Supergirl’s smirk is an avalanche in the Fortress of Solitude: irresistible, inevitable, and a little bit fatal. “Merry Christmas, you uptight dork,” she says, hands on her hips, the red cape shivering around her legs. “Go ahead, look at your present.” She’s gesturing with both hands, like one of those game show girls in reruns on late-night cable, but the prize isn’t a Mustang or a two-week cruise. It’s Hawkgirl, kneeling in the snow, wrapped in cheerful christmas wrapping paper with a big red bow.

You open your mouth but nothing comes out. The Fortress has seen its share of weirdness—alien dads, sentient jello, Batman in his softboy era—but this is new. “Uh,” you manage, “did you—did you kidnap her?”

Supergirl makes a face. “What, like you’ve never snatched a villain for a little holiday fun?”

Hawkgirl’s mask is off, her big eyes glaring up at you, but her lips are curved in a way that says she’s not totally hating this. Not yet. “She chloroformed me with some kind of pink gas,” Hawkgirl says, “and now I’m—I think I’m mildly high?”

Supergirl beams, claps. “See? She loves it. It’s very consensual.”

You cycle through the correct responses: outrage, concern, awkward boner. Instead, you blurt, “We don’t do that, Kara. We don’t just—”

“Oh, chill, Clark. Your weird robot butler is already making her cocoa.” Supergirl leans in, lowering her voice. “Listen, I know you’re all about the wholesome traditions, but it’s Christmas. Let’s get a little feral.”

She produces something small and heavy from behind her back: a fist-sized box, wrapped in glittery paper. “Here’s your real present,” she breathes, pressing it into your palm.

You unwrap it, trying not to stare at the way Hawkgirl’s thighs clench against the snow, or pay attention to the fact your cousin is actively goading you to ogle her. The box contains a single, crystalline shard—pink and red, gleaming, humming in your hand. Kryptonite. Not any kind you know, but instantly, you feel the tug: the sizzle in your nerves, the way your skin flushes and your thoughts go a little blurry.

“PartyK,” Kara says. “It’s my own blend. Little pink, little red. Makes you less of a narc.”

“Is this safe?” you say, but your tongue feels thick and your face is hot and you can’t stop looking at Hawkgirl, who is currently biting her lip and struggling a bit in the wrapping paper. You vaguely imagine she must be tied up under the paper and feel your cock start to harden.

“Safe-ish,” Supergirl grins. “C’mon, Clark. We all know what you really want to do.”

You try to step back, but you’re already up against a wall of icy blue crystal. “Kara, you can’t just… you can’t—it’s not legal to—“ Your brain is still rebooting. “Kara. That’s extremely not okay.”

She pouts. She actually pouts, lower lip trembling, head tilted. “Geez, Kal. It’s the holidays. You always were the biggest dork in the universe.”

“I’m sorry, Kara, it’s just that…” you start to say.

“I thought you’d be mad at me,” Kara says, suddenly softer. “But I figured… I don’t know. You’d like it.” She’s standing closer now, and you can smell her perfume, sharp and cinnamony, like someone tried to distill Christmas out of a Yankee Candle.

“Kara, you’re my cousin.”

She snorts. “Not by Terran standards, weirdo.” Then, more quietly: “I know you think about stuff. I see what you look at when you think no one’s looking.”

You could deny it, but you’re not that stupid. Instead you stare at the ceiling, which is a safe, neutral zone, with nothing but a few dangling stalactites and the soft, ghostly blue glow of the Fortress’s main crystal. The feeling in your body is somewhere between embarrassment and raw, animal hunger. You try to marshal your mental defenses: You are Superman. You are a paragon of virtue. You have, on at least one occasion, resisted the advances of Poison Ivy. (Though that was a very different kind of plant.)

But as the pink-red glow seeps through your skull, all the discipline in the world feels like toilet paper in a hurricane. Kara sees it, too. Her smile goes sly. “We could unwrap her together,” she murmurs, and before you can say another word, she leans in and kisses you, full on the mouth, tongue hot and sweet and spiked with candy cane. The world tilts. You hear Hawkgirl snort, and then—impossibly—giggle.

You try to get a grip on yourself and you pull back. But Supergirl can see you’re fighting a losing battle.

With a smirk, she plants a hand on your shoulder and gently shoves you toward Hawkgirl. “I bet you’ve fantasized about fucking her, haven’t you? About bending her over the Cryo-Chamber and pounding that tight little pussy of hers till her feathers fall off?”

Hawkgirl makes a strangled groan. You can’t see Hawkgirl’s hands, which means they’re probably zipped up behind her back. You feel your blood go supernova.

You try to protest. “Kara—this is—”

But she just laughs and then leans conspiratorially into your ear. “You wanna know what I see? What you dream about? It’s not just her. It’s not just the wings or the mask or that little warrior snarl. It’s me.” She runs a finger down your chest, over the S-shield, and you swear she can feel your heart battering at your ribs. “You want me to kneel. You want me to call you ‘Kal’ and choke on your cock while you tell me how good I am at making you forget who you are.” She bites the word ‘good’ and you feel it in your teeth. “You want to bend me over the main console and fuck me hard enough to leave dents in the table. Don’t you?”

Your mouth is dry. Your knees feel like they’re made of jello. You try, again, to tell her this isn’t right but your voice is just a wet thing, useless and quiet.

She grins, looking so much like the kid you used to drag to Dairy Queen for free cones, it’s almost funny. “You have no idea how loud you get when you sleep, Kal. You should hear yourself.” Her hand slides down, down, palm pressed against the front of your suit, and there’s no way to hide how hard you are now. “But you always wake up before the good part.”

She steps back, and you see the way her eyes flick to Hawkgirl: the trembling, the hair wild with static, the way her thighs flex and shudder with every breath. “We could make it real. You and me. And her, if you want. Or just us. I don’t mind sharing.” She licks her lips, then glances at Hawkgirl, who is watching with a kind of horrified fascination, like she didn’t realize Kryptonians could even do this.

You want to say no. You want to say this isn’t you. But you can’t move, can’t think, can’t do anything but stare as Kara moves to Hawkgirl and, with a brutal little flourish, rips the wrapping paper away. It tears in a single, perfect line, and underneath, Hawkgirl is completely naked except for the ropes lacing her arms and legs into a bow-legged crouch. Her skin is already goosepimpled from the cold, but her nipples are hard, and her face is flushed with an emotion you can’t quite name.