Thamiris (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} thamiris) wrote,@ 2005-10-24 17:24:00 |
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FIC: Tied to the Wrist (SV, Clark/Lex, NC-17)
Title: Tied to the Wrist
Author: Thamiris
Fandom: Smallville
Category: Romanti-porn with tiny angsty teeth.
Rating: NC-17
Length: 4608 words
Pairing: Clark/Lex
Summary: Clark longs and denies and tangles himself in a net of feelings while everyone watches, some harder than others.
Notes: Forestrella30, based on her prompt, which appears at the story's end. Part of svmadelyn's flashfiction challenge.
*
But time is tied to the wrist
or kept in a box, ticking with impatience.
--Craig Raine
*
To survive until tomorrow, Clark plunks down on the window ledge, misaligned blinds overhead, and channels the weather. Cool, super cool, super fall cool, not so grey he's boring, not so red and orangey that the effort shows. He can do this.
Not that it matters or anything. Not that he really cares, like this is a date and he's fifteen with maybe a thing, a crush, a crushing thing for the local lord of the manor guy. Because that's Paleolithic and now is practically grown- up if you squint a little, medium-sized man on campus, not to mention the sideline as Saving Man or Fly-Guy or...Okay, not sure on the official title but the point is he's not editor in chief of Geekhood for Dummies anymore, maybe not somebody but blocks from nobody.
There's rain on the window and when he raises his hand to touch the glass his fingers are blue. He killed a pen.
Psych 101 with the Freud-crazy prof comes rushing back, and sometimes a pen is just a pen, not, you know, other parts or furtive phallic meanings and he only had that dream once or fifteen times, and maybe Freud could take his cigar and bend over.
Clark tosses the pen-corpse into the trash but the only Kleenex around is balled and...Dream's fault, hasn't had it for years, okay, months, okay, a week, and he can see the scrunched evidence like a yellowing flower in the overflowing can.
Careful doorknob negotiation takes him to the john. He's scrubbing off blue blood when a voice calls, "Hide the goods! Girl entering!" and Chloe scuttles in, wide-eyed and bobble-headed like she's trying to see what she ordered hidden.
"That sign on the door?" Clark says. "The one with the little guy in pants? That means breasted people aren't allowed."
"Their fault for the ‘50s leftover. These days girls wear pants, too." Chloe extends a green-corduroy-covered leg. "See?" She climbs onto the counter and goes crosslegged, watching him with that birdgaze. "Been having the dream again?"
Why, why, why did he tell--
"Why, why, why did you tell me about your recurring hot ‘n' dirty Lex dream? Because I'm your official secret-keeper, Clark. And I asked. Remember? ‘Clark, do you ever have hot ‘n' dirty Lex dreams?'"
"I never said yes."
"It's all in the ten shades of pink and the nanosecond topic-switch." She hands him some paper towels. "So, where's he taking you on this date?"
How in hell does she know--
"Elementary, my dear Clark. Sudden email stoppage means Lex is on your brain, and when I saw the blue trail I knew something hardcore was up."
"It's not a date."
"I quote straight from the source: ‘Clark, we need to talk. Your friendship's always been important to me, and--'"
"You read it?"
"I had to confirm your email actually worked. Not my fault you left Lex's message open for anyone to see."
"Anyone unclear on the meaning of privacy."
"This is the age of Big Brother, Clark. There's no such thing as privacy anymore. Now stop harumphing and give me the scoop. Over coffee. Puce," she adds, waving at the walls, "is so not my color."
When she flashes that big, crinkly-eyed, ‘how can you resist me?' grin, Clark sighs. Not even Krypto-Man...Fly- Hero...Fast-Guy....Not even he's strong enough in the face of Chloe's powers. He makes one last attempt to drop-kick her back across the personal territory line. "Don't you have homework? A deadline? A date with Jimmy what's his name?"
"Done, met, and let's just say that Jimmy has been advised to take his camera and do... just what that graffiti says."
"Ouch."
"Exactly."
When she slides from the counter Clark catches her hand and gives a big-brotherly squeeze. Privacy-phobic or not, Chloe deserves better than what the world dishes her.
*
Chloe finishes her latte in three gulps, bangs her mug on the tabletop, and says, "You deserve some happiness, Clark. Ever since Lana did her Lex-funded runner you've been two of the Seven Dwarves."
"Seriously, Chloe, tell me how you really feel." Clark pokes a cake crumb on his plate, and when it refuses to transform into another slice, watches the rainbow of umbrellas swirling past on the sidewalk.
"Okay. I feel that you and Lex should--"
"It was a rhetorical question. Statement. Whatever. So, what about those Sharks? We could go to a game sometime--"
"Hold on, Subject-Change Boy. We're here to talk about Lex, remember? Bald rich guy who emailed you for the first time in forever? Decisions have to be made then shared with best friends."
Being with Chloe is like getting acupuncture. "I said I'd see him. But it's only to tell him never to contact me again."
"I see." Chloe closes her eyes and wildly waves her hands. "I see like Stevie Wonder."
"He broke up my relationship with Lana, all because..."
"Yes, Clark, please tell me why Lex broke up your relationship."
"Because he didn't want to see me happy. He isn't happy so he can't stand to see other people that way."
"Good thing you're so pretty, Clark. And far be it from me to rain on your Lana-parade, but Lex didn't shoe-horn her out of Smallville. She went because...Look, Clark, I'm just going to say it."
There's a tiny little pause, and a halo of sparks seems to circle her blonde head, but after two years of Chloe's own brand of tact she's ready to burst. Clark, wishing for an umbrella of his own, just mumbles, "There she blows."
Like Moby Dick with a strategically-placed harpoon, Chloe does just that. "She went because she couldn't handle playing Martha to your Jonathan. And watching you play Jonathan to Lex's David. And then watching you play David to Lex's Goliath. And I'm running out of comparisons and sense here, but you know what I mean."
She means he's dull, gay, and handy with a slingshot. Thanks, Chloe. "I don't know why you always defend him," Clark says.
"We third wheels ride together." She cuts it with a Colgate smile.
"Sometimes I think you're secretly in love with him."
Her bark's so loud that half the customers glance their way. "Um, pot? Take a look in the mirror, and not the crazy funhouse mirror you keep confusing for reality."
"Remind me again why we're friends?"
"Because you've pushed everyone else away. You're always testing people to see if they're stronger than you are-- or more of a masochist."
"‘Next week on Dr. Chloe: Why Pop Psychologists End Up Bitter and Alone.'"
For a second her face turns to Christmas wrapping paper, red and crumpled. Then she tosses her swizzle stick at him, hitting him square on the nose. "Remind me again why we're friends?"
"So I don't end up bitter and alone." As he rubs away a few drops of milky coffee the music comes back on, big bouncy sound mixed with laughter and clatter.
"I think we just became an Afterschool Special. We should hug and sing Kumbaya."
Clark's about to answer when there's a sloshy pad of sneakers and a clickclickclick.
"You giving away free hugs, Chlo? Where do I sign up?"
"Look! It's Hugh Hefner back on the porn circuit."
"Hef doesn't take the pics, Chloe. And you took off before I could say I didn't mean those kinds of shots. Not that I'd turn you down, but I just wanted some facials for my portfolio. I mean headshots. Your head. My camera. Both of us clothed." Jimmy, with his rain-flat red hair, orange-Crayon freckles, and big Spaniel eyes, is the picture of sincerity, but Chloe's casting icebergs at him...
...slowly-melting icebergs, and Clark suddenly remembers an urgent appointment with saving the world. "Sorry to cut loose but I've got this massive paper due on Monday. See you guys later."
"Keep me posted on the chihuahua situation," Chloe says a minute later.
Love makes people slow and not very bright.
"The...? Oh, right." Clark leaves, grinning against the odds.
Outside the rain's still begging for an ark, but with Chloe paddling toward happiness inside life seems pretty not bad. He tilts his head like this is a cornfield in spring and not a student ghetto, letting the drops splatter him clean. Except one of them under the streetlight has this odd quality, a shiny translucent glow, and suddenly he really is back in Smallville on a riverbank with this weird wet bright guy staring up at him.
That look might be why he never told Lex the truth. That look, which he saw a dozen times over the years, just eyes meeting eyes, most normal thing in the world, scared the living crap out of him. It was like staring into a Kryptonite hurricane.
Wrapped in fog Clark darts into the clouds. Up here it's all straight lines and clear direction: you take on the world's problems and forget your own. A crow joins him, flying equally straight like they share the same inner compass, an avian sidekick that turns into a black speck as Clark sails high above LexCorp Tower with its windows like unblinking eyes.
Bird-Man. The Aviator. Helping-Guy.
One day he'll get it right.
*
Clark stops a bank robbery, two car accidents, five muggings, and one very unpleasant treed cat named Fuzzy who chew a hole in his favorite jacket. Then Clark grabs a cheeseburger and fries, ignores the miniature Mom on his shoulder groaning "Claaaaaark" in his ear, and heads to the library, choosing a secluded carrel in the basement where the dust's so thick it's actually mutating into real bunnies, and studies for his Philosophy mid-term. At no point does he think of Lex, unless trying not to think of Lex counts. When he slams shut his textbook, the bunnies scamper.
At 10:52 p.m. he's back in the dorm, ready to email Lex, cancel their meeting, and move that much closer to his real life.
At 11:59 p.m., still not past "Lex," Clark gives up and goes to bed where he plots possible outcomes for tomorrow:
Scene 1. Lex won't show up. He's busy, after all, conquering the world, and might just forget.
Scene 2. Lex will show up and be so snotty and Luthor-like that they'll have a huge blow-out.
Scene 3. Lex will show up and be nice, just nice and casual and friendly, apologize for Lana, and wish him well, because Lex is so over him.
Scene 4. Lex will show up and...
When the alarm goes off at 7:21 a.m. Clark gets up, writes "Kleenex!!!!!" on a post-it note, and takes a shower. Then there are only nine hours until Lex. Moths join the butterflies, then some cicadas and grasshoppers until he's practically sproinging around the room. To stay anchored he calls his mother, whose maternal radar kicks in with truly startling speed.
"Clark, are you all right? You sound funny."
He pictures her in the yellow kitchen, phone tucked under her chin as she stirred something floury, and feels nostalgic, twelve, in need of muffins and the simple life. "I'm great. Just miss you and Dad."
"So come home for dinner. I'm making pie."
"I, um, I can't. Too much studying. Big mid-term."
"Do you have a date?"
"No! I mean, no. Like I said, just lots of work."
"Lana sent a postcard from London. She'd like to contact you, sweetheart. She still feels awful about everything that happened."
"She should," he says automatically. "Or not. I don't know anymore. I guess you can't force someone to be what you want."
"You can't force yourself either, Clark."
"I thought you liked Lana."
"I do, honey. She's a sweet girl, and she loved you in her own way, but..."
"But what?"
"But you need someone capable of great love."
He has the strangest feeling that his mom's got someone in mind, which sets off a swirl of panic. Because she can't mean...."I'd better go," Clark tells her, tripping over his words. "Big test today. I mean, Monday. Talk to you next week." She's saying goodbye when his mouth separates from his brain. "Wait! Just one question: what do you think of Lex?"
"Lex is a complicated man who makes two bad decisions for every good one. If he swallowed the compass your dad gave him years ago, he'd do great things."
She doesn't ask why and Clark doesn't tell her, just says, "Love you, Mom," then flops on his bed, counting tiles like minutes in the ceiling.
*
Clark arrives at Ethical Addictions half an hour early to set up. No way he's meeting Lex cold, not with Lex's talent for dissection. When Lex walks into a room, he slices it into pieces, analyzes each one, then puts them back together. Clark chooses a table at the back far from the window so Lex won't catch him looking, orders a large coffee so he'll have something to do with his hands, and starts to read his philosophy textbook--or starts pretending to read with the words changing into crabs crawling along a white beach.
Why is he here? Life is easier without Lex, who turns the straight and narrow into something snaky; for that kind of excitement Clark can swallow a handful of meteor rocks and bungee-jump from the moon. He's definitely here to end their friendship once and for all, the Big Bang in reverse with the universe folding back into itself. No more Kleenex emergencies after dumb messy dreams where Lex is--
"Superman."
"What?" Oh, brilliant opening, definitely impressive, and maybe Clark should have rehearsed his witty repartee instead of thinking pornographic thoughts, and was Lex's skin always that color, almost too white, like a solar eclipse? "I mean, what?"
"Nietzsche," Lex says, pointing to the book. "Can I sit?"
"Go ahead."
He'd forgotten how slickly Lex moves, like he's made of water even right down to this voice. He'd also forgotten how conspicuous Lex is, how everyone stares with bug-eyed intensity, the girls smoothing their hair and the guys sitting straighter. Even the waitress who usually needs to be crow-barred from her cell phone hurries over, all Chicklet-smile and cleavage, which she displays to advantage for Lex as she fills Clark's cup; Lex has his own within thirty seconds.
This meeting is, officially, the biggest mistake since Napoleon did Waterloo, with Lex saying nothing and just looking--and not even river-looking but plain old smooth-faced observation. This is definitely scene 3: Lex is years over him, which is perfectly cool and definitely desirable because being with Lex brings up the usual crazy melting-pot of emotions, including one that was always there but he'd called it something else--
Grabbing for his coffee, Clark miscalculates the distance, and it's Lex who makes the save, leaving only Clark's dignity splattered across the table. "Thanks." The word sounds wrenched from his throat or lower, grudging and childish, but he doesn't know how to fix it or even if he wants to. He'll wait for Lex and maybe hate him a little for the past, for messing with his relationship, messing with his head, and for never looking anything less than a perpetual ad for some Italian designer. Can't the guy ever have a single wrinkle?
"Clark, thank you for meeting me. As I told you in the email, your friendship means a lot to me and--"
Red flag, meet bull. "Too bad it didn't matter when you paid Lana to leave me." The song changes right in the middle of his sentence and the words clang in the quiet. So much for the comfort of righteous anger.
"I didn't pay her to leave you, Clark; she asked for a loan, and I gave it to her."
"Same thing."
"Clark, if I offered your mother ten million dollars to leave your father, would she do it?"
"You offered Lana ten million dollars?"
"No. As I said, she asked for a loan, and I gave it to her."
Lex's point has a very sharp tip; only Lex can make him feel like he's taken off his skin. "But.... You could have convinced her to stay. You could have been a loyal friend and told her it was the best thing."
"If you couldn't convince her, how could I?"
"Because that's what you do, Lex: you convince people that black is white and white is purple."
"Clearly," Lex says, "I'm not very good at it. You still plan to end our friendship."
Not sure what he's planning beyond a psychological melt-down and a punch to matter-of-fact-sounding Lex, Clark shrugs. "It's not like we've even talked for the last whatever."
"I wanted to, Clark. You know how much--"
"Lex, it's just words. There's nothing you can say to make this right. I just...I'll be back." He gets up too abruptly, nearly toppling the chair, and blindly weaves a path to the bathroom.
The mirror is a shock. His face is someone else's, flushed and shining, his eyes wild and this is why he and Lex can never be friends. Lex is a magnet dragging too much from him, scrambling his brain and his body. It was so much easier with Lana, so sweet and calm; even when they fought he never got this riled. But Lex...Just looking at Lex and suddenly he really is ready to believe that white is purple.
And Lex...What goes on inside Lex? Who knows? Lex is this shut door with light shining from the crack below, and who the hell knows what would happen if Clark ever opened it. Not that he wants to--
Of course the door actually does open, the real door, bright yellow painted wood, and in comes Lex.
"You're still here," Lex says like maybe he thought Clark had climbed through the window.
"Just..." What can he say that won't sound monumentally stupid?
"I was thinking about what you said, Clark. How words don't matter. We always end up having the same conversation and it doesn't get us anywhere." Maybe it's a trick of the light, single dingy bulb dangling from the ceiling, but Lex's eyes are doing that bright river-thing, and he almost seems to be shaking.
"Circles. We talk in circles."
Lex is too close, and Clark is breathing too hard. Surreal and too real, too hard to process, too hard...
"So maybe we should give up talking for awhile."
"Oh. Okay." The disappointment's too thick to deny, like a meteor's fallen on top of him.
"That's not what I mean," Lex says very softly. "Not for months or days--just for a few hours. Do you understand what I'm saying, Clark?"
"I'm not sure. Maybe."
"Clark, I want to stop talking. I need to stop talking. I need it so much I can't take it anymore. It's killing me."
Still, Lex doesn't move, just stands there vibrating and glowing brighter than the light.
Oh, Clark thinks. Oh, I've been so dumbstupidblindyoungscared. Lex is waiting. He's waiting for me, and maybe he's been waiting for a long, long time. The simple truth's so there he can practically see it, as neat and ordered as the world when he's flying over it, and all Clark has to do is say, "Yes."
But he doesn't. Even little words can mess them up, and if there's one thing Clark knows it's what to do in a crisis: you shut up and act.
One step. That's all it takes. One step toward Lex, who makes this hungry sound, and suddenly they're together, slammed together, and Lex's tongue is in his mouth, teasing and playing and tasting, his hands under Clark's shirt stroking and rubbing, his cock...God, Lex's cock hard against his....
Clark's rationality skyrockets to Mars. Kissing Lex is beyond orgasm, beyond sanity, beyond good and evil, past and present, real and unreal. Touching the back of Lex's head, feeling that skin under his hand, how hot it is, how it makes Lex moan in his mouth--it's almost terrible, terrible in the big sublime way, and terrible in the time they've wasted not doing this when they were made for it. He even keeps his eyes closed at first, scared he'll lose total control of his heat-vision and fry Lex, because his body's in overdrive and if Lex doesn't stop Clark is going to--
The bathroom door opens, or half-opens because they're right in front of it, and Clark steps back, trying not to pant like a dog in summer while Lex does a speedy adjust, instantly smoothing all lines except one.
"Sorry," Lex says to the guy who's staring hard enough to pop something. "Let's go, Clark."
Clark, less embarrassed than murderous at the interruption, follows him back to the table, watching Lex's hips, his ass, the line of his neck. Naturally, he trips over someone's foot, but Lex turns fast enough to steady him, hand to hand, and there's this long pause while they very loudly, very obviously don't kiss each other before everyone at the coffeeshop.
"Is my place okay?"
Shoving his book into his pack, Clark nods. "Ready."
They don't run, but they're not exactly slow, and Lex's car is right there, a silver Porsche gleaming under the streetlight. When they're in, Lex turns to him and says, "I'm going to drive faster than I've ever driven in my life. Hold on."
"I'm kind of scared to say anything," Clark tells him as the car speeds off, spitting exhaust into the leaves.
"So am I."
"Can you drive faster?"
"God, Clark..." Lex gives him a look so long and scorching he nearly drives into a parked car. "Fuck. No talking. No looking."
"What about touching?"
This time it's a traffic light, a sharp veer that Lex overcorrects. Tires squeal. "Jesus, Clark! No touching, or I'll kill us both."
"That would be too bad, Lex, because I'm really, really looking forward to not talking with you."
The engine roars.
*
Somewhere between Lex's car and Lex's bed Clark has lost most of his clothes, his sight, his higher brain function. (Lex's place is maybe blue? Or is that just Lex's eyes reflecting onto the room?). Now he's ready to lose consciousness with Lex lying between his legs and licking his nipples, one hand tight on Clark's hip.
Like Clark he's wearing only underwear, black tight ones that can't hold him in, and he looks obscene, excited, wild, amazing. That closed door is wide open now, and every time their eyes connect, which is often, it's sparks and flames while Lex says "Mine" and "beautiful" and "God" in a voice so low it sometimes curls into a growl.
Lex is moving lower, still licking, a live current against Clark's bare skin, like flying into a thunderstorm and riding the lightning, sharp flares around him, except this time he feels the charge--
"Clark, I want you in my mouth."
There's no question hanging at the end, straight declaration, and Clark obeys, raising his hips to be stripped fully naked and taken. Lex keeps him waiting, holds him down and looks until Clark thrusts a little, begs in one-word sentences.
Then Lex devours him. Clark, who was expecting something slow and reverential, cries out and arches almost into a circle. He's inside Lex. Lex is sucking him. His cock is in Lex Luthor's mouth. He is fucking Lex Luthor's mouth and Lex is loving it, slurping and lapping and swallowing him alive.
Breathing stops.
Thought stops.
Nothing exists but Lex's scarred mouth around him, Lex's unblinking blue stare, his own hard wet cock that isn't his anymore--Lex owns it, owns him, always has, always will, and it's not even scary anymore, this dark secret that he's buried even deeper than the story of his birth.
"Lex," he says, trying to explain it all, "Lex..."
But his body takes over, does the talking for him: his cells lock, his muscles clench, and for one long instant there's a shout of nothing while Lex hovers, eyes like stars, mouth red, beautiful, and impaled. Then Clark comes, and it's messy, noisy, chaotic, his body shaking, the bed groaning, Lex drinking greedily, so much semen that it spills from Lex's mouth, runs down his chin, drips onto his chest.
Lex stays between Clark's legs, licking up aftershocks, soothing him with slow strokes to the flanks like he's just won the Kentucky Derby. The tenderness in the gestures mixed with the endorphins and Clark starts to smile, then grin, then full-out belly-laugh while Lex crawls up beside him. When he tries to speak, Clark, still laughing, pushes him onto his back and goes down on him, just like that.
Not because he owes Lex a turn; it's unnatural now to be physically disconnected from Lex, who's part of him. Even Lex seems to know this because he goes confessional the second the first shock wears off, tells Clark things cleaned of ambiguity. Clark doesn't even blush, just keeps smiling around Lex's cock, which feels perfectly, naturally amazing in his mouth. He doesn't even worry about his inexperience because he might be new to cock-sucking but Lex's reaction is a flat-out ego boost: he's trembling, gasping around his words, through them, pushing his cock deeper down Clark's throat, fingers locked in Clark's hair.
At one point he pulls off Lex's slick cock and announces, "You taste so good," then dives back down. Lex also has a beautiful cock, built like the rest of him, long and perfectly shaped, facts that Clark also shares with him, which makes Lex laugh.
"Are you sure this is your first time, Clark? Or are you waiting til later to tell me about you and the football team?"
"You're the first. It's not my fault you have an amazing cock."
"You're the amazing one, Clark. God, don't stop. Please."
"Who knew you'd be so polite in bed, Lex?"
"Who knew you'd be such a tease?"
It's the grin that makes Clark swallow Lex deeper than before, that makes him use his tongue in imaginative ways, fingers, too. He wants Lex's control gone again, wants Lex writhing and begging--and gets his wish in about ten seconds. Lex's cock somehow grows harder, and the trembling starts again, concentrated in Lex's thighs, and his hands close over Clark's shoulders. His hunger transfers to Clark, who's suddenly dying to taste Lex's semen, to feel it filling his mouth and his belly, and he sucks hard, wildly, like an animal while Lex prays above him.
He knows when Lex is about to come because Lex, who really is polite in bed, tries to pull away. Clark holds him down effortlessly and sucks more furiously, and--
There.
The first blast is a shock, thick salty cream on his tongue, but one taste is enough: he's frenzied after that, frenzied as Lex, and sucks out every drop until Lex is drained dry and wordless.
Finally, he moves up beside Lex, who takes his hand, and collapses--or seems to, because inside Clark is flying, soaring even, unhooked from the world, cushioned by clouds, the sun resting on his shoulder. Eventually he'll come down because no one can stay this high forever, only this time it won't be falling from blue freedom into mud, into crime and cruelty and bad people who do bad things, people without a compass.
Lex will be there now, and no one's stronger than him, the human version of Wonder of the World number five or seven or eight, that colossal god-guy from Rhodes...
Oh, Clark thinks. Oh. Superman.
*
The End
estrella30's prompt: Clex future-fic. College. The first time Clark and Lex have spoken in years, due to some other sort of argument/falling out (not the Rift.) One of them contacts the other and they see each other and talk for the first time in years. Doesn't need sex (though it would be nice!) but it has to have a happy ending!
Title: Tied to the Wrist
Author: Thamiris
Fandom: Smallville
Category: Romanti-porn with tiny angsty teeth.
Rating: NC-17
Length: 4608 words
Pairing: Clark/Lex
Summary: Clark longs and denies and tangles himself in a net of feelings while everyone watches, some harder than others.
Notes: For
estrella30, based on her prompt, which appears at the story's end. Part of svmadelyn's flashfiction challenge. *
But time is tied to the wrist
or kept in a box, ticking with impatience.
--Craig Raine
*
To survive until tomorrow, Clark plunks down on the window ledge, misaligned blinds overhead, and channels the weather. Cool, super cool, super fall cool, not so grey he's boring, not so red and orangey that the effort shows. He can do this.
Not that it matters or anything. Not that he really cares, like this is a date and he's fifteen with maybe a thing, a crush, a crushing thing for the local lord of the manor guy. Because that's Paleolithic and now is practically grown- up if you squint a little, medium-sized man on campus, not to mention the sideline as Saving Man or Fly-Guy or...Okay, not sure on the official title but the point is he's not editor in chief of Geekhood for Dummies anymore, maybe not somebody but blocks from nobody.
There's rain on the window and when he raises his hand to touch the glass his fingers are blue. He killed a pen.
Psych 101 with the Freud-crazy prof comes rushing back, and sometimes a pen is just a pen, not, you know, other parts or furtive phallic meanings and he only had that dream once or fifteen times, and maybe Freud could take his cigar and bend over.
Clark tosses the pen-corpse into the trash but the only Kleenex around is balled and...Dream's fault, hasn't had it for years, okay, months, okay, a week, and he can see the scrunched evidence like a yellowing flower in the overflowing can.
Careful doorknob negotiation takes him to the john. He's scrubbing off blue blood when a voice calls, "Hide the goods! Girl entering!" and Chloe scuttles in, wide-eyed and bobble-headed like she's trying to see what she ordered hidden.
"That sign on the door?" Clark says. "The one with the little guy in pants? That means breasted people aren't allowed."
"Their fault for the ‘50s leftover. These days girls wear pants, too." Chloe extends a green-corduroy-covered leg. "See?" She climbs onto the counter and goes crosslegged, watching him with that birdgaze. "Been having the dream again?"
Why, why, why did he tell--
"Why, why, why did you tell me about your recurring hot ‘n' dirty Lex dream? Because I'm your official secret-keeper, Clark. And I asked. Remember? ‘Clark, do you ever have hot ‘n' dirty Lex dreams?'"
"I never said yes."
"It's all in the ten shades of pink and the nanosecond topic-switch." She hands him some paper towels. "So, where's he taking you on this date?"
How in hell does she know--
"Elementary, my dear Clark. Sudden email stoppage means Lex is on your brain, and when I saw the blue trail I knew something hardcore was up."
"It's not a date."
"I quote straight from the source: ‘Clark, we need to talk. Your friendship's always been important to me, and--'"
"You read it?"
"I had to confirm your email actually worked. Not my fault you left Lex's message open for anyone to see."
"Anyone unclear on the meaning of privacy."
"This is the age of Big Brother, Clark. There's no such thing as privacy anymore. Now stop harumphing and give me the scoop. Over coffee. Puce," she adds, waving at the walls, "is so not my color."
When she flashes that big, crinkly-eyed, ‘how can you resist me?' grin, Clark sighs. Not even Krypto-Man...Fly- Hero...Fast-Guy....Not even he's strong enough in the face of Chloe's powers. He makes one last attempt to drop-kick her back across the personal territory line. "Don't you have homework? A deadline? A date with Jimmy what's his name?"
"Done, met, and let's just say that Jimmy has been advised to take his camera and do... just what that graffiti says."
"Ouch."
"Exactly."
When she slides from the counter Clark catches her hand and gives a big-brotherly squeeze. Privacy-phobic or not, Chloe deserves better than what the world dishes her.
*
Chloe finishes her latte in three gulps, bangs her mug on the tabletop, and says, "You deserve some happiness, Clark. Ever since Lana did her Lex-funded runner you've been two of the Seven Dwarves."
"Seriously, Chloe, tell me how you really feel." Clark pokes a cake crumb on his plate, and when it refuses to transform into another slice, watches the rainbow of umbrellas swirling past on the sidewalk.
"Okay. I feel that you and Lex should--"
"It was a rhetorical question. Statement. Whatever. So, what about those Sharks? We could go to a game sometime--"
"Hold on, Subject-Change Boy. We're here to talk about Lex, remember? Bald rich guy who emailed you for the first time in forever? Decisions have to be made then shared with best friends."
Being with Chloe is like getting acupuncture. "I said I'd see him. But it's only to tell him never to contact me again."
"I see." Chloe closes her eyes and wildly waves her hands. "I see like Stevie Wonder."
"He broke up my relationship with Lana, all because..."
"Yes, Clark, please tell me why Lex broke up your relationship."
"Because he didn't want to see me happy. He isn't happy so he can't stand to see other people that way."
"Good thing you're so pretty, Clark. And far be it from me to rain on your Lana-parade, but Lex didn't shoe-horn her out of Smallville. She went because...Look, Clark, I'm just going to say it."
There's a tiny little pause, and a halo of sparks seems to circle her blonde head, but after two years of Chloe's own brand of tact she's ready to burst. Clark, wishing for an umbrella of his own, just mumbles, "There she blows."
Like Moby Dick with a strategically-placed harpoon, Chloe does just that. "She went because she couldn't handle playing Martha to your Jonathan. And watching you play Jonathan to Lex's David. And then watching you play David to Lex's Goliath. And I'm running out of comparisons and sense here, but you know what I mean."
She means he's dull, gay, and handy with a slingshot. Thanks, Chloe. "I don't know why you always defend him," Clark says.
"We third wheels ride together." She cuts it with a Colgate smile.
"Sometimes I think you're secretly in love with him."
Her bark's so loud that half the customers glance their way. "Um, pot? Take a look in the mirror, and not the crazy funhouse mirror you keep confusing for reality."
"Remind me again why we're friends?"
"Because you've pushed everyone else away. You're always testing people to see if they're stronger than you are-- or more of a masochist."
"‘Next week on Dr. Chloe: Why Pop Psychologists End Up Bitter and Alone.'"
For a second her face turns to Christmas wrapping paper, red and crumpled. Then she tosses her swizzle stick at him, hitting him square on the nose. "Remind me again why we're friends?"
"So I don't end up bitter and alone." As he rubs away a few drops of milky coffee the music comes back on, big bouncy sound mixed with laughter and clatter.
"I think we just became an Afterschool Special. We should hug and sing Kumbaya."
Clark's about to answer when there's a sloshy pad of sneakers and a clickclickclick.
"You giving away free hugs, Chlo? Where do I sign up?"
"Look! It's Hugh Hefner back on the porn circuit."
"Hef doesn't take the pics, Chloe. And you took off before I could say I didn't mean those kinds of shots. Not that I'd turn you down, but I just wanted some facials for my portfolio. I mean headshots. Your head. My camera. Both of us clothed." Jimmy, with his rain-flat red hair, orange-Crayon freckles, and big Spaniel eyes, is the picture of sincerity, but Chloe's casting icebergs at him...
...slowly-melting icebergs, and Clark suddenly remembers an urgent appointment with saving the world. "Sorry to cut loose but I've got this massive paper due on Monday. See you guys later."
"Keep me posted on the chihuahua situation," Chloe says a minute later.
Love makes people slow and not very bright.
"The...? Oh, right." Clark leaves, grinning against the odds.
Outside the rain's still begging for an ark, but with Chloe paddling toward happiness inside life seems pretty not bad. He tilts his head like this is a cornfield in spring and not a student ghetto, letting the drops splatter him clean. Except one of them under the streetlight has this odd quality, a shiny translucent glow, and suddenly he really is back in Smallville on a riverbank with this weird wet bright guy staring up at him.
That look might be why he never told Lex the truth. That look, which he saw a dozen times over the years, just eyes meeting eyes, most normal thing in the world, scared the living crap out of him. It was like staring into a Kryptonite hurricane.
Wrapped in fog Clark darts into the clouds. Up here it's all straight lines and clear direction: you take on the world's problems and forget your own. A crow joins him, flying equally straight like they share the same inner compass, an avian sidekick that turns into a black speck as Clark sails high above LexCorp Tower with its windows like unblinking eyes.
Bird-Man. The Aviator. Helping-Guy.
One day he'll get it right.
*
Clark stops a bank robbery, two car accidents, five muggings, and one very unpleasant treed cat named Fuzzy who chew a hole in his favorite jacket. Then Clark grabs a cheeseburger and fries, ignores the miniature Mom on his shoulder groaning "Claaaaaark" in his ear, and heads to the library, choosing a secluded carrel in the basement where the dust's so thick it's actually mutating into real bunnies, and studies for his Philosophy mid-term. At no point does he think of Lex, unless trying not to think of Lex counts. When he slams shut his textbook, the bunnies scamper.
At 10:52 p.m. he's back in the dorm, ready to email Lex, cancel their meeting, and move that much closer to his real life.
At 11:59 p.m., still not past "Lex," Clark gives up and goes to bed where he plots possible outcomes for tomorrow:
Scene 1. Lex won't show up. He's busy, after all, conquering the world, and might just forget.
Scene 2. Lex will show up and be so snotty and Luthor-like that they'll have a huge blow-out.
Scene 3. Lex will show up and be nice, just nice and casual and friendly, apologize for Lana, and wish him well, because Lex is so over him.
Scene 4. Lex will show up and...
When the alarm goes off at 7:21 a.m. Clark gets up, writes "Kleenex!!!!!" on a post-it note, and takes a shower. Then there are only nine hours until Lex. Moths join the butterflies, then some cicadas and grasshoppers until he's practically sproinging around the room. To stay anchored he calls his mother, whose maternal radar kicks in with truly startling speed.
"Clark, are you all right? You sound funny."
He pictures her in the yellow kitchen, phone tucked under her chin as she stirred something floury, and feels nostalgic, twelve, in need of muffins and the simple life. "I'm great. Just miss you and Dad."
"So come home for dinner. I'm making pie."
"I, um, I can't. Too much studying. Big mid-term."
"Do you have a date?"
"No! I mean, no. Like I said, just lots of work."
"Lana sent a postcard from London. She'd like to contact you, sweetheart. She still feels awful about everything that happened."
"She should," he says automatically. "Or not. I don't know anymore. I guess you can't force someone to be what you want."
"You can't force yourself either, Clark."
"I thought you liked Lana."
"I do, honey. She's a sweet girl, and she loved you in her own way, but..."
"But what?"
"But you need someone capable of great love."
He has the strangest feeling that his mom's got someone in mind, which sets off a swirl of panic. Because she can't mean...."I'd better go," Clark tells her, tripping over his words. "Big test today. I mean, Monday. Talk to you next week." She's saying goodbye when his mouth separates from his brain. "Wait! Just one question: what do you think of Lex?"
"Lex is a complicated man who makes two bad decisions for every good one. If he swallowed the compass your dad gave him years ago, he'd do great things."
She doesn't ask why and Clark doesn't tell her, just says, "Love you, Mom," then flops on his bed, counting tiles like minutes in the ceiling.
*
Clark arrives at Ethical Addictions half an hour early to set up. No way he's meeting Lex cold, not with Lex's talent for dissection. When Lex walks into a room, he slices it into pieces, analyzes each one, then puts them back together. Clark chooses a table at the back far from the window so Lex won't catch him looking, orders a large coffee so he'll have something to do with his hands, and starts to read his philosophy textbook--or starts pretending to read with the words changing into crabs crawling along a white beach.
Why is he here? Life is easier without Lex, who turns the straight and narrow into something snaky; for that kind of excitement Clark can swallow a handful of meteor rocks and bungee-jump from the moon. He's definitely here to end their friendship once and for all, the Big Bang in reverse with the universe folding back into itself. No more Kleenex emergencies after dumb messy dreams where Lex is--
"Superman."
"What?" Oh, brilliant opening, definitely impressive, and maybe Clark should have rehearsed his witty repartee instead of thinking pornographic thoughts, and was Lex's skin always that color, almost too white, like a solar eclipse? "I mean, what?"
"Nietzsche," Lex says, pointing to the book. "Can I sit?"
"Go ahead."
He'd forgotten how slickly Lex moves, like he's made of water even right down to this voice. He'd also forgotten how conspicuous Lex is, how everyone stares with bug-eyed intensity, the girls smoothing their hair and the guys sitting straighter. Even the waitress who usually needs to be crow-barred from her cell phone hurries over, all Chicklet-smile and cleavage, which she displays to advantage for Lex as she fills Clark's cup; Lex has his own within thirty seconds.
This meeting is, officially, the biggest mistake since Napoleon did Waterloo, with Lex saying nothing and just looking--and not even river-looking but plain old smooth-faced observation. This is definitely scene 3: Lex is years over him, which is perfectly cool and definitely desirable because being with Lex brings up the usual crazy melting-pot of emotions, including one that was always there but he'd called it something else--
Grabbing for his coffee, Clark miscalculates the distance, and it's Lex who makes the save, leaving only Clark's dignity splattered across the table. "Thanks." The word sounds wrenched from his throat or lower, grudging and childish, but he doesn't know how to fix it or even if he wants to. He'll wait for Lex and maybe hate him a little for the past, for messing with his relationship, messing with his head, and for never looking anything less than a perpetual ad for some Italian designer. Can't the guy ever have a single wrinkle?
"Clark, thank you for meeting me. As I told you in the email, your friendship means a lot to me and--"
Red flag, meet bull. "Too bad it didn't matter when you paid Lana to leave me." The song changes right in the middle of his sentence and the words clang in the quiet. So much for the comfort of righteous anger.
"I didn't pay her to leave you, Clark; she asked for a loan, and I gave it to her."
"Same thing."
"Clark, if I offered your mother ten million dollars to leave your father, would she do it?"
"You offered Lana ten million dollars?"
"No. As I said, she asked for a loan, and I gave it to her."
Lex's point has a very sharp tip; only Lex can make him feel like he's taken off his skin. "But.... You could have convinced her to stay. You could have been a loyal friend and told her it was the best thing."
"If you couldn't convince her, how could I?"
"Because that's what you do, Lex: you convince people that black is white and white is purple."
"Clearly," Lex says, "I'm not very good at it. You still plan to end our friendship."
Not sure what he's planning beyond a psychological melt-down and a punch to matter-of-fact-sounding Lex, Clark shrugs. "It's not like we've even talked for the last whatever."
"I wanted to, Clark. You know how much--"
"Lex, it's just words. There's nothing you can say to make this right. I just...I'll be back." He gets up too abruptly, nearly toppling the chair, and blindly weaves a path to the bathroom.
The mirror is a shock. His face is someone else's, flushed and shining, his eyes wild and this is why he and Lex can never be friends. Lex is a magnet dragging too much from him, scrambling his brain and his body. It was so much easier with Lana, so sweet and calm; even when they fought he never got this riled. But Lex...Just looking at Lex and suddenly he really is ready to believe that white is purple.
And Lex...What goes on inside Lex? Who knows? Lex is this shut door with light shining from the crack below, and who the hell knows what would happen if Clark ever opened it. Not that he wants to--
Of course the door actually does open, the real door, bright yellow painted wood, and in comes Lex.
"You're still here," Lex says like maybe he thought Clark had climbed through the window.
"Just..." What can he say that won't sound monumentally stupid?
"I was thinking about what you said, Clark. How words don't matter. We always end up having the same conversation and it doesn't get us anywhere." Maybe it's a trick of the light, single dingy bulb dangling from the ceiling, but Lex's eyes are doing that bright river-thing, and he almost seems to be shaking.
"Circles. We talk in circles."
Lex is too close, and Clark is breathing too hard. Surreal and too real, too hard to process, too hard...
"So maybe we should give up talking for awhile."
"Oh. Okay." The disappointment's too thick to deny, like a meteor's fallen on top of him.
"That's not what I mean," Lex says very softly. "Not for months or days--just for a few hours. Do you understand what I'm saying, Clark?"
"I'm not sure. Maybe."
"Clark, I want to stop talking. I need to stop talking. I need it so much I can't take it anymore. It's killing me."
Still, Lex doesn't move, just stands there vibrating and glowing brighter than the light.
Oh, Clark thinks. Oh, I've been so dumbstupidblindyoungscared. Lex is waiting. He's waiting for me, and maybe he's been waiting for a long, long time. The simple truth's so there he can practically see it, as neat and ordered as the world when he's flying over it, and all Clark has to do is say, "Yes."
But he doesn't. Even little words can mess them up, and if there's one thing Clark knows it's what to do in a crisis: you shut up and act.
One step. That's all it takes. One step toward Lex, who makes this hungry sound, and suddenly they're together, slammed together, and Lex's tongue is in his mouth, teasing and playing and tasting, his hands under Clark's shirt stroking and rubbing, his cock...God, Lex's cock hard against his....
Clark's rationality skyrockets to Mars. Kissing Lex is beyond orgasm, beyond sanity, beyond good and evil, past and present, real and unreal. Touching the back of Lex's head, feeling that skin under his hand, how hot it is, how it makes Lex moan in his mouth--it's almost terrible, terrible in the big sublime way, and terrible in the time they've wasted not doing this when they were made for it. He even keeps his eyes closed at first, scared he'll lose total control of his heat-vision and fry Lex, because his body's in overdrive and if Lex doesn't stop Clark is going to--
The bathroom door opens, or half-opens because they're right in front of it, and Clark steps back, trying not to pant like a dog in summer while Lex does a speedy adjust, instantly smoothing all lines except one.
"Sorry," Lex says to the guy who's staring hard enough to pop something. "Let's go, Clark."
Clark, less embarrassed than murderous at the interruption, follows him back to the table, watching Lex's hips, his ass, the line of his neck. Naturally, he trips over someone's foot, but Lex turns fast enough to steady him, hand to hand, and there's this long pause while they very loudly, very obviously don't kiss each other before everyone at the coffeeshop.
"Is my place okay?"
Shoving his book into his pack, Clark nods. "Ready."
They don't run, but they're not exactly slow, and Lex's car is right there, a silver Porsche gleaming under the streetlight. When they're in, Lex turns to him and says, "I'm going to drive faster than I've ever driven in my life. Hold on."
"I'm kind of scared to say anything," Clark tells him as the car speeds off, spitting exhaust into the leaves.
"So am I."
"Can you drive faster?"
"God, Clark..." Lex gives him a look so long and scorching he nearly drives into a parked car. "Fuck. No talking. No looking."
"What about touching?"
This time it's a traffic light, a sharp veer that Lex overcorrects. Tires squeal. "Jesus, Clark! No touching, or I'll kill us both."
"That would be too bad, Lex, because I'm really, really looking forward to not talking with you."
The engine roars.
*
Somewhere between Lex's car and Lex's bed Clark has lost most of his clothes, his sight, his higher brain function. (Lex's place is maybe blue? Or is that just Lex's eyes reflecting onto the room?). Now he's ready to lose consciousness with Lex lying between his legs and licking his nipples, one hand tight on Clark's hip.
Like Clark he's wearing only underwear, black tight ones that can't hold him in, and he looks obscene, excited, wild, amazing. That closed door is wide open now, and every time their eyes connect, which is often, it's sparks and flames while Lex says "Mine" and "beautiful" and "God" in a voice so low it sometimes curls into a growl.
Lex is moving lower, still licking, a live current against Clark's bare skin, like flying into a thunderstorm and riding the lightning, sharp flares around him, except this time he feels the charge--
"Clark, I want you in my mouth."
There's no question hanging at the end, straight declaration, and Clark obeys, raising his hips to be stripped fully naked and taken. Lex keeps him waiting, holds him down and looks until Clark thrusts a little, begs in one-word sentences.
Then Lex devours him. Clark, who was expecting something slow and reverential, cries out and arches almost into a circle. He's inside Lex. Lex is sucking him. His cock is in Lex Luthor's mouth. He is fucking Lex Luthor's mouth and Lex is loving it, slurping and lapping and swallowing him alive.
Breathing stops.
Thought stops.
Nothing exists but Lex's scarred mouth around him, Lex's unblinking blue stare, his own hard wet cock that isn't his anymore--Lex owns it, owns him, always has, always will, and it's not even scary anymore, this dark secret that he's buried even deeper than the story of his birth.
"Lex," he says, trying to explain it all, "Lex..."
But his body takes over, does the talking for him: his cells lock, his muscles clench, and for one long instant there's a shout of nothing while Lex hovers, eyes like stars, mouth red, beautiful, and impaled. Then Clark comes, and it's messy, noisy, chaotic, his body shaking, the bed groaning, Lex drinking greedily, so much semen that it spills from Lex's mouth, runs down his chin, drips onto his chest.
Lex stays between Clark's legs, licking up aftershocks, soothing him with slow strokes to the flanks like he's just won the Kentucky Derby. The tenderness in the gestures mixed with the endorphins and Clark starts to smile, then grin, then full-out belly-laugh while Lex crawls up beside him. When he tries to speak, Clark, still laughing, pushes him onto his back and goes down on him, just like that.
Not because he owes Lex a turn; it's unnatural now to be physically disconnected from Lex, who's part of him. Even Lex seems to know this because he goes confessional the second the first shock wears off, tells Clark things cleaned of ambiguity. Clark doesn't even blush, just keeps smiling around Lex's cock, which feels perfectly, naturally amazing in his mouth. He doesn't even worry about his inexperience because he might be new to cock-sucking but Lex's reaction is a flat-out ego boost: he's trembling, gasping around his words, through them, pushing his cock deeper down Clark's throat, fingers locked in Clark's hair.
At one point he pulls off Lex's slick cock and announces, "You taste so good," then dives back down. Lex also has a beautiful cock, built like the rest of him, long and perfectly shaped, facts that Clark also shares with him, which makes Lex laugh.
"Are you sure this is your first time, Clark? Or are you waiting til later to tell me about you and the football team?"
"You're the first. It's not my fault you have an amazing cock."
"You're the amazing one, Clark. God, don't stop. Please."
"Who knew you'd be so polite in bed, Lex?"
"Who knew you'd be such a tease?"
It's the grin that makes Clark swallow Lex deeper than before, that makes him use his tongue in imaginative ways, fingers, too. He wants Lex's control gone again, wants Lex writhing and begging--and gets his wish in about ten seconds. Lex's cock somehow grows harder, and the trembling starts again, concentrated in Lex's thighs, and his hands close over Clark's shoulders. His hunger transfers to Clark, who's suddenly dying to taste Lex's semen, to feel it filling his mouth and his belly, and he sucks hard, wildly, like an animal while Lex prays above him.
He knows when Lex is about to come because Lex, who really is polite in bed, tries to pull away. Clark holds him down effortlessly and sucks more furiously, and--
There.
The first blast is a shock, thick salty cream on his tongue, but one taste is enough: he's frenzied after that, frenzied as Lex, and sucks out every drop until Lex is drained dry and wordless.
Finally, he moves up beside Lex, who takes his hand, and collapses--or seems to, because inside Clark is flying, soaring even, unhooked from the world, cushioned by clouds, the sun resting on his shoulder. Eventually he'll come down because no one can stay this high forever, only this time it won't be falling from blue freedom into mud, into crime and cruelty and bad people who do bad things, people without a compass.
Lex will be there now, and no one's stronger than him, the human version of Wonder of the World number five or seven or eight, that colossal god-guy from Rhodes...
Oh, Clark thinks. Oh. Superman.
*
The End
estrella30's prompt: Clex future-fic. College. The first time Clark and Lex have spoken in years, due to some other sort of argument/falling out (not the Rift.) One of them contacts the other and they see each other and talk for the first time in years. Doesn't need sex (though it would be nice!) but it has to have a happy ending!
