes, thumb skirting on your bottom lip, coaxing. His touch crumbles your already faltering resolve.

Your lips part instinctively, and he takes his chance. Pressing his digit down onto your tongue, teasing — making you lick the length of it, soft pink grazing over the signet ring that loosens and clatters to the hardwood floors.

You drool around his finger when he adds another into your mouth, hollowing your cheeks enough to suck on them.

Clark is already unbuckling himself, pumping himself in harsh, dry strokes. He looks to you intently, pulling his fingers out with a string of wetness, smearing over your lips.

"You'll take care of me now, won't you?"

Your breath hastens, offering him a slow nod as he guides you down to your knees with a heavy palms to the top of your head.

He hisses the second you drag your tongue up his length, kitten licking his tip. It earns a rough tangle of his fingers through your hair, forcing you to meet his gaze.

You lock eyes with him, other hand stroking at his cock while you mouth at the base. Clark's jaw tenses, angling his cock to rub on your cheek and eyes, the sight of you at his mercy filling him with unadulterated lust.

He doesn't give you a warning when he's pushing the thick mushroom head onto your tongue, pulling it out and rubbing it onto your cheeks. "Look so…goddamn pretty like this." He offers in a breath before sinking his cock into your waiting mouth.

Clark's head tips back with a groan when your tongue curls around his cock, taking him deeper, bobbing up and down. He holds your face with both palms, rocking himself unapologetically into your mouth. You're sputtering around him, hot tears prickling your eyes at the pace he sets.

The sight of of your plush lips wrapped around his girth is too much for him and you wince when his grip on you tightens, his hips snapping deeper until your nose rubs onto the coarse hair over his pubic area.

"T-Too…good…" He grits, fucking your face a little harder.

You're whining, holding onto his thighs when you begin to feel light-headed. Watching him lose himself entirely. It gives you a twisted pleasure knowing you were rendering him desperate, humping your throat with abandon.

It was different. His roughness. It was making you wet.

Clark yanks your head away from his cock suddenly, you're dazed, blinking up at him with heavy pants. He strokes his cock, once, and you feel his thick cum spurt onto your nose and cheeks.

A slight yelp escapes you, and he drags the pearlescent liquid with the tip of his cock downward. You swallow the stringy stickiness as he fucks it back in slow pulses, giving you every last drop of him.

Clark tugs you up by your armpits, licking over your lips and kissing you with the same gentleness, nudging his head to the side to roll your tongue with his. You'd barely managed to catch your breath, but you're relaxing in his hold, gripping around his shoulder and letting him manouver the two of you on the couch.

What the two of you don't notice was how that signet ring from earlier lay discarded a couple feet away. The crimson glow of it when it was on Clark now reduced to cloudy glass.

And whatever strange pulse that throbbed through Clark's veins? Now gone, with the red fading from beneath his skin.

Clark’s eyes were glued to the sight of you across the bullpen, and the stress running through his veins was making him look borderline murderous. The poor coffee stirrer snapped in his palms as he clamped down on it. 

“It’s his first day, Clark,” Lois rolled her eyes, brushing past him to steal a sugar packet. “He’s as adorably clueless as the rest. Why don’t you go and say something if it bothers you? Make it clear?”

Clark frowned at her. “I don’t want to look controlling.”

“Well, standing here like you’re planning a homicide isn’t doing much to dissuade the public. Take a chill pill, buddy. You know she’s all yours,” Lois grinned. “Oh, quit making that face. Buck up, cowboy. I’m out.”

Clark grunted unhappily as Lois sauntered away for her lunch break, and his eyes drifted back towards the doors to the copy room. You were in your nicest shirt today, because it was a big day. Perry had given you the privilege of training a new copyboy with reporter aspirations, meaning that you had written enough articles and done enough scut work that you could be trusted to teach someone else. You were very proud of this appointment, because it made you feel like your work was paying off. To have someone looking up to you was an honor. You dressed up in the polka dot blouse you kept for important days and a pencil skirt, one Clark was realizing might be too short for the bullpen, and you had a red marker stuck in your hair and a file balanced on your hip. Gorgeous and professional and entirely too happy. 

This kid couldn’t even be out of high school, he was sure of it. He was two seconds away from calling up Chloe and ordering a background check. What kind of name was Eugene anyway? Eugene Cunningham. It was somewhere between too British and too cartoonish, and it was 100% stupid. Clark hated Eugene. Eugene wore thick-rimmed glasses and an argyle vest, which Clark was positive they didn’t even manufacture anymore, and his shoes were white and black like the ones girls wore with poodle skirts at some distant point of past light. He was an utter geek, and Clark was determined to discover what was so goddamn funny that you were smiling and tilting your head like the pretty bunny you were at Eugene Cunningham, the new copyboy from the 20th century. 

He didn’t move his feet, though. He stood there and watched while you walked the newb around the bullpen, introducing him to people and showing him how the system worked. He stood there long enough that Lois came back from lunch and found him in the same spot, and it took walloping his arm with a rolled up issue of the Planet to wake him up. 

˚₊‧꒰ა❤︎໒꒱ ‧₊

“I think he’s into you.”

“Oh, don’t be silly, Clark!” You chuckled, clacking away at your keyboard. When you heard a huff behind you, you swiveled in your chair and found your boyfriend frowning like a child. It made you feel the teeniest bit sick. “Sorry. Your feelings aren’t silly.”

Clark grumbled incoherently and crossed his arms, before saying more clearly, “You can’t tell me he doesn’t follow you around like a dog.”

“Sure he does, I’m his supervisor! I’m just trying to teach him how to survive, it’s a pretty cutthroat place to be. He’s just a kid. You were just a kid only a couple years ago. Can’t you have a little bit of sympathy for him?”

Clark peered down his nose at you, seeing your sweet eyes and smile and struggling not to agree with your every word just because you sounded so pretty speaking them. He frowned harder out of spite. “I get a bad feeling about him, bunny. He’s after something.”

You couldn’t contain your sigh of aggravated humor. “He’s after a career. Really, Clark, I understand your concern, but I feel like you might just be seeing something you want to see,” you reasoned. “I think he’s just eager to please. He trusts me. And he hasn’t said anything weird or done anything to convince me he’s got any motives, so why worry? He’s a sweet kid. I really think he’s just gelling to me, y’know?”

Clark shuddered at the very implication. Only he could be gelled to you. “I still don’t like it.”

You smirked and whirled your chair back around. “I’m sorry, Clarkie, but it’s as much your choice as it is mine. Perry gave me the job. I’m gonna do it.”

Easy for you to say, he thought between two incredibly knitted eyebrows, you don’t know what it’s like to see a punk trying to steal your girlfriend. 

Clark was still glaring at your computer when you glanced over your shoulder, swatting his hip. He startled. “Huh?”

You giggled softly and jerked your chin in the direction of your monitor. “You’re frying my server, honey.”

Clark looked at your desk to find he’d projected enough radiation in his glare to make your computer start smoking. He flushed red as a cherry and circled around to his desk, sitting quickly to hide his mortification. 

˚₊‧꒰ა❤︎໒꒱ ‧₊

The Eugene dilemma has been causing him ridiculous amounts of undue stress. All he did was worry if the kid would try to make a move on you, or worse, if you’d find something in him worth admiring. You were such a lovey type, always so willing to see the good in people and fall in love with their humor or speech or smiles; it made you gullible and usually heartbroken by the end, and while Clark adored your open heart, he was intent on shielding it from abuse. He simply couldn’t stop worrying. 

Chloe had concocted a helper for him when stuff like this happened. With the hormone inhibitors she cracked through some serious studies on red kryptonite alongside Emile in the Watchtower, he found that in manageable doses, Clark could take it for his anxiety. It would work the same as a Xanax, offering him short term relief, but she had been careful to extract the addictive genes in the crystal so he couldn’t get hooked on the medication. It was entirely safe for fast-acting results, and fast-acting was what he desperately needed. 

You were sitting back in your desk chair, fiddling with a pencil and reading over a draft Eugene had written. You gave him a scoop under Perry’s nose, insisting you could get it published if he got it done in time– you were trying to give him a leg up, because you were just that kind of person. But Eugene was perched on the edge of your desk, watching you proof it, and cracking jokes. Every few minutes, hidden in the corner by the water cooler, Clark could see you tip your head back in laughter as if the copyboy was the second coming of George Carlin. Sometimes you’d grin with all your teeth, sometimes you’d sit up to show him what you marked in red, and the rest of the time you sat patiently and gave his work all your attention, preciously oblivious to the fact that the kid was absolutely staring down your cleavage. Clark just couldn’t take the stress anymore. He fished the little tin of pills out of his pocket and popped one, washing it down with the plastic-tinged water from the cooler, and he took a deep breath. 

Fast-acting was no joke. An instant calm settled over him like a blanket, releasing the tension in his back and neck, and his lungs felt full for the first time in two weeks. He felt so good that he walked right over and stood beside your chair. 

“Hi, bunny,” he grinned, eyes glinting. “Hey, Cunningham.”

The copyboy straightened a bit, glancing up the two feet Clark towered over him with. “Hello, Mr. Kent.”

Clark cocked his head and said, “It’s rude to sit on people’s desks, has anyone ever told you that?”

You fumbled the story in your lap and set it askew on the desk, laughing awkwardly and sitting up straight. “Clark!” you reached to pat his leg, throwing him a side-eye. “Did you need something, honey?”

Clark stared at Eugene until the kid got the hint and stood up, scratching his burning neck. Then, he leaned down, capturing your chin between his thumb and finger, and he laid one big kiss right on your mouth where everyone in the bullpen could see. You let out a hum of surprise, but succumbed to the softness of his lips for the few seconds it lasted. When he pulled away, you blinked as if you were Tom, and Jerry just wacked you over the head with a loving frying pan. 

“Just that,” he murmured, drawing back and walking away, hanging a left out of the doors toward the elevators. Where he was going, you had no idea, but you certainly watched him leave. 

Eugene coughed a bit, snapping you out of it. He asked, “I forgot you mentioned that you two were, um… together.”

You felt heat creep under your skin and nodded, gathering his story up again. “Oh, yes. Very much so.”

˚₊‧꒰ა❤︎໒꒱ ‧₊

“That kid’s got it bad,” Lois nudged your elbow, passing you a piece of gum. “I’d be careful.”

You pouted, unwrapping the foil and placing the minty stuff on your tongue. “Why does everyone keep saying that? Does it look like I’m giving him signals? I’m very professional! And I talk about Clark all the time!”

Lois propped her chin in her hand and shrugged, watching closely at the spectacle across the room. Clark was struggling, with gritted teeth and many squeezes of the nose bridge, to show Eugene how to reboot the old desktops. The poor guy had never looked so miserable with any task in his life. “That’s not the point. It’s not you, it’s them. Men. They want what they want.”

“That’s stupid,” you grumbled, stirring your tea with its own bag. Your lunch sat half-eaten next to Lois’. You lost your appetite when the whole thing came up again. “He’s just a kid.”

“A nerdy kid who probably has no idea what to do around women,” she lilted, smacking her gum like it amused her to watch you cringe. “Seriously, if he brings you any coffee, don’t drink it. He looks like the kind to buy a love potion off the street.”

You whined softly and buried your face in your arms, resting on her desk. “This is all so juvenile. Even Clark won’t let it go.”

“Shocker. Guy who loves emotional self-flaggelation doesn’t want to let go of his pretty girlfriend getting flirted into oblivion.”

“It is not oblivion! He’s not flirting!”

Lois ruffled the crown of your head. “Sure he isn’t, cutie.”

˚₊‧꒰ა❤︎໒꒱ ‧₊

In hindsight, it was a very bad idea and you’d probably be very angry with him later, but it wasn’t enough to stop him. He’d pocketed the lipstick as a backup. A hail mary, if you will. He wasn’t even planning on using it. It just seemed like a smart move when you swiped on that red shade this morning. But when the opportunity presented itself…

It was all Eugene’s fault, anyway. The kid was stupid enough to try. What was Clark supposed to do?

If only you weren’t so quick to laugh. You just burst into these fits of sweet, sing-song laughter at the stupidest jokes, jokes that wouldn’t be funny to anyone but you in a million lifetimes, and it was as endearing as it was agonizing lately. Eugene liked to make you laugh, especially because it made you stumble. You would clutch to a chair or wall when you giggled yourself unsteady. That was his chance. Clark knew because he used the same tricks.

Today, Clark had taken two pills, which made him a bit overly free, but not so free he felt like stealing a motor vehicle. He was so anxious he wasn’t sleeping, so he had to double down. He only insulted Perry by accident, accidentally dented the elevator door, and told the hot dog cart guy down on the street that relish was a hoax by Big Condiments to make pickles unappetizing– y’know, normal red kryptonite behavior. As it stood now, he was tapping his foot in his chair and trying to remember that getting up to throttle Eugene’s skinny little neck in front of distinguished colleagues would be a very bad idea and was the work of the drugs. But there you were, laughing, and he couldn’t fight the effects off. 

Whatever it was, it certainly wasn’t hysterical enough for you to stumble into the copier, but you were sunshine on weak legs anyway. Clark watched in slow motion as Eugene’s hands shot to your waist to steady you, fingertips sinking into the pillowy skin shielded by only your sweater, and that broke the last straw on his hulking camel-back. 

You wiped at your eye between cackles as Clark suddenly appeared beside you, tugging you free from the copyboy’s hands and righting you. You drew in a hiccuping breath and beamed at Clark. “Oh, Clarkie! You missed it, Eugene just said the silliest thing about relish–”

“You have to be more careful, bunny, you almost fell,” he chided softly, kissing your cheek and watching the way the kid shifted uncomfortably at the show of affection. It made his chest buzz with pride. He added curtly, “She can help herself. No need to touch, kid.”

“Oh, stop it. I can be a klutz sometimes, you know that,” you faltered, collecting yourself. 

Clark used your distracted glance towards the trainee to tuck his hand into his pants pocket and pull out the silver tube. The one you applied before work was silver, too, and you didn’t use this one all that often– only on nights when Clark felt like being a little bad– so he hoped you wouldn’t notice. “Here, sweetheart, you smeared your lipstick.”

You turned back, seeing his thoughtful gesture and softening right up. “Oh! Gosh, thank you,” you blushed, wiping the corners of your lips with two fingers. “Can’t look a mess, can I?”

Clark hummed happily and watched with rapt attention as you uncapped the lipstick and smeared it right on. Eugene shifted on his feet once more before slipping away from the copier, uncomfortable even mere feet from Clark. The reporter saw him leave, debating whether making his pants smoke would be worth the suspension. When he glanced back, you were staring up at him with pupils big as dimes. 

“Clarkie,” you purred, tossing the lipstick onto the nearest desk– he quickly snatched it up, damage control– and threw your arms around his neck. Clark didn’t resist your hungry kiss, and was wholeheartedly relieved when you dragged him out of the bullpen doors down the hall to the phone booth. 

Despite the fumbling to squeeze inside, you wrangled the door shut and attacked him with kisses. The red kryptonite lacing that makeup was not the same stuff in the pills, and the chemical surge that overrode his veins lit his nerve endings up like Christmas. It was another invention of Chloe’s (like taking a gummy, it would wear off shortly, but had a much more intensive high) and was strictly reserved for the house, but Clark had broken the rule now. It was a dumb rule anyway. He shoved you up against the wooden wall and groaned needily, sliding his palms under your sweater to reach the searing skin.

You squeaked and arched into his touch, gasping for air as his teeth scraped down your plush collarbone. Your brain struggled through the fuzz to ask, “Y-you used… the special lipstick… didn’t you?”

Clark grunted like an animal, taken with the fact you were coherent enough to figure it out. In fact, he felt you needed to match his level. The reporter dragged his wet lips across the valley of your neck, rooting for the tube again and unearthing it from his pocket. When he pulled away, he tugged on your arm and smiled down at you, flashing his sharp teeth. He shoved your sleeve up with haste.

Your glazing eyes blinked slowly while you tried to steady yourself. “What were you thinking?”

Clark twisted the makeup up and pressed the flat, crimson edge to your forearm; in hurried and careless letters, he spelled C-L-A-R-K. “You’re mine, bunny, and that kid should know it,” he cooed, “that’s what I was thinking.”

The toxins seeped right through your skin, suddenly everything burned a million degrees, and you were aching with a desire that had you nearly collapsing to the phone booth floor. Clark laughed as you flung yourself at him, lips and teeth gnashing, and he wasted no time working his hand down your pants. 

From the outside, nobody could be sure what was happening inside the phone booth. It was soundproofed for journalist-source confidentiality, seeing as so many anonymous tips were called in directly to the Planet. The glass was frosted, too, on every pane, because the booth was decades old and still carried the styles of the original building. Now and again there would sound a growl or a yelp from inside, and it seemed to shake every so often, but nobody dared get close enough to investigate. They knew better than to pry when they saw Kent and his well-written girlfriend go anywhere together. 

˚₊‧꒰ა❤︎໒꒱ ‧₊

Almost an hour later, you sat back down at your desk to find it covered in neon sticky notes full of phone messages, and a cup of coffee which had a note scribbled on it in a familiar script: YOU’RE LUCKY I COVERED, FREAK! Lois had even been generous enough to leave a half-eaten donut behind, too. Good thing. You would need the sustenance. 

The lipstick still stained your arm, but with your sweater sleeve down, no one would know. You cleaned up alright, save for the wild back of your head. Clark, on the other hand, was always a flushed mess after a quickie (if an hour was quick), and his hair and tie and shirt all showed the rumpled signs. He came to sit at his desk across from yours a few minutes later, totally discreet and unsuspicious, rubbing at a red stain near his ear. He grinned at you like an idiot as he sat down, until he hissed, and you had to hide a laugh. Sensitive, you teased silently. You handed him your coffee without a word. 

Clark’s never felt more perverse in his entire life. More out of control with his body, his mind, his powers. He feels similar to a puppet, watching from the sidelines as some thing takes control over his own flesh and blood.

The fly back was quick — too quick. Not on schedule. You couldnt hear the screen door shuffle open haphazardly, the trudging of tired footsteps on the way over to the hall.

He could hear you from miles away. Had your scent locked in like a german shepherd at an airport. Sweet, metallic, heady. It had him groaning from the other side of the world.

His skin radiates a soft red, it almost fuzzes at the touch. He feels itchy, uncomfortable. Is it the clothes? It’s gotta be the suit, gosh, gotta get outta the darn suit. He’s warm, no boiling. Sweating bullets like never before — he’s fought alien creatures twice the size of manhattan without a single drop, but this, whatever was in his system, broke him?

He stopped at your door. Suit thrown disheveled, yet neatly, on the arm of the sofa, shoes nearby, now only adorned in his boxers. Breath ragged, chest heaving with a primal hunger. He knows what will help, he can smell it, smell you.

Shirt still on, pants across your room, underwear stretched across your ankles like you were aching for your alone time, waiting for Clark to leave just to release some stress. Fingers pumping in and out, quick, curling just right, but Clark knows he can do better.

Your door is shut but that does nothing — his x-ray vision appears practically automatically at the sloppy sound of your pussy around your fingers, the soft creak of your mattress as you arch, the muffled squeaks from your throat as you catch that spongy spot— clark would’ve had you there four orgasms ago.

Worst of all, this thing seems to have spawned a new ability for the time being. Telepathy. His dick practically strains against his underwear, aching and tingly. He can see your thoughts, hear your desires. And his fists open and close in quick succession out of pure bliss and self-control.

The image plays like a film reel — him railing you, work shirt half unbuttoned, sleeves rolled to his elbows, whispering soft praises as you take him.

“So… Doin’ so well, honey,” he could feel himself kiss your neck, his breath hot against your soft skin. “Gosh, just like that… Can’t believe you’re mine..”

That’s what gets him.

Three sharp reps at your door and you’re up, pulling your duvet up to your torso, brows furrowed in frustration and bliss, quickly melting away. “agh fuck— Clark?”

“I cant, i’m so sorry honey,” he’s on you, almost slapped by the thick headiness of your arousal soaking the entire room, fuck, he can taste it — but whats better is you’re actually there, the source.

“Clark?! What the— are you?”

He feels your body, hair, cheeks, neck, so flushed and warm for him — from him. “I just, oh fuck, i need you,” he shuts his eyes and shakes his head, “your help! I need your help!”

“Clark, nows not a really good time-!”

“No no no, honey, you dont understand,” his fingers find your hair, its softer than he thought it’d be, soft knots here and there from the gentle thrashing against your pillow earlier, but he cant help but notice how beautiful it pairs with his skin. “Good gosh, i need you. I could, i could smell you from the other side of the country… i’m,” your brows furrow, lips parted in confusion.

“S-smelled me? Clark — what the fuck?”

His knees find their way onto your mattress and you have no choice but to notice the tent in his boxers, if tent could even count, tipi? Hell, skyscraper would do it more justice. Thick, bulging, soiled with a damp puddle of precum.

Oh this shouldnt get you turned on again.

“I cant, i cant explain honey — just — once we start i’m not gonna stop.” no asking for permission, full force, pulling the duvet from your naked legs to gather your form fully. already soaked, already worked up well enough for him to fit. but the desperation aches, the primal part of his brain screams at him to get this shit going.