#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 was trying to speed up the move into your freshly rented apartment in Metropolis, but you insisted on poking through all the souvenirs of his childhood that his mother kept. Some of which were mortifying, because Clark did not have the hallmark tokens of a normal childhood. Instead of a first loose tooth, Martha had kept the first metal pipe Clark had ever broken with his bare hands. It was just a bunch of junk that tracked his progression of strength, but it clearly tickled you. You had been giggling all morning as he packed. It was only when you reached the high school box that you found the real treasures– his varsity jacket from the one and only year he was on the football team, pictures from proms come and gone, cassettes full of his moody music. And lying at the bottom of the box in a little lead container… a ring. 

“Hey, what’s this?” You called out to the shuffling sounds just beneath you. Clark was in his old room, trying to box up his books. 

“What’s what?” He shouted.

“This ring!”

A slight brush of wind rustled the hair against your neck, and the piney scent of Clark lingered at your side. You peeked at his profile, his furrowed brows, and you knew it meant confusion. 

“A ring? What ri–”

You grinned and grabbed his palm, slipping the ring on his finger. You saw the knuckle twitch as if he was going to pull it away, but you were quicker. You tucked it snuggly to his digit and admired how the ruby stone seemed to glow against the tan of his farm hands. A class ring, you figured, and a gaudy one at that. “I never took you for a sentimental guy. I thought you hated high school.”

Clark felt a rush of something familiar; something that made his stomach initially curl with sickness, but was then replaced with a low buzz; a thrumming through his veins that felt like a shot of energy. If you were looking in his eyes, you might've caught the red blaze that illuminated them, but your attention was on the ring. Clark rolled his shoulders back and smirked down at you, the soft scent of your perfume clogging his nose. 

“I did,” he purred, taking the bejeweled palm and sliding it under your chin, tilting you up for a kiss. 

You let out a surprised little huff as he tilted your head back too far, and lifted it up so high, he actually hoisted you off the ground by about an inch. It didn’t hurt, but you felt your weight suspending. His lips sealed over yours sloppily– Clark usually never kissed you without care– and you grabbed at his arms to try and leverage some of your own weight. Against his mouth, you mumbled, “Mm- Clark, put me down- what are you doing?”

He laughed softly and let you plop right back down on your tailbone, and you grunted. He reached out to ruffle your hair, and he watched the strands brush over the beaming stone. “Kissing you.”

You looked up at him with rosy cheeks, narrowing your gaze. He looked… weird. His smile was crooked, not that full-toothed picture you were used to. And his eyes were big. Wide open. Like something spooked him. “Are you alright?”

“When am I not alright?” Clark grinned, hooking his hands under your armpits and yanking you to your feet. 

“Woah–”

“You smell good,” Clark grunted and backed you up against one of the beams in the attic, hard enough you heard it creak. His lips attached to your neck like a leech, and you let out a little whimper.

“Hey– ow, Clark, you’re smushing me too hard!”

Clark’s big palms let up on pressing and instead slid down your back, until they curved over the swell of your soft tush and found purchase. He chuckled at the hysterical pitch of your yelp.

“Clark!” You pushed him off with some effort, staring up at him in shock. “What’s gotten into you?”

“Nothing,” he lied, “Just excited to move in with you. Live our lives together. Give you little babies to run around with.”

“Babies– what?” You flushed profusely. “You’re– are you sure you’re okay?”

Clark rolled his eyes, almost like his long thread of patience had suddenly been snipped. “I said I’m fine.” But his tone softened again– however soft he was capable of being with the rush of his boiling blood– and he coaxed your jaw back, pressing you into another kiss that quickly shut you up. Between stealing the breath from your throat, he whispered, “Let’s go out.”

“Out where?” You panted. 

“Dancing. Drinking, I don’t know. Somewhere you can look pretty for me.”

Your flush spread down your neck like a rosy infection. “You’re being very spontaneous.”

“Take it or leave it,”

You laughed at his sudden suaveness, and you kissed him again. “I’ll take it.”

——͙͘͡★——

The next thing which should have persuaded you that something was wrong was when Clark insisted upon going to a nightclub in Metropolis, of all places. He hated going there for work, let alone pleasure. But he was in this ridiculous bout and you couldn’t help but bend to his will– he could be so persuasive when he just kissed you into agreeing…

He put on a leather jacket, something you did not even know he had. And he looked killer in it. It had a collar like a cloak, sharp and on the same incline of his jawline, almost as if he’d had it custom-made. Maybe he did, because you’d never known a shirt to do him poor favors, but this jacket… phew. Tight. Promising to distract. It was like he knew you were into the mood swing in some twisted way, and wanted to toy with you. You were undeniably worked up. Who wouldn’t be? He was surprising you, asserting himself in a way you’d never seen. You adored his meagerness, you’d never wish for it to change; but what’s the harm in a little play now and then, when all he does is work? Clark dedicated his life to saving people, enduring torture and meeting it with kindness and unyielding hope. You were surprised he didn’t act reckless all the time with all that power coursing through him. 

Of course, you might not have thought so if you knew about the red Kryptonite. In fact, you didn’t know there was any other color than green. He hadn’t seen it, touched it, since high school, and you were a token of his time in Metropolis. Post-farm, post-Smallville meteor freaks. When he chose to tell you the truth of his biology, you had been so gentle, so receptive, and when he told you about the kryptonite, you panicked. You were afraid you wouldn’t recognize it if you saw it, and you might be the very one to hurt him. He had never seen such fear in you, and like an idiot, it had blindly persuaded him to keep a few other dangers a secret, so as not to terrify you any further. He was not yet at the stage of understanding that all secrets are a dangerous affair. He was still at the stage of hoping that he could protect people by keeping some things hidden. That would not last after tonight. 

Clark had plopped you unceremoniously on a street corner downtown, seemingly not even looking to catch any bystanders, which made your stomach flip with thrill. He was being careless, and paired with his sharp smile, you didn’t mind for now. You squeaked as he yanked you up the blocks into the inner hub of nightlife, your black dress squeezing your curves and coat catching the brick corners of buildings. 

“Maybe after we can go get ice cream or something,” you suggested, clinging to Clark’s arm. 

“Ice cream?” He snickered low, peeking down at you, as if the wholesome idea was utterly stupid. “Bunny, you’re lucky if I don’t drag you to my bed after this.” 

You flushed all down the valley of your neck and shoulders in the cold wind, and felt the growing thumping of bass beneath your heels as Clark ushered you down a main street lit by neon signs of clubs and bars. This was a seedy part of town, and it made your embarrassment flourish. “Jeez, Clark, if that’s what you really wanted, you know you could’ve just asked. We could’ve stayed home.”

“I didn’t want to fuck you at home. Well, at least not yet.”

Your cheeks burned deep as he tussled you in front of a line full of waiting patrons to a place near the corner. You remembered vaguely one night he’d had you beneath him in his childhood bedroom, taking his sweet time, and you asked him to talk a little dirty; he had said, “Baby, I don’t even like that sort of thing. You aren’t something I use, you’re someone I’m lucky to even touch. I’ll try it if you want…” That had made you infinitely more horny than any sleazy phrase or nickname ever could. There was no kink stronger than being the object of Clark’s honest affection.

You couldn’t even see the sign, only a velvet rope that held people off from a descending staircase into some club that was surely wall-to-wall with people. Clubgoers drunkenly protested as he strongarmed his way in front, and he slipped a few bills which you couldn’t make out to the bouncer, who begrudgingly let you both down the steps. You raised an eyebrow at him, but all he did was lick his lips and nudge you down. 

The music was so loud it hurt to even come close to. You wandered down the staircase, which took a sharp left at the bottom towards a dingy glass door. When he opened it, a thick wave of recycled air smacked you in the face, like walking into a bathroom while someone was showering. Your coat stuck to you as you slipped down a brick hallway lit purple and blue by pulsing lights, and you felt Clark’s possessive grip on your hips like handles, pushing you forth into the crowd as it opened up before you. A sea of dancers and drunks swayed, bobbed, leaped above your head, on the ground floor, over the balcony, on poles, in cages like birds. You thought these sort of clubs could only be found in Gotham, all their debauchery included, but clearly Metropolis had its own seedy underbelly. 

Goosebumps rose as Clark peeled your slick coat from your skin and tossed it at a coat check woman, who (you were sorry to say) seemed untrustworthy with it. “Come on,” he purred in your ear, “I want to dance with you.”

You stowed your concerns about the place and people for a moment, because there was no such thing as danger when Clark was around. You trusted him with everything in you. 

Clark swept you through the crowd of sweaty skin to the center, under a glimmering chandelier. The strobe lights flickered and painted the club with rainbows as he drew you in close, hands curling in your hair and down your spine, swaying you into something resembling a beat as this hard, heavy music battered your head. You smiled when you saw him gazing down at you, tucking your hair back from your warm face, hungry as a dog. 

“I don’t know what’s gotten into you,” you shouted over the crowd, “but I don’t hate it!”

“Shut up and dance,” he called back, and he nosed his way into the crook of your neck, sinking his teeth into the offering of your skin. You slithered your arms around his neck and let your eyes flutter shut, surrendering to the swooping feeling in your gut. 

It was good for a while. He spun you around, smushed you to his chest, danced you into a place where you felt like drinking. Got three drinks in you, your magic number, and then three more, and feasted on the margarita-syrup on your lips. Soon enough you were the one swaying him, dropping lower, shaking the parts of you which giggled, which begged to be kneaded. It was in the middle of a particularly dirty song, one that had him spinning and squishing you, that a rough body slipped behind you and smoothed its palms up the backs of your thighs. Your fuzzy brain scrambled to make your sluggish body turn around and catch the culprit. 

“Heey,” you slurred, blinking hard and trying to whip around. The hands reached your ass before you got there, and you yipped, swatting at them. It was a man– just some unmemorable, drunken man– but it didn’t matter now. He would be lucky if he was a man at all in the next five seconds. 

Clark noticed your alarm and snapped out of the haze that was touching you, and his eyes were engulfed in flame. His hand snatched out and twisted the guy’s arm in a horribly unnatural position. The music smothered his cry of pain. 

“How would you like to have no hands to touch my girlfriend with, motherfucker?”

You flushed nervously and clawed at Clark’s arm. “Hey! You’re hurting him!”

Clark glared down at you, at your gorgeous cheeks, the sympathy in your eyes. Sympathy for a pervert. Sympathy for a man that wasn’t him. He shoved the drunken nobody back, casting him into a sea of girls who squealed and swallowed him whole, and a jealous rage infiltrated his body. Clark seized your wrists hard enough to hurt, and you whimpered, drunken eyes fluttering. 

“Ow! Clarkieee…”

“Quiet,” he barked, and before you had time to see what was happening, he hoisted you over his shoulder like a sack of meal and shoved through the floor toward the bathrooms. 

You felt sick to your stomach as the club blurred around you. You couldn’t focus on any one thing, and so the reprieve of a shutting door helped to ground your churning stomach. A bit of shock rippled up your knees as he set you roughly against a tile wall, grime clinging to your dress, cold seeping into your feverish skin. 

“What was that?” he snipped. 

You blinked and flushed deeper, furrowing your brow in confusion. “What was what?”

“You defended that asshole. He fucking groped you.”

You couldn’t control the heat of your skin. “You were… hurting him,” you swallowed, words thick with tequila. 

“He shoved his hands up your dress, and you blushed like you liked it.”

“What?” you hiccuped, “I didn’t–”

“What, am I not enough for you or something? Huh? Don’t I do it for you?” 

You grunted as he pressed you harder into the wall. You could’ve sworn his eyes were glowing, but everything felt like it was flashing from the illusion of the strobe lights imprinted in your vision. He was constricting your lungs with the weight of his body, and his paw hooked under your knee, hitching you around him. 

“Don’t be stupid–”

“Stupid? You liked getting groped in front of your own boyfriend,” he growled, squeezing the flesh of your thigh hard enough to leave spotted bruises. “Like some kind of slut.”

You swallowed thickly, head spinning and heart pounding. He was being extraordinarily rough, behaving so unlike himself. But something in you liked it. Craved it, even. How many times had you wished he would just hold you down and take what he wanted? You were always won over by his entreaties of gentle touches, slow thrusts, soft words spoken into your neck. You loved being cherished. But every now and again, when he got eager, he’d just apply a little pressure, and you were a slave to that feeling. He was a superhero, for Christ sake, and he refused to use his strength. That wasn’t crazy to want… was it?

Well, it didn’t matter now. You were getting what you’d secretly wanted. And you were getting it right now. 

“Somebody’s gotta teach you how to behave,” he grunted, dropping your leg and twisting you around, pressing your soft tummy against the wall. The sinks were adjacent, along with their mirrors. Your glazed-over eyes peeked at the reflection of Clark’s body, hard lines and tall stature, imprisoning you against the tile, hiking your dress over your hips. You whined softly.

“You like this, don’t you?” he panted, unhooking his pants with precision, not wasting a second. “You like being trapped. Getting what you deserve.”

“Clarkie,” 

“What was that? Huh?” he whispered warmly, pressing the heat of his withholding erection between your thighs, lifting you a probable inch off the floor with his barehanded hold. You moaned at the show of strength, and his eyes narrowed with a possessive pleasure. “Jesus. You’re drooling.”

You licked your lips, feeling a wetness on your tongue. You didn’t mean to, but your brain was throbbing inside your skull. You were drunk and he was grinding into the notch between your legs. You flushed deeper, which only seemed to anger him more. 

“Bad bunny,” he snarled, slipping his thumb under the bridge of your panties and tugging them aside. You felt the warmth of his familiar skin pressing against your slit, and your surprised eyes fluttered shut, body heating to a boiling point. “Showing yourself off to all those guys back there. Making them want you, liking when they touch you, doing it in front of me.” You whimpered as he dragged the head of his cock back and forth over your slick folds, teasing you cruelly. “Such a little slut, bunny. I thought you were mine.”

You groaned as he suddenly sunk into your pulsing heat, face twisting against the tile, now warm from your body heat. Clark usually spent as long as he could, stretching you on his fingers, tyring to draw orgasms out of you with his tongue before fucking you, because he never could last very long. He could go a few rounds with all that alien stamina, but he just couldn’t hold himself back, and he wanted you to last as long as possible to make up for his prematurity. It seemed you just made it too hard to pace himself. But he did not show you that care this time. He jammed himself deep, deep enough you wondered if he was prodding your small intestine as he knocked you into the wall. 

“Ah! Clark,” you mewled.

“This is what you wanted, yeah? Wanted me to get rough? Wanted me to throw you around, take what I wanted? You’ve wanted it, baby, but I never gave it to you. You’re always such a good girl. But look at you now, bunny. Throwing yourself at people just to get what you want,” he grunted, hips pistoning behind you, bones bucking into the curve of your ass. His hands slipped under your dress, palms pressing the plush pudge of your tummy, pressing down over your womb, over where he was. “Didn’t know you had it in you…”

You drooled against the tile, moaning helplessly, nails clawing behind you to try and feel him there, to make a connection. But he wasn’t making love to you– he was drilling you, like you’d asked. He was just choosing the time and place to award you with your wish. He harshly took your wrists and pinned them behind your back, using it as equal leverage to keep you up against the wall. He let out a guttural gnarl beside your ear, feeling the way you clenched around him, practically gushing. 

“God, if I knew you liked it like this, I never would’ve been so gentle. Fuck, bunny…”

You had never felt anything like this in your life. The almost rancid sweetness of liquor burning in your throat, coating the tile with your breath’s condensation. The force of his rippling muscle kept you trapped, using you hungrily, wanting you desperately, needing the warmth of your body to pay for your unintentional crime. You just moaned and moaned, fingers flexing under his grip, nails every now and then catching the soft flesh of his belly button when he thrusted deep, leaving moons behind. He could be as rough as he wanted, but he was still yours. He knew that even in the midst of the high coursing through his veins. 

Deep, deep down, Clark knew he should take the ring off. There was a tiny percentage of his consciousness that could fight off the power of the poisonous ruby around his ring finger and apologize for manhandling you, for calling you such a dirty name, for punishing you in this dirty place. He wanted to pull out of you and turn you around, kiss you softer, promise he would never hurt you. But he wasn’t hurting you– not for real. Any inkling of pain under his hands was converted to pleasure on your skin. Your heat swallowed his cock like a sword’s sheath, your eyes rolled around in their sockets as if in a dream, and his name spilled from your lips, smelling like sugar. The sober piece of him had never seen you so turned on, and it was that part, the dutiful part, that allowed the red kryptonite to propel him forward. Hard enough, hand against the wall, that he cracked the tile. Your eyes widened for a moment, in awe of the strength, before fluttering again as his force lurched your insides.

Clark took his big palm and pressed your womb harder, and the other dropped their hold on your wrists to press your cheek against the wall, halfway to squeezing you like a grape. The tresses of your hair wrapped around his forceful fingers as he drove harder, never warning you that he was going to spill over, not allowing you the courtesy of a warning. You would know when the mess painted the inside of your thighs, and you would drool and beg for more. He saw you staring at the silhouette of your movements in the mirror, a little exhibitionist under his reign. He’d give you a show.

“Clarkieee!” 

He watched your face twist, your throat tighten, your nails scraping against the tile for purchase. Your heat twitched and fluttered, constricting around him, and the shudder which ripped through your body sucked the feeling right out of him. He growled into your shoulder blades, bucking uncontrollably as thick ropes of warmth whitewashed you, bubbling and settling like a familiar blanket. You whimpered and trembled against the wall, legs weak, overstimulation ruling your flesh. 

His blood thrummed loud in his ears, and he felt the urge to keep thrusting, to make you take him again, but he wanted to look in your eyes this time. He wanted to watch you beg for more. So he made no effort to save your legs the shock of hitting the ground again, sliding out of you. He pulled his hand from the base of your cranium, but the strands had entangled him. He grumbled softly as he tugged it free, but there was a problem. 

One stubborn strand, and it all rushed away.

One stubborn strand, hooked under the ring, slipped it over his knuckle and off. It hit the porcelain floor loudly, clinking, hitting a corner of the stone on bad luck and shattering it. The heat in his body drained fast, and instant color flooded his face. Shame, embarrassment, regret, all in one wave. 

Clark rushed to lift you back up, still hard but softening by the second. You looked like a wreck. Your face was beet red from being pressed to the wall, and your legs shook like a baby calf’s. Your hair stuck to your wet mouth, eyes blissfully unfocused. God, you were completely out of it, and he’d taken advantage of you when you were like that…

“Oh my god, oh my god… baby, bunny, are you alright?”

You blinked lethargically, feeling his cradling you against his chest. You heard the stuffing of cotton, the clicking of metal fasteners. You felt something warm and tight covering you again. You pressed sloppy kisses to his jaw. “M’fine… so good…”

Clark’s breath came short and tears pricked his eyes. He held you against him like a ragdoll, hugging you, smoothing your hair back, trying to gauge your level of intoxication. “Oh, honey, my bunny, I’m so sorry… I was so rough with you, sweetheart, did I hurt you?”

“Nooo,”

“Are you sure?” He lamented, fussing over your dress. There were purple spots on your thighs, around your wrists.

“M’fiiine!” You whined, wriggling.

“We’re going home,” he whispered.

“No–”

“Baby, we’re going home.”

A ghost of that forceful past Clark shut you up and you grinned. He only frowned. 

He made sure your dress covered your hips and thighs before slipping out of the bathroom. He shoved his way through the crowd and haggled the coat check girl for your jacket, and when he climbed the stairs to the street, you were resting your pounding head on his chest and gazing up at him like a stupid little thing. There was still the imprinted pattern of fingertips on your cheek. He had never felt worse about anything. 

Clark whisked you back to the farm, the cold wind against your hot skin welcome. It was only seconds aloft, and your stomach leapt when he landed gently in his bedroom, the curtains fluttering. You whined as he set you on the bed and hurried to the bathroom. He wet a washcloth and brought it back, and he gently wiped down your arms and legs and face, so concerned about the germs and grime he must have rubbed you into. You shivered at the water. 

“Said m’fiiine.”

“You are not fine. I could’ve seriously hurt you.”

“You jus’ got rough… felt so good… c’mere, d’it again…”

His heart seemed to simultaneously flutter and sink at how your hand reached for him, ruffling his hair. He crawled over you and traced the shape of your nose, frowning deeply. He would have to tell you about the red kryptonite, about what it did to him. All this time, he had hoped to keep you safe by hiding it, but he could’ve broken your cheekbone, cracked your hip, anything. That was the complete opposite of the intention. 

“Bunny?”

“Mm?”

Your pupils were so wide, so trusting, and so drunk. You didn’t seem to be listening at all. You offered him a slow grin, your lipstick all smudged, and he just didn’t have the heart. 

“You need to sleep those drinks off.”

“Noo,” you pouted. 

“I’m going to get you some water.”

“Don’t!” you whined, and you grabbed at him in frustration. “Jus’ want you one more time… please, Clarkie…”

He’d had you drunk, but not like this. You were begging. You didn’t know how sensitive you were. He lifted your dress a bit to peek, and he knew he couldn’t. You were all puffy, too used, it would probably only make you cry. If you weren’t so drunk, he might have, but now he couldn’t manage it. 

“No, baby. You need to sleep.”

“Don’ you want me?” You frowned deeply, lost eyes shining. 

Clark sighed softly, brushing your sweaty hair away from your eyes. “Of course I do, bunny. I’m just going to give you a break, okay? If you nap, I’ll wake you up and we can go again. Okay, honey? Can you do that for me?”

The prospect of more sex seemed to work, and he huffed with relief as you carelessly rolled over, hair spilling across his pillow. You were too inebriated to know he was lying. He would lie there and watch you knock yourself out, and he would chew his lip until the morning when he would tell you about the kryptonite, and hope to God he wasn’t so rough that you couldn't forgive him. 

——͙͘͡★——

In the morning, you awoke only to lurch over the side of the bed. There was a trash can there, credit to your loving boyfriend, which caught your sick. You slumped there, eyes sticky and body sore, and you groaned weakly. 

Clark appeared instantly in the doorway, dirt smudged above his brow and white tee dinged from farm work. He must have been bailing hay. He only did that when he was upset, so he could toss something painless around. The sun was high– you knew because it seemed to burn your hungover eyes– and you heaved a bit, pale in the cheeks. 

“Oh, honey,’ he cooed softly, helping you sit up, putting the can in your lap. He gathered your hair back and handed you a glass of water, something he’d left on the nightstand. 

“God, how much did I drink?” you complained, rubbing your temples. 

“Six margaritas,” he mumbled, taking the can back when your constitution seemed stable enough. “Should’ve stopped you at lucky three.”

You sighed sleepily and worked consciously to stay upright on the bed, closing your eyes. Flashes of the night came back– the coat checker, your panties down in a bathroom, the vision of Clark pinning you like a butterfly in a box– and you flushed profusely. Clark panicked and lifted the trash can again, worried the color indicated another wave of nausea; you only chuckled hoarsely and nudged it away. “No, no… m’okay.”

Clark gazed at you like a scolded puppy, and he kissed your cheek. He scooted closer, close enough to hug you, and you chuckled again. “What is it?”

“I’m so sorry, baby.”

“Why? What happened?” you furrowed your brow, stroking his hair. He smelled like hay. 

“I… it…”

You watched him peel away from you as if he was disgusted with himself. You saw his hands wringing, his eyes avoiding yours, and you reached out to cup his cheek. “Hey…”

“Last night,” he murmured, words low with guilt. “The way I behaved, it… it wasn’t me.”

“You’re telling me,” you smirked a bit sheepishly. 

“No- no, bunny, it’s not funny. I could’ve seriously injured you. Are you in pain anywhere?” His hands came up to turn your jaw, inspecting the berry shades of his hand on your cheeks, the shadow of his rough touch along your wrists.

You laughed softly as he began to prod you. “No! No, I’m fine. Clark, baby, you look sicker than me… just tell me what’s up.”

He ran a hand over his face. “I haven’t been honest with you.”

You felt his soberness as you replied, “Okay.”

A moment passed before he continued. “That… that old class ring you put on me?”

“The red one?”

“It was a kind of kryptonite,” he admitted, peering at you with fear. It was only then that you noticed his bottom lip was a raw pink. “It… it was red kryptonite. I haven’t come in contact with it in years.”

You blinked slowly. Kryptonite… your brain was sluggish, so it took you a moment. Oh, the green stuff. “Right… um, so… so what about it?”

Clark sighed softly, “Well, the green stuff makes me sick, and the red stuff… it’s hard to explain. It’s like it releases all my inhibitions. It makes me crazy, like I’m high on drugs. I used the ring a lot when I was younger, when things were bad… I got into serious trouble, I robbed people, I hurt them. It– it makes me act on impulse, do things I’d never normally do. It makes me… rough. Mean. Taking what I want, when I want it, not caring how.”

You stared at him for a moment, trying to process it. So he wasn’t entirely himself. He was high when he took you out, swept you off your feet, screwed you in a place you would have never imagined being with him in. That was that look in his eye– a force beyond him. And you liked it. Fed into it. For a second, you wondered if there was a part of him last night that felt afraid of himself, and it made you want to puke all over again. You felt horrible.

“So… you didn’t want to be doing anything we did?”

“No, no, that’s not it. I did. I did want to take you out, to- to sleep with you… it’s just– my anger, it flies off the handle when I’m on red K. My behavior is irrational, I don’t think before I act. And I was so careless, honey. Anybody could’ve seen us. I locked you in that bathroom like an animal, and look at you, love, you’re all bruised–”

“But I’m okay! I’m really okay.”

Clark glanced at you with the softness you had undoubtedly missed in his fervor last night. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, baby,” you sighed, scooting closer to smooth the skin between his concerned eyebrows. “You were a little wild, but you didn’t hurt me. I feel fine. And… I mean, I can't remember much, but I clearly liked it, from what I do remember…”

Clark flushed beet red, and he ducked his head to your shoulder. “I feel horrible. I should’ve told you about the kryptonite.”

“I can see why you didn’t,” you assured him, “it’s embarrassing for you, I get it. It was an accident, I would've never put that ring on you if I knew.” 

“This is not your fault. It’s entirely mine. God, I think I should take you to the doctor–”

You laughed softly and brushed his fretting palm away. “I swear, Clark, I’m fine.”

“I just didn’t want you to worry. That’s why I didn’t tell you. You worry enough looking for the regular kind. But there’s so much more, so many types of kryptonite out there… red, gold, blue, black–”

“Wait, what?”

Clark winced with regret. “There’s just other kinds, they all have different effects.”

If you weren’t so hungover, you might be mad. But your head throbbed and he was just… too sweet to be angry with. 

“Oh, Clark…”

He rubbed his eyes so the pricking would slow. “I feel so guilty.”

“You couldn't help it, Clarkie,” you cooed, tugging his lip free from its sharp prison. “And even if you could, it’s okay. You didn’t hurt me. You were rough, but I liked it. I’ll say it until you believe me.”

“Are you sure?” he repeated himself.

“So sure,” you promised, kissing his shoulder. “I like when I see new sides of you. They make the regular you that much more beautiful to me.”

Clark felt like melting at your feet. He drew you into his arms, barely squeezing, back to cradling you like porcelain. He’d get over it in a few hours. He always revisited the initial fear of his strength when he got out of line– it was what made him a worthwhile hero. 

“You know, it was actually really hot,” you mumbled into his chest. 

Clark allowed himself to chuckle. “Yeah, well, I was high and you were drunk. I think we would’ve enjoyed anything.”

You grinned and tipped your head back. “Is there, like, super-weed we can smoke or something to get you like that again?”

Clark didn’t have to allow a laugh this time– it came freely. “I think you need to eat some breakfast before you make any rash decisions, bunny.”

“Kidding, kidding…”

Clark grinned and hoisted you off the bed, happy to carry you downstairs and pamper you after a night full of surprises. “No you’re not.”

“Hey– I didn’t get my morning kiss.”

Clark smirked at you as you wrapped your legs around his hips. “I’ll cut you a deal. If you brush your puke teeth, I’ll kiss you, and then I’ll see just how I can make last night up to you, yeah?”

You saw his eyes flicker. For a moment, you could’ve sworn they had glowed red. Or maybe it was just his fire coming back in a small dose, just for you. There was no vice in the world that could make you or him forget just how much you liked each other as you were in that bathroom; and there was a large part of you that was curious about trying it again. Just maybe without the uncontrollable parts.

“Put me down,” you brushed your nose against his cheek. When Clark quirked a playful brow, your stomach flipped. A glimpse of a man who could punish, if need be. “...Please.”

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.