NOTE: I do not own any of these characters or their world. This is purely for entertainment. Some of the opening dialogue and actions are taken directly from the original show in order to provide context. This story contains the discipline and corporal punishment of a fictional minor. Don't like it? Don't read it.
This is how I imagine the missing day and threatened "long talk" goes between Clark (Superman) and Jonathan after 02x07. Spoilers ahead, if you haven't seen it.
Jonathan Kent lay on his back on his bed, staring at the ceiling and chewing absently on his thumbnail. His mother had left a while ago, calmer this time. She hadn't yelled at him again, but her disappointment was brutal.
He told himself there were reasons that he took those drugs, and maybe there were, but none of them seemed worth it when his mom looked at him like a stranger. And even though he still thought he was doing the right thing by protecting Candace, his mom saw only blatant defiance. Or maybe stupidity.
And his dad? Ugh. Jon couldn't stop thinking that the worst part was still to come. Exhausted and wrung out, it was like they had all just hit the Pause button until he came home. Jon hadn't forgotten what his mom said earlier in the day: "I am so pissed and, trust me, Jonathan, your father will be, too."
His mom's fury was no joke, and most days, she was definitely the scarier parent. So this was probably the closest she had ever come to Wait Until Your Father Gets Home, like one of those old TV shows. For the first time in his life, Jonathan understood in his gut why that particular warning was so awful. He didn't know what his dad was going to say-or do-when he finally heard what happened.
But Jon knew it would suck.
Then suddenly the door swung open and his father was in his room almost before Jon realized it. He pulled his legs over the edge of the bed and sat up fast, shaky.
"You're back."
"Yeah, I am." Temper radiating from every movement, Clark Kent shut the door behind him with a deliberate click. "And you know what? I was not expecting to hear what your mother just told me."
"Dad, I can explain-"
"Jonathan, no." Clark cut him off with a sharp gesture. "Your mother gave you multiple chances to tell her the whole story and you chose not to."
"I'm sorry."
Clark stared at his son, who was tugging his sleeves nervously, looking anywhere but at his father. "What were you thinking?"
"I don't – I just – I wanted to be better." It sounded lame, even to him.
"By taking drugs?" Clark was both astonished and outraged. "Have we taught you nothing? Have you not heard a single word that either one of us has ever said to you?"
"Yes!" Jon nearly shouted.
"Then, damn it, act like it!" his dad shouted back.
Jon blanched, tears welling in his eyes. He couldn't remember the last time his dad had cursed or even raised his voice.
Clark pressed his lips together, then continued in a low voice. "Tomorrow, you will go and you will apologize to Principal Balcomb. And then you will apologize to Coach Gaines. And after that, you will apologize to the entire football team. Your mother and I are going to figure out how you're going to finish the school year, whether it's in the next town over, online, or somewhere else."
Then Clark took one threatening step towards his son and Jon shrank away, stomach dropping like a stone in the face of his father's anger.
"And after all that, Jonathan, you and I are going to have a long talk about all the important things I thought you already knew. So you don't ever misrepresent yourself or this family again. Do you understand?"
Jon did, but he wished like hell that he didn't. "Yes, sir."
Clark opened his mouth, but then turned crisply on his heel, walked out of the room, and shut the door.
He stood in the hallway with his hand on the knob for several more minutes, unwilling to move away but afraid of what he might do or say if he went back in. It didn't take super-hearing to hear Jon burst into sobs and, even as angry he was, Clark still wanted to put his arms around his son and tell him it would be okay.
Except he didn't know if it would be okay. Lois was right. There were some things you couldn't take back, and being a drug dealer was probably one of them, especially in a town like Smallville.
Clark leaned his forehead against the door, listening as his son cried.
What the hell had happened? He knew, logically, that not every decision a teenager made was a direct response to something his parents had-or hadn't-done. They did stupid things even when they knew better. They had their own personalities and needed to learn to make their own choices. That was normal, right?
The Smallville government had declined to prosecute a minor for "experimental space narcotics" that technically weren't against the law. So Jon was safe, at least legally. But the parental guilt was crushing. Clark was Jon's father. Somewhere, somehow, he had failed. He had missed an important sign. He had been too caught up in saving strangers, training Jordan, a hundred other things, and had lost sight of Jonathan.
Well, he wouldn't do it again. If Clark believed in nothing else, he believed in justice and consequences. So he would take responsibility for his part in this mess, just as he would force Jonathan to do the same. And he and Jon would have that long talk, the kind that Clark's father had with him and that he hadn't had with his sons in a while.
He needed to talk to Lois first and, preferably, get her promise to stay out of the house until it was over. She'd certainly given the boys a few sound swats here and there when they were little, and she didn't protest the handful of times that they'd needed something more than a swat as they got older.
But this wouldn't be a simple spanking for back-talking or even deliberate disobedience, usually the top reasons one of them ended up over his knees.
Jon had used drugs, cheated, probably cost his team the season and, though Lois swore she believed that he wasn't dealing, he was determined to take the fall. Assuming Lois was right (and she usually was), then Jon was still choosing to aid and abet whoever was dealing, protecting someone who sold dangerous substances to high schoolers.
Jon's sobs quieted, and a quick scan through the door told Clark that his son was curled up on his bed, having nearly succeeded in crying himself to sleep.
Lois was waiting for him at the kitchen table when he made his way downstairs, fiddling with her wine glass. She pushed a second wine glass in his direction, assessing his mood with her reporter's eye.
She recognized the look but didn't usually see it at home. Superman's steely resolve on her husband's usually cheerful face was intense and, if she was being honest, a little frightening. She felt a moment's pity for her son, then reached for Clark's hand.
"Okay," she said. "What are we going to do?"
0 0 0 0
They all made it through the next morning, but barely.
Jon tossed and turned most of the night, trying to imagine what he was going to say in front of all those people and what would happen when his dad did … the other thing.
His twin brother, Jordan, had both come to bed after he'd fallen asleep and gotten up the next morning before him, and Jonathan was grateful. His parent's anger was bad enough. He didn't think he could face Jordan's again.
He'd let them all down. And even if his dad decided to beat him into next week, Jon wasn't sure any of them would forgive him. Especially his dad. He was Superman, for God's sake. He was practically perfect.
Breakfast was a somber affair. Jon silently picked at his food, Clark silently sipped at his coffee, and Jordan and Lois silently watched both of them–Lois with considerable sympathy and Jordan clearly trying to stay out of the line of fire.
At one point, Lois walked behind Jon to refill her coffee and squeezed his shoulder as she passed. Jon glanced up to see a quick wink and a little bit of the weight fell away from him. Clark raised an eyebrow at his wife, but she shrugged, turning away to lift the pot. She'd said her piece yesterday, and today would be hard. She wouldn't let Jon face it without knowing that she was still in his corner.
Clark rose to put his own cup in the dishwasher and said, "Jonathan, meet me outside in five minutes." Then he was gone.
Lois sighed softly as the back door banged, but shook her head when Jon shifted to talk to her.
"Mom … "
"It won't work, babe," she said, not unkindly, understanding the plea on his face. "I asked you yesterday, what did you think was going to happen? Your behavior has consequences. You know that."
But she dropped a gentle kiss on his head before going into the office to pack up her stuff for the day.
Lois's fury had cooled into sadness and disappointment sometime during the last evening as she and Clark had decided every detail of Jon's punishment. Still, the part of her that would jump in front of a train for her children ached to save him.
So she couldn't stay in the house. Clark was right, though it had taken him a while to convince her. It really wasn't fair to let this fall on his shoulders. And surely there was something cowardly in not witnessing what would possibly be the worst day of her child's life?
But, God, she couldn't do it. She didn't think she could listen and not interfere somehow, even if it was just because Clark would hesitate if she was eavesdropping (or crying, who could say?). And Jonathan deserved some privacy, didn't he? So she packed up and prepared to be gone the whole day.
In the kitchen, in the absence of both parents, Jordan finally worked up the nerve to speak.
"Jon, man, what the hell?"
Jon picked at his toast. "I'm in deep shit." He gave his brother a quick run-down of the previous night's conversation. Jordan's eyes widened until they were huge in his face.
"So that's where Dad's taking you this morning?"
"Uh-huh."
"And that's why Mom said I was driving in with her today?"
"Probably."
"And Mom and I are having dinner out so that … " Jordan stopped. He couldn't bring himself to say So that dad can spank you alone.
Jon couldn't say it either, not even to his brother.
"Jonathan!"
The twins jumped. Jon tossed his dishes on the counter, then headed to the door.
"Jon?" Jordan called after him. "I'll check on you later when we get home. Okay? It'll–it'll be okay."
No one really believed that, so Jon only nodded and grabbed his hoodie. He was glad that his brother was clearly on his side again, but he wasn't at all sure it would be okay.
0 0 0 0
Apologizing to the principal wasn't nearly as bad as Jon had imagined. Awkward, of course, but whatever. He spoke as respectfully as he could, keenly aware of his dad's eyes boring holes into his neck. Balcomb's face was drawn and stern as she listened, but Jon didn't know her that well and, honestly, didn't care much about what she thought.
Not that he'd say that to his dad. Or his mom, who was still trying to convince Balcomb not to expel him.
The only scary part was when Balcomb asked him again who the dealer was, if it really wasn't him. The way his dad stiffened when Jon declined (very politely, he thought) to answer … well, he couldn't get out of there fast enough.
Apologizing to Coach Gaines was another story. Squeezed into the tiny office, both men towering over him, Jon felt suffocated. After his stuttered admission and apology, totally genuine this time, the conversation was mostly between Coach and his dad, and Jon was happy to be left out of it.
Coach was furious, but also nearly frantic, thinking aloud about all the possible repercussions of Jon's drug use on the team, the season, and, horrifyingly, his own position.
For the first time, Jon felt a stab of real guilt.
It hadn't occurred to him that Coach could be affected, or that the season might be in jeopardy for everyone. He didn't love the coach. The man had never totally accepted him and was kind of a dick on his best days. But he hadn't done anything to deserve losing his job.
Jon pulled at his sleeves and kept his eyes down, stomach roiling as the men talked. He heard his dad calmly assure the coach that he wasn't to blame and that Jon would be more than suitably punished.
Coach looked right at him then and said, with vicious satisfaction, "Give it to him good, then, Kent."
Jon let out a whoosh of air he didn't know he was holding, flushing bright red. Clark simply nodded and got up to leave.
It wasn't until they got to the locker room that Jon finally balked. God, was the whole team there? And the cheerleaders? Was Candace in there? He froze two steps before the doorway. Coach went ahead but Jon turned desperately to his dad.
"Dad, please, I can't–"
"You can and you will."
And that was that. No mercy, no quarter as Clark steered him into the room.
With his dad standing like a statue behind him, Jon hurried through his apology, shaking, his breath catching every few seconds. Was it guilt or humiliation? Either way, he was determined not to cry in front of everyone even as the little breakfast he ate soured in his belly.
He managed to finish without crying or throwing up. Certainly he'd never admitted the worst mistakes of his life to dozens of people before. He prayed that no one was recording this and it wouldn't end up on the internet somewhere. In the ensuing silence, the entire room gaped at him. Shock. Anger. A few faces looked extremely smug. Some were surprisingly guilty.
Jon had a sudden image of the rest of his high school career totally derailed, defined by this one moment, and, finally, the dawning realization that he was totally screwed.
His mother had been right.
Coach said a few words, rage and disappointment etched in his features, but Jon didn't listen. Finally, after an eternity on display, he heard his dad say, "Jonathan, get your stuff."
He obeyed immediately, avoiding eye contact as he went through the motions of gathering his gear and handing it back to Coach. They left silently through the back door, Jon's dreams of high school football stardom shattering behind him.
In the truck, Clark started the engine but didn't drive away. Jon was staring down at his feet, eyes half closed. His misery hung thick in the air, and Clark wasn't doing much better himself. After a deep breath, he reached across the cab to grip Jon's shoulder.
"You did a good job," Clark said quietly, and he meant it. "Sometimes owning up to our mistakes is the hardest thing to do. But it's the first step in making amends, and you did it. I know that was rough. I'm proud of you."
A small sob and a trickle of tears escaped Jon before he could swallow them back and he shook his head, unable to lift his eyes and willing his dad to understand. If he said anything, he would lose it.
Clark nodded. He did understand. "Let's go home."
0 0 0 0
Jon stared out the window most of the drive back to the farm, feeling sicker with each passing mile. He had been so focused on the first part of his punishment, and so shaken from the conversation with his dad the previous night, that he'd deliberately avoided thinking about the next part.
Now it was all he could think about.
Hadn't he suffered enough? Wasn't it enough of a punishment that he was going to be a total leper at school? That he'd probably never play sports ever again?
Jon wanted to believe his dad had just been making a point the night before, but he knew it wasn't true. "Have a long talk" was well-known Kent family code for "get a spanking." He knew that his grandfather had said the same thing to his dad, and probably his dad had said it to him, and his dad, and back ten ridiculous generations of Kent dads.
The thought was both terrifying and somehow unbelievable, though he'd certainly been spanked before. His dad had given him and Jordan their first real spankings in elementary school but they were always rare. For the most part, they were memorable only in that they'd actually happened. Jonathan didn't remember them even hurting.
Except twice. There were only two instances – once on his own and once with his brother – when his dad had promised a "long talk" and then fully delivered. He did remember those in vivid, awful detail. And they had hurt.
Stomach cramping, Jon fought another wave of nausea as the truck rolled up to the house and stopped.
"Go on up to your room. I'll be up in a few minutes."
"Dad, wait, I … can we talk about this?"
"We're going to do a lot more than talk about it," Clark replied sternly. "Jon, look at me. You made these choices and you need to think really hard about why. You obviously didn't think any of this would be a big deal, and that makes me think we haven't been clear about what we expect from you."
"Dad–"
"So now I'm going to be very clear: your behavior is absolutely unacceptable. It's one thing to accept responsibility, which you did today. It's another thing to feel the consequences, which you are about to do. Now go to your room."
Tears clogging his throat, Jon fumbled for the door handle and fled into the house. Clark heard the front door shut and teenage feet pounding up the stairs before he, too, got out of the truck. But instead of following, Clark headed for the barn with a heavy sigh.
As he rummaged around the workbenches, he reminded himself that Jon was a good kid who generally avoided trouble. A warning was usually enough to set him back on track. And when that didn't work, a handful of spankings had re-established the boundaries, even if they weren't particularly severe. For the most part, Clark didn't think he'd even cried.
He doubted that would be the case today.
A few minutes later, he found what he was looking for and tucked it into the back of his jeans. He didn't feel great about it, but Jon had gone way beyond teen hijinks this time. He needed a tough lesson and Clark would make sure he got it.
0 0 0 0
Clark rapped twice on Jon's door before letting himself in. Jon was cross-legged on his bed, head in his hands. Clark sat down beside him.
"Dad, I–I think I've learned my lesson." Jon lifted his head and met Clark's eyes. "This morning … I never want to do something like that again. And I understand what you mean about accepting responsibility and consequences. I did a stupid thing, it was my fault, I could have hurt a lot of people and I'll never do it again. Plus I'm probably grounded forever."
"Probably."
Jon slanted his dad a darkly embarrassed look. "And I deserve it, okay? I get it. I took those drugs and I cheated and …. and all of it. I know you and Mom are pissed and disappointed and I probably just fu–"
"Jon."
"Screwed my whole life. I'm really sorry. Seriously, really sorry. I'll never touch drugs again, I promise. And I deserve to be … be punished and … and you and mom can come up with something really terrible and I won't complain. But I'm too old for a … spanking. I'm not a little kid."
"No, you're not a little kid." Clark studied his son's pleading face, then reached behind him and set a wide strip of leather, folded in half, on the bed between them. "And I'm not going to treat you like one."
Jon reared back. "What–?"
"That's a strap, Jonathan. Do you know what that is?"
Jon nodded dumbly, staring at it. It was nearly as wide as his hand and might have been black once, but was weathered to a dark gray now. Flexible, with a ring on one end for hanging, the strap looked like something out of a western movie.
"My father used that on me," Clark said. "More than once. And today I'm going to use it on you."
"What?" Jon exploded off the bed, scrambling away and holding his hands out. "You can't … you can't hit me with that! That's illegal!"
Clark raised an eyebrow. "Not in Smallville."
Jon's mouth fell open.
Clark took a small breath and patted the space next to him on the bed. "Sit down. It's time to talk."
Panic flashed across Jon's face and he actually took a step towards the door.
"Just talk," Clark assured him. He waited and, after a minute, Jon returned, settling himself lightly on the bed, as far away from his father and the strap as possible, like it was a snake that might rear up to bite him.
"Here's what I know, Jon. For a couple of weeks, you experimented with a dangerous, unknown drug that would, at least on the surface, give you some version of Kryptonian powers." Clark's voice hardened. "And then, for some absolutely unfathomable reason, you decided to take the fall for dealing them. I assume this is why you've been fighting with your brother? Because he caught you?"
Jon hesitated, then nodded.
"And I'll have a conversation with him about that–"
"Dad, you can't punish Jordan," Jon interupted. "It was my fault. He told me to stop, he–"
"I'm glad to hear that and it was completely your fault. So remember that any punishment your brother gets is just as much due to your bad choices as his. You've always looked out for each other, but the line stops when you put your lives at risk. Do you understand that?"
"Yes, sir."
"Now, I'm going to ask you a question, and all the gods help you if you lie to me. Were you selling those drugs?"
"No!" Jon's head whipped up. "No, Dad, I swear. It wasn't me. You've got to believe me! I would never–"
Clark held up a hand. "I believe you. But then I don't understand why you'd take responsibility. Why are you covering for a drug dealer?"
Jon shifted guiltily, but didn't say anything.
"Jon," Clark warned. "It's your turn to talk. I want to help you, but you have to tell me what is going on."
"I just … I didn't want them to get in trouble. I thought I could handle it, and it would be okay."
"Did you? And how's that working out?"
Jon's eyes fell on the strap between them and he swallowed hard. "Not awesome."
"The only way we're going to get you back into that school is if we can prove it wasn't you. Your mother asked you twice, and you refused to answer. Now I'm asking. Whose drugs were those?"
Jon hunched his shoulders. "I can't tell you."
"Can't or won't?"
Silence.
Clark's eyes flashed and his jaw tightened but he only said, "Then tell me why you decided to use those drugs in the first place. And no excuses. I want the truth."
Jon took a deep breath. "So, I found out that Timmy was taking them–"
"Timmy from the team?"
"Yeah. I found out he was taking them, and he was kicking my ass on the field, and I had been trying so hard to get a good spot this year since last year was such a disaster. I–I just wanted to be able to compete." Jon's voice dimmed and he dropped his head. "And I was jealous, I guess."
"Of Timmy?"
"Timmy, yeah, but … I think … of Jordan."
Jon glanced up quickly to gauge his dad's reaction, but Clark only tilted his head, so Jon plunged ahead.
"I mean … that's terrible, right? Jordan never got a break and everybody was a dick to him at school, and I had, like, everything. And then he finally gets something cool that I don't and he's making friends and I, like, freak out. What kind of brother does that? And he still covered for me."
"Oh, Jon." Clark's face softened. "I'm sorry. I should have known."
"It's not your fault."
"No, it's not. But I should have made more time to help you. You gave up your life in Metropolis to come here for Jordan and for me, too. So did your mom. Your whole life flipped upside down and that must have been really, really hard. Then Jordan … you know, you can be happy for someone you love and sad for yourself at the same time."
Jon sniffled, knuckling his eyes, and Clark's heart broke a little.
"And even if you were jealous, you still made room for him on the team and always stuck up for him, always. I was really proud of you. Mom, too. I should have told you."
"Dad, I know I was wrong." Jon tried again. "And I know it doesn't change anything. But, please, don't do this."
Clark sighed. He was sympathetic–-and he knew some of this was on him–-but Jon was right. It didn't actually change anything.
"The thing about growing up, Jon, is that it gets harder. When you were little, and you swiped an extra cookie when we told you not to, it was enough to sit on the steps by yourself and be sad that we took it away. When you mouthed off to your mom, you lost privileges. A couple of times, I took you over my knee, just so you knew I was serious."
Jon opened his mouth to speak, but his dad cut him off.
"But now you're closer to being an adult than ever. And when you're an adult, the problems get bigger. The choices are harder and the consequences are more painful. I could ground you–and I'm going to–but I don't think that confining you to the house or taking your phone is the same as risking drug addiction and jail, or worse, do you?"
"No. No, sir. But …"
"But what?"
"The … the strap …"
Jon flinched when his dad reached for it but Clark moved it behind his back again, out of sight. "That's for later. This first part is the same. Stand up and take your jeans off."
His dad spoke softly, almost kindly, but Jon knew an order when he heard it. He rose, face on fire, and did as he was told. In any other circumstance, standing in his boxers, even undressing in front of his dad, wouldn't be a big deal.
But as it was, he felt about two feet tall.
"This isn't happening," Jon whispered, not so much in defiance as misery.
Clark took Jon's wrist and guided him until the teenager was draped–-more or less comfortably–-across his knees, upper body supported by the bed and legs stretched out. Jon crossed his arms under his head, hiding his blushing face.
With one hand resting on the small of Jon's back, Clark wasted no time. He raised the other hand and brought it down squarely in the center of his son's upturned, blue boxer bottoms. Jon cried out and kicked his feet. That was so much worse than he remembered. Another spank landed and Jon threw his hand behind him.
"Dad, not so hard–-"
"Move your hand."
Jon pulled back, feeling ridiculous. Was he eight years old? Determined to tough it out, he buried his head, this time gripping the covers tight in his fists, too.
Clark brought his hand down a third time, internally checking his strength, but Jon just breathed hard into the fabric. Satisfied that his son was only being unpleasantly reminded about what a spanking feels like (and not that he was being injured by super-strength), Clark got on with warming up the bottom in front of him.
He alternated sides, the brisk POP POP POPs muffled against the fabric. Jon twitched each time but otherwise stayed quiet. After a dozen or so, Clark went back to spanking across the center. Even at Jon's age, Clark's hand was still big enough to cover most of Jon's bottom and he used that to his advantage.
Several hard wallops landed in the same place, and Jon clenched his teeth, body rigid. Clark was surprised-–it was usually Jordan who tried to suffer in defiant silence.
Then again—POP POP POP—Jon really wasn't a little kid anymore.
A few more swats followed, and then the next round caught the sensitive undercurve of Jon's bottom, just at the top of the thighs.
"Ah!" Jon couldn't help himself. "Ah!"
Pressing forward with each blow, as though he could escape, Jon managed to hold back the cries that bubbled up with each sharp smack, but it wasn't easy. He hissed in and out, toes digging into the rug, when his dad went back to the center of his bottom. He laid down several particularly hard slaps, then stopped.
Jon deflated. He clenched his butt a few times and stretched out his legs trying to ease some of the burn. When he was younger, this was the part where his dad would remind him how he'd gotten here and maybe there would be a last firm swat or two to make his point, but the punishment would essentially be over.
No way was he getting off that easy today.
He had a short minute to breathe before his dad slid his fingers into the waistband of his boxers. Jon twisted, splaying a hand wide, temporarily holding the clothes in place.
"Move your hand," Clark ordered again.
"Dad, please, not bare," he begged, voice quivering. "It's so humiliating. Please just leave them up. You can … you can just hit me harder. I can take it."
"Jonathan."
"Please–-"
"Now."
Jon wasn't brave enough to defy the unspoken threat. Trembling, he turned away, then squeezed his eyes against a wash of tears as his only protection swept down his legs. Sudden air cooled his hot skin.
"Just so I know you're getting the message," Clark noted, surveying the bright pink flush across his son's bottom, "you're not to touch drugs, ever again, unless they're prescribed by a doctor. Do you understand?"
"Oh, God, really?"
Clark set his other hand on his son's backside in obvious warning.
"Yes! Yes, sir, I understand."
"And your mom and I didn't punish you last year when we caught you drinking," Clark reminded him. "I hope you know that was a one-time deal. If I catch you drinking again before you're twenty-one–-"
"I won't. I won't!"
"Good." And that was all. Clark's hand lifted, then cracked down with considerable force on Jon's naked backside.
Jon yelped like he'd been burned and instinctively pushed up on the bed to get away. His dad's other hand flattened on his back to keep him in place. More spanks rapidly followed the first and Jon abandoned any attempt to stay quiet.
"Ow, ow, ow!" he cried, rolling his hips back and forth. He felt each one like a hot burn.
Clark hardened his heart and put his free arm around his son, pulling him in close. He kept a steady pace but struck with punishing cracks, followed by Jon's high-pitched protests. In short order, Jon's bottom changed from warm pink to fiery red. After one particularly sharp blow to the center of his bottom, Jon tried to defend himself but Clark caught his floundering hand and held it out of the way.
"Dad, I'm sorry," Jon sobbed. "Please, that's enough, that's enough!"
"That's not up to you, son."
His dad's voice was surprisingly gentle and Jon, distraught and aching, let the tears come. His dad had never spanked him so long or so hard before. His entire butt was on fire. And when his dad tipped him forward slightly so that his toes just barely reached the floor, Jon knew what was coming.
"No, wait!"
Still keeping Jon's hand tucked away, Clark peppered the underside of his glowing backside again with sharp, blistering strikes.
Jon howled.
Clark aimed a dozen more slaps to the relatively untouched tops of his thighs.
"Owwow!" Jon shrieked. "Please! Dad, stop, stop!"
Clark did not. For several more minutes, he kept up the onslaught, hand cracking down over and over with a relentless determination. Jon, helpless, bawled his apologies into the bedspread. His backside was a deep, throbbing scarlet from near his hips to mid-thigh when Clark finally stopped.
He waited a bit for Jon to settle into hiccups and deep breaths, then patted Jon's back. "Sit up, son."
Jon obeyed, rubbing the tears from his face and wincing when he sat on his punished bottom. He accepted a pillow to cover his nakedness but couldn't speak yet. Instead, he curled his legs up to shift some of the weight and tried to massage the burn away.
"We aren't done."
Jon dragged his eyes off the floor. He tried, and failed, to ignore the strap that was suddenly in his dad's hands. Clark's face was serious and unforgiving, his dark eyes glacial, offering no comfort. With a jolt of fear, Jon realized that this was what other people saw right before Superman took them down or hauled them off to jail.
For one hysterical second, Jon wondered if Superman had ever hauled some bad guy off behind a building instead and had "a long talk." Had anyone else ever seen him holding that strap?
Probably not. Jon was pretty sure the crime statistics would drop immediately.
"I've never punished you with anything other than my hand before, and I never imagined that I would, but this was a real step outside the lines." Clark took a breath and the steadiness of it softened the lines in his face. "Your mom and I thought ten strokes would be enough this time."
"But–"
"We don't mess around with drugs in this family. We don't lie and cheat. Your mom and I trusted you, and you threw that trust away."
Jon's heart clenched in his chest, ashamed. That might have hurt worse than the spanking.
"You're my son. I love you. And I don't believe you sold those drugs."
"I swear–"
"I'm not done," Clark growled. "You said you did. And when we asked you to tell the truth, you refused. You took the blame in front of your school, your teachers. This town. This town that I grew up in, that your grandmother … "
"I'm sorry," Jon dared to whisper.
"You should be. You earned this and you're going to feel every stroke, I promise you." Clark flexed the strap in his hands, then pinned Jon with a fierce glare. "And this will never, ever be repeated. Will it?"
"No, sir."
"Good. And to see if you've learned, before we're finished here, I'm going to give you one last chance to come clean about who the dealer is."
Jon stilled.
"And if you don't tell me," Clark continued with deadly calm, "then you'll take full responsibility for this whole mess and the punishment that goes with it."
A horrified silence filled the room.
Was his dad for real? He knew–-he knew-–that Jon hadn't done it. His dad couldn't punish him for what he hadn't done. And he couldn't rat out his girlfriend. He'd promised to protect her.
"You can't–-you can't force me to tell you."
Clark's jaw tightened but he refused to argue the obvious. "You're going to make a choice. You can recognize that you made the wrong decision and tell me the whole story. Or you can decide that your loyalty is worth the price."
"You know I didn't do it!"
"It doesn't matter, Jonathan!" Clark exploded. Jon's teenage righteousness curdled in his stomach. "You told the world that you did. And I will not tolerate lies and defiance, not to me or your mother. So you'll either tell me who it was or I'll take this strap to you until you wish you had. And you'll find out what happens when you let someone else make you their fall guy. Do you understand?"
Jon wanted desperately to protest, but he didn't have any idea what he could say that would change his dad's mind. He couldn't give up Candace. But how much of the strap could he take? Despite what he'd said earlier, Jon knew guys on the team who practically bragged about what their dads did to them and had the marks to prove it. Ten strokes was entry-level in the Smallville locker room, and if the spanking he just endured was any indication of how his dad was feeling, then the punishment for defying his parents and drug dealing was going to be much worse.
Ironic that he'd finally have a beating to brag about now that no one on the team would ever speak to him again.
"Jonathan. I said, do you understand me?"
"Yes, sir," he whispered, lower lip wobbling.
"Then we're done talking. Back over my knee."
Jon hesitated and for a second, Clark feared he had pushed him too far, been too severe, and Jon would burst into full-fledged mutiny.
He didn't. Gingerly, he repositioned himself in exactly the last spot in the entire world that he wanted to be. Humiliated, still aching, and absolutely terrified about what was coming, he wrapped his arms around a pillow and pressed his face to it to hide the tears that were already welling.
Fury bubbled in Clark's throat and he slowed his breathing to control it, just as he had a thousand times. He had vowed a long time ago never to lash out in anger and he would be damned if did so to his own child. No matter how angry he was. Instead, he looked down at Jon's vulnerable bottom, still a vibrant red and well-punished, hot to the touch. He could see the tiny edges of his hand prints, barely visible. Jon vibrated with anxiety as he waited, the lines of his young body bracing for the first strike.
Suddenly, Clark felt like a monster. Was he seriously about to whip his son with a strap, the same strap he had dreaded as a boy? What had he and Lois been thinking?
Consequences, he reminded himself sternly. Drugs and drug dealing. It was his job to make sure that Jon not only understood the magnitude of his error, but also the seriousness. He needed something to remember. Clark knew from experience that ten strokes would hurt, especially to a boy who'd never felt more than an occasional hand, but they wouldn't even leave a mark. He just needed them to make an impression.
Before he talked himself out of it, Clark folded the strap in half just as his father used to do, set a firm arm around Jon's middle, and snapped the leather down directly across Jon's backside.
For half a second, Jon felt nothing. Then a white-hot flash lit up the band of skin where the strap bit down and he gasped. Before he even had time to react, another blow landed in the same spot.
"Oww!" Jon bucked against his dad's hold. It didn't budge.
"Two," Clark said firmly. He laid another one below, hard but controlled, and Jon moaned in pain. "Three."
A fourth stroke followed. Tears spilled out of Jon's eyes but he tried to keep still.
"Four."
Clark took a small breath, then aimed the next two at the full, reddened underside, catching the curve of Jon's bottom. Thwack! The force of it pressed Jon forward and the strap curled around to nip against his hip. Jon yelped into his pillow.
"Five."
Again. Thwack! "Six."
Jon started to cry in earnest. Clark tightened his grip on the strap and Thwack! It fell with considerable force, easily twice as hard as the previous one, and forced a sobbing breath from Jon, who couldn't stop a plea bursting out through his tears.
"Dad, please, too hard, too hard!"
"Seven."
Three more to go. Clark would follow through on his threat-–if Jon defied him again, he would stop counting and thrash his son within an inch of his life-–but he would hate every second of it. If he laid these ten strokes with enough ferocity, Clark prayed that Jon would take the hint.
So he brought the strap down again, this time laying a line across the top of his thighs. Jon screeched from surprise and pain, kicking his legs out behind him.
"Eight."
Clark aimed for the lower part of Jon's bottom and did it again. Thwack! "Nine."
Jon was sobbing now, and Clark did a quick scan. There were white and pink parallel welts across Jon's skin but no bruising. Clark thought those welts would be gone by morning but if they weren't, so be it.
Last chance, he thought. He intended the final stroke to be particularly harsh, but checked his strength. When he was sure of himself, he raised the strap high and snapped it down once more across the dead center of Jon's bottom.
Whack! The skin went white before flooding with red and Jon shrieked, then collapsed.
"Ten."
Jon lay still as he cried and Clark thought it would be better to give him a minute to collect himself, but he'd had enough. He wanted this over, one way or the other.
"Last chance, Jon. Who was the dealer?"
Jon did his best to stuff down the tears but it wasn't easy. He was half in shock and fully on fire. In a million years, he would never have believed that his dad would punish him like this. His butt felt like it had swelled twice as big, and it throbbed everywhere the strap had touched.
He had learned his lesson. When this was over, he would never, never let himself get in this kind of trouble again. Never look at drugs again, never let down his family like this again. Never take the chance that his dad would bring the strap out again.
But how could he betray Candace? He loved her. He had promised. But how many more would he get before his dad was satisfied? It was all so overwhelming.
He tried to push himself up, to sit and have a minute to think straight, but Clark's hand kept him down.
"Time's up, son. You tell me who the dealer is or you take that punishment, too. I won't ask again."
The silence, other than Jon's fearful, hitched breathing, nearly swallowed the room.
Clark's heart sank but after another minute, he reached for the strap. "Alright," he said. "Your choice. I hope you–"
"Candace!" Jon burst out suddenly, throwing a hand back. "Don't, Dad, please, don't! It was Candace, okay? I got the drugs from Candace. Please, no more!"
Clark stilled, then carefully put the strap down. He put one hand on the back of Jon's head and breathed a sigh of relief. "Okay. Okay, son. Now we're done."
And Jon, knowing it was finally, finally over, dissolved into tears once more.
0 0 0 0
Clark was still sitting beside Jon's bed when he heard Lois and Jordan return. Jon was curled on his side again, sleeping. He had wept a while longer, then finally spilled the whole story, Candace included. Clark just listened, offering no further reprimand or censure. He figured he'd been perfectly clear in that regard.
Once Jon had finished, Clark got him some water, helped him roll into bed, and tucked the covers around him. Jon winced whenever his bottom brushed the covers or the mattress and he ended up hugging a pillow.
"Dad?" he'd asked, when Clark settled into a nearby chair.
"Yes?"
"I'm really sorry," he whispered. "About everything. I didn't mean for any of this."
"I know, son," Clark assured him. "And I forgive you. So does your mom. We'll get it straightened out at school, too."
Pause. "You won't … you won't do this again, will you?"
"I think I got my point across, don't you?"
Jon's wet, splotchy face flushed. "Yes, sir. I … but I mean …"
Clark understood. He hadn't heard Jon sound so young and sad in a long time. "I'd like to say that was the last spanking you'll have. It was certainly the worst you've ever had. You are getting older. It would be nice if I didn't have to do it again."
Jon watched him with wide eyes.
"But I'm not making promises. As long as we're responsible for you and you live under our roof, then we'll decide how you're punished. If you mean the strap, well … I'd like to put it away forever. But I won't make any promises there, either."
Jon nodded. Then he said, "Dad?"
"Yes?"
"About Candace," Jon began. "What are you going to–"
"Jon, I think we can talk about this tomorrow," Clark interrupted. "I know you're worried about her, but I need some time to think about it and you need some rest now."
"You won't–you won't do this, though, right?"
"Do this … ?" Clark was taken aback. "Are you asking if I intend to give Candace a spanking?"
"Yeah."
It hadn't even occurred to Clark, though now that he thought about it, he wondered if the same punishment might be just what she needed. Still … "No," Clark answered, and smiled a little at the relief in Jon's eyes. "I'm not her father, and I wouldn't have any right to punish her. Even if she deserved it. Which she probably does."
"Will you–"
"Enough, Jon. Tomorrow is soon enough to figure out what's next. Try to rest now, okay?"
Jon nodded and closed his eyes. Minutes later, he was asleep. He didn't move when Lois's truck pulled into the drive, or when Clark brushed a hand over his cheek before exiting the room.
Lois and Jordan were talking quietly in the kitchen when he joined them. Clark gripped the back of a chair, the strap dangling from his fingers. Jordan spotted it at once. Shocked, he stepped back and met his dad's stern gaze.
"You didn't–"
"I did," Clark said in a voice that invited no argument. "He's fine. He's a little worn out … a lot worn out, actually. He's sleeping, so be quiet on your way up."
"What the–"
Lois caught the flash of steel on her husband's face and stepped between them before Jordan got himself in real trouble. "That's enough. Jordan, upstairs, now."
Jordan looked like he wanted to say more, but he didn't. He moved to step past his father, but Clark caught his arm. "Wait. You knew about this." It wasn't a question.
Jordan froze, though, being Jordan, he stuck his chin up in challenge. "I … yeah, I did."
"And you didn't tell us."
"How was I supposed to know that he–"
"Stop," Clark commanded, holding up a hand. Jordan fell silent and Lois waited, tense. "It's one thing not to tattle on each other and another thing to keep secrets that could get someone killed."
Self-defense died in Jordan's throat and he looked down. "I-I know. I'm sorry. I should have told you."
Clark nodded. "Yes, you should have. Part of me thinks I should take you upstairs for a long talk of your own."
Jordan paled. "Dad–"
"I'm not going to," Clark finished. "But don't look so relieved. Do it again, and I'll hold you just as responsible for the consequences. Clear?"
A spark of rebellion flickered but his dad was still holding that thing in his hand, and Jordan was smart enough to know that this would be the absolute worst moment to mouth off. Plus, he really should have told his parents. "Clear."
"Good. You're grounded for two weeks. Go to your room."
Jordan didn't argue. When he turned up the stairs, though, a heavy thud made him look back into the kitchen. His dad had dropped the strap onto the table and it lay in a swirl, dark and threatening. Jordan hated the sight of it. He couldn't believe his dad really used it on Jon. What the fuck century were they living in?
As he watched, though, his dad lowered himself into a chair and put his head in his hands. His mom went around the table and Clark turned into her embrace, pressing his face into her belly. She held him close and rested her cheek on the top of his head. They whispered so softly to each other that even Jordan couldn't hear.
Suddenly confused, like he'd intruded on something private, Jordan averted his eyes and went up the stairs as quickly as he could. He found his brother in their room, snoring softly and stretched out like an X across his bed. He got undressed and slipped into pajama pants. It was too early to sleep, but he didn't want to go downstairs again. He would lay on his bed, listen to music, play his Switch with his headphones on for a while. If Jon woke up, he'd be there.
And in the morning, he'd find out what the hell had happened while they'd been gone.