knot (lois & clark, lois/clark, r)
Feb. 1st, 2009 09:57 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ndnickersonTitle: Knot
Fandom: Lois & Clark
Characters: Lois/Clark
Prompt: breathless
Word Count: 787
Rating: R
Summary: Alternate identities have their advantages.
Author's Notes: Post-series. Sex. Written for the Seven Deadly Sins porn battle.
Somehow it had been easier to let Clark save her when she'd only known him as Superman. She can think of a lot of psychobabble to explain it (objectification, wish fulfillment, hero worship) but it just boils down to Superman being impervious, inviolate. Clark, on the other hand, has spent hours, entire days, in foul moods, can forget about dry cleaning (even if he can rectify it in the space of two seconds), can actually honestly just not hear her when she's pouring her heart out. Although that usually, supposedly, involves a fire alarm or the distant roar of a falling avalanche.
So she kind of understands it, when they go out every month or two, and she wears the Ultra Woman costume. He keeps her in his radius, in that magical length of space where she's impervious as well. When she calls him over to "help" her lift tall beams off rubble or track down a crying child, his hands are doing all the work, and he never lets her out of his sight. After her appearance at a ribbon-cutting for the new Metropolis Women's Center, the reporters started asking when she and Superman were going to tie the knot, and she had fumed for days, until Clark, badly hiding his smile, pointed out that she was jealous of herself, and she had indeed "given in" to the same "misogynist patriarchal system that defines a woman's worth based on her husband."
Although Ultra Woman, technically, doesn't exist. Just like Superman, technically, though in a far more complex sense, doesn't exist either.
And all that is probably why he hates to see her in the outfit.
Clark thinks he's hiding it well, but she was burned by him once before, and she knows the signs. He didn't just feel powerless, he was powerless while she was Ultra Woman, and he hates feeling powerless. Just like seeing the black suit, seeing him in it, makes her remember that awful time when she thought he might be lost to her forever.
So she doesn't mind that when they come home to their brownstone he strips out of the suit at super speed but gently urges her out of her own; that when she glances up, naked and slightly dazed, the boots and capes and spandex are already out of sight. He takes her to the shower and they wash off the mud or ash or dust or grief, and she doesn't admit how it all kind of makes her still shake inside. She insisted on maintaining Ultra Woman because, if nothing else, she can still be a symbol, even if she isn't able to bend steel or deflect bullets.
That's not all it takes, she reminds him.
And then he picks her up and settles her against him, lips parted as he pushes inside her, her legs wrapped tight around his waist. Before, she had imagined that giving herself over, completely, to Superman would be thrilling, dangerous. That was before she knew how often he held back, often, most especially, with her.
"Lois," he whispers against her mouth, eyes half-lidded as he parts her with his first long thrust.
"God, Clark," she gasps, arching her back against the wall of the shower to change the angle of his cock, pulling him in tight.
They spend so much of their time gazing at each other across their desks, throwing balled-up notes and story ideas and smartass comments at each other, but so much of being Ultra Woman is wanting to share in that other life, that persona, wanting to be there for him, for every time she's woken in their bed alone, for every time she's seen him as a blue blur streaking in to fight a disaster.
They're slow this time. They aren't always. He has that smirk on his face when he finds her clit, urging her to break first, to give herself over to it, but he always cheats; even when she lies he can hear her heart. Her toes curl and she squeezes her eyes tight shut and begs him to fuck her, and he drives into her, the steady rhythm that makes her gasp and purr and plead.
Then he kisses her shoulder and she shivers, breathless, undone.
"Thank you."
"Anytime," he grins back, fingertips gliding over her waist. She opens her mouth but he's intentionally misunderstanding her, so she closes it again, concentrating instead on the slow rock of his hips against hers. He's spoiling her. No ordinary man could ever measure up to this.
Being Ultra Woman definitely has its advantages.
Fandom: Lois & Clark
Characters: Lois/Clark
Prompt: breathless
Word Count: 787
Rating: R
Summary: Alternate identities have their advantages.
Author's Notes: Post-series. Sex. Written for the Seven Deadly Sins porn battle.
Somehow it had been easier to let Clark save her when she'd only known him as Superman. She can think of a lot of psychobabble to explain it (objectification, wish fulfillment, hero worship) but it just boils down to Superman being impervious, inviolate. Clark, on the other hand, has spent hours, entire days, in foul moods, can forget about dry cleaning (even if he can rectify it in the space of two seconds), can actually honestly just not hear her when she's pouring her heart out. Although that usually, supposedly, involves a fire alarm or the distant roar of a falling avalanche.
So she kind of understands it, when they go out every month or two, and she wears the Ultra Woman costume. He keeps her in his radius, in that magical length of space where she's impervious as well. When she calls him over to "help" her lift tall beams off rubble or track down a crying child, his hands are doing all the work, and he never lets her out of his sight. After her appearance at a ribbon-cutting for the new Metropolis Women's Center, the reporters started asking when she and Superman were going to tie the knot, and she had fumed for days, until Clark, badly hiding his smile, pointed out that she was jealous of herself, and she had indeed "given in" to the same "misogynist patriarchal system that defines a woman's worth based on her husband."
Although Ultra Woman, technically, doesn't exist. Just like Superman, technically, though in a far more complex sense, doesn't exist either.
And all that is probably why he hates to see her in the outfit.
Clark thinks he's hiding it well, but she was burned by him once before, and she knows the signs. He didn't just feel powerless, he was powerless while she was Ultra Woman, and he hates feeling powerless. Just like seeing the black suit, seeing him in it, makes her remember that awful time when she thought he might be lost to her forever.
So she doesn't mind that when they come home to their brownstone he strips out of the suit at super speed but gently urges her out of her own; that when she glances up, naked and slightly dazed, the boots and capes and spandex are already out of sight. He takes her to the shower and they wash off the mud or ash or dust or grief, and she doesn't admit how it all kind of makes her still shake inside. She insisted on maintaining Ultra Woman because, if nothing else, she can still be a symbol, even if she isn't able to bend steel or deflect bullets.
That's not all it takes, she reminds him.
And then he picks her up and settles her against him, lips parted as he pushes inside her, her legs wrapped tight around his waist. Before, she had imagined that giving herself over, completely, to Superman would be thrilling, dangerous. That was before she knew how often he held back, often, most especially, with her.
"Lois," he whispers against her mouth, eyes half-lidded as he parts her with his first long thrust.
"God, Clark," she gasps, arching her back against the wall of the shower to change the angle of his cock, pulling him in tight.
They spend so much of their time gazing at each other across their desks, throwing balled-up notes and story ideas and smartass comments at each other, but so much of being Ultra Woman is wanting to share in that other life, that persona, wanting to be there for him, for every time she's woken in their bed alone, for every time she's seen him as a blue blur streaking in to fight a disaster.
They're slow this time. They aren't always. He has that smirk on his face when he finds her clit, urging her to break first, to give herself over to it, but he always cheats; even when she lies he can hear her heart. Her toes curl and she squeezes her eyes tight shut and begs him to fuck her, and he drives into her, the steady rhythm that makes her gasp and purr and plead.
Then he kisses her shoulder and she shivers, breathless, undone.
"Thank you."
"Anytime," he grins back, fingertips gliding over her waist. She opens her mouth but he's intentionally misunderstanding her, so she closes it again, concentrating instead on the slow rock of his hips against hers. He's spoiling her. No ordinary man could ever measure up to this.
Being Ultra Woman definitely has its advantages.