Disclaimers: Entirely not mine.
Author's Notes: So I said to shrift, "I want to write something dark. Like, Te dark." This is apparently as dark as I get.
Thanks: To the PPO for general looking over, to grit kitty for judicious poking, and to shrift, for first and last look.
The first time I fucked Clark Kent, I felt so helpless that it scared the shit out of me. I'm not used to feeling helpless. I don't like it.
The first time I kissed him, which was right after I'd fucked him, I pushed his shoulders down and bit his lip so hard that it should have been purple for a week. Instead of crying out or shoving me away, he moaned and wrapped his legs around my hips.
That was my first clue. I must have tensed up or made some kind of noise, because he loosened his grip and looked at me, frowning a little. I stared back at him, and I noticed that despite the kiss, the bite, and the pretty rough sex we'd just had, he didn't have a mark on him. Not on his lower lip. Not on his neck. Not on his chest. I opened my mouth, even though I have no idea what I would have said, but he just smiled a little and pulled me down for another kiss.
Nothing in our daily lives changed. I still see him around town, at the Talon, making deliveries, helping little old ladies across the street. But now I can tell how hard he's working at being normal.
I know why he does it. Everyone understands that desperate need to fit in with your peers, your family, your neighbors, even if they rebel against it. And I understand, probably better than anyone, the frustration that comes from being different, just because the universe decided to have some fun at your expense. You fight it, as hard as you can, with all of your strength, until you realize that the fighting only makes you stand out more. Once I realized that, I stopped fighting. Resigned myself to being a freak, and started figuring out how to use it to my advantage. Clark hasn't reached that point yet. And for now, he's got just about everyone fooled.
But not me. Not any more. We're too much alike for that.
Maybe he thinks I'm stupid, or blind. So gullible as to believe that the roof of my car could tear itself off, or that lots of people have near-lethal allergies to meteor fragments. But I don't think so. I think he knows, and he clings to the hope that I won't ever ask him about all the times he's mysteriously at the scene of a crime, saving other people like he's saved me. Half the people in this town owe their lives or their sanity to him by now, but he flashes a shy smile and those innocent eyes, and no one ever makes the connection. It doesn't surprise me, though. Most people live their lives in self-imposed ignorance, and Smallville is no different. Clark looks like he should fit in, so he does. I look like an outsider, so I am. Perception, belief, reality.
But I learned a long time ago to distrust perceptions, including my own. I'm a scientist. I observe. I gather data. Get enough information, and the conclusions become obvious. And once I'd drawn those conclusions, patterns began to reveal themselves. The cautious way Clark touches everyone, even the people he loves. The unfocused stare he sometimes directs at doors and walls. His utter fearlessness when he puts himself in danger.
There are other signs. Less spectacular. More intimate. I've fucked him hard enough to draw blood from most people, but he never even bruises. He doesn't speak; he hardly even moves. He just shakes, stomach-quivering shivers that make me dig my fingers as far into him as I can get. I can't hurt him, no matter how hard I try. And I have tried.
I should have figured it out long before I did. But once I realized what I was seeing, there was no other answer. He's invulnerable, or so close to it that I can't tell the difference. He can move faster than any car I own. He's incredibly strong. I don't know what it all adds up to, but I'll find out somehow. And once I do...
Knowledge is power. Knowledge is leverage. People will do anything to protect their reputations and their secrets, as if having their neighbors look down on them is the end of the world. Keep up with the Joneses, and never, ever let the Joneses know about Daddy's drinking problem or Mommy's affair with the next-door neighbor.
And never mention your adopted son's inhuman abilities.
If I wanted to, I could have the Kents in my back pocket. I'd just have to drop a few hints in casual conversation, and they'd do anything I asked. And they'd do it willingly, just to protect Clark. I could blackmail them. Take over their farm. Make them paint the LuthorCorp logo on the side of their stupid truck.
If I wanted to.
But this is where it gets just a little more complicated.
I think about it. God knows I think about it. I think about locking Clark up in a tiny room surrounded by meteor rocks and figuring out exactly what gives him his powers. I think about closing the factory, heading back to Metropolis and leaving this provincial little town to rot.
Then I think about the sound of his voice as he murmurs in my ear. I think about the way he half-gasps when I walk up behind him and slide my hands across his chest. I think about how his skin feels when he falls asleep next to me.
And I remember how I felt the first time I let Clark fuck me.
So I make compromises. I won't ask any questions he can't answer, as long as he doesn't make demands that I can't fulfill. Or set standards that I can't live up to. I kiss him every time he comes to me, because I can always blackmail the Kents tomorrow.
I swear to myself that I won't let this get any more complicated than desire and gratification.
And some days, those are promises I manage to keep.
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