If At First You Don't Succeed... - finished
by Mdl
Cold late night so long ago
When I was not so strong you know
A pretty man came to me
Never seen eyes so blue
Heart (1976)
Lex was Clark's only failure.
The kind of huge, nasty, messy failure you poke with the stick once in awhile, to see if it still hurts.
So it was, on this soft autumn night, Clark Kent was watching his erstwhile best friend weep on the terrace of his Metropolis penthouse. He was far up, watching with his super-vision, confident Lex couldn't see him. He didn't have the suit on, or the red cape or the boots. He was a tall, dark haired farmer, with a red plaid flannel shirt, faded jeans and lace up steel toed boots, hanging miles up in the night sky staring down.
Superman watched Lex Luthor all the time. Clark only watched Lex sometimes. When the tension in his chest was too large to contain, on warm nights, kissed by the coming winter, he found Lex wherever he was and watched.
Clark had seen many things watching Lex. The man engaged in perversities beyond naming, but from bottomless rage and anger, self-pity, self-loathing, and fear. Lex’s life was arid with it. At the ripe old age of 30, he finally understood what he could not at 15; Alexander Joseph Luthor was very, very afraid.
In the past year, Clark had replayed every interaction he'd ever had with Lex and from "now" he could see everything as clearly as he could see Lex weeping miles below him. In the past year every plot, every shady deal and ugly scene he had witnessed stank of fear.
Years ago Clark had watched Lex, smiling tightly, signing the contracts that destroyed Martha and Jonathan Kent. Nothing shady, nothing illegal, nothing Jonathan's upbringing would allow Clark to fix, just some changes to a federal farm bill. Five years later Jonathan would be forced to sell the farm and move into a charming modern 50+-condo complex. Clark's father had not died, but been transformed. He doddered around, squabbled with the other old men in the complex and pestered Martha. Once a month Clark spent the weekend with his parents, the total absence of dignity making it difficult for him to breathe.
Viewing the scene in his head, Clark could see Lex's fear in his eyes, his shoulders and even in the small tight smile. Martha and Jonathan Kent had shown him respect, Martha actual affection. They had seen the weakness and could not pass untouched. Recently Clark had to remind himself to be grateful Lex's fear hadn't killed them.
Clark often wondered if this ability to see Lex's fear was his brain's latest rationalization for not simply killing the bald man outright. There had been a number of rationalizations over the past 15 years. As a boy in the barn loft, he simply disbelieved. Lex could not live without Clark; he would realize that in time and come back.
As a romantic, mostly cynical 22-year-old Met U student he told himself to kill Lex would be to become Lex and that would never do. At 25, interning at the Daily Planet, the rationalization became all tied up in justice and duty and change from within the system. This was a rather more workman-like rationalization and it lasted almost 5 years, until Lex started to get worse, much worse.
A week ago Clark watched the dark haired Dom beat Lex nearly to death. They were both so stoned. The two of them stumbled through the door to the penthouse, latched onto each other's mouths, pulling at each other’s clothes. Lex was all in black leather, the dark haired boy in mesh and satin. The low lighting concealed nothing from Clark, who was gazing right through the roof. Two men, naked to the waist, Lex straddling the dark haired boy's lap, hands in his hair, devouring his mouth. Lex's long pale fingers rolling the boy's dark nipples between them, pinching and tugging, replacing his fingers with his tongue and teeth, licking and biting. Clark had almost gone home then, embarrassed by his growing arousal. He told himself four times he would watch only a moment more. As he began to flex into the turn that would take him away, the boy grabbed Lex's smooth skull, hauled him up to eye level and spit in his face.
It went down hill from there and even though Clark knew he should not stay, watching half hard as the Dom humiliated Lex, he couldn't bring himself to leave. Like the dirtiest of old men he unconsciously touched himself though his jeans as the Dom pushed and dragged Lex out on to the terrace, screaming at him. Clark's hearing reached down for the sounds without his brain's permission.
"Now you're gonna get what you want, bitch. I'm gonna give it to you so hard, so long, I'll be able to kiss you and suck my own dick." The voice was low and hysterical; the hands pushing Lex were angry and uncontrolled.
"Please. Please." Lex's voice was breathless and whining as he stumbled on to the terrace.
In no time, Lex was tied face first on a garden table, and the boy began to beat him. Starting with a soft silk flogger and ending with a bamboo cane that whistled before it struck with a stinging waspish sound on Lex's bare back. Clark stayed in the sky, fascinated and appalled, aroused, until Lex quit breathing.
Without thinking, he was on the terrace freeing the pale, bloody, half-naked Lex. The dark haired boy brushed aside as he lifted the limp body in his arms and carried it into the penthouse. In a weird re-enactment of their original meeting, Clark sealed his mouth over Lex's pale lips and brought him back to life. The man whose hobby was destroying all that Clark loved, Clark saved.
And not just saved. Trapped in a bubble that was part past and part future, Clark tended Lex. He gently bathed his bruised and bloody back, once, just once bringing his mouth close to Lex's shoulder, feeling his breath reflected back from the mangled skin. Clark realized he needed a new rationalization when his next breath came out a strangled sob.
He still could not leave. After cleansing Lex, he found the expensive alligator wallet, paid the stoned grinning boy and pushed him into the elevator. He sat on the bed with Lex motionless beside him, raw back exposed to the air and Clark's gaze. As the drugs wore off and the pain began to penetrate his brain, Lex came to consciousness in a thrashing panic. Without thinking, Clark's right hand cupped the back of Lex's naked skull, holding him in place. His head turned away, Lex couldn't see but he still knew.
That voice, harsher and sweeter for the years of absence, made his name a prayer and a curse, a tone poem to need.
"Clark"
And Clark almost killed him. Tightened his grip on the back of the warm skull intending to end all the hurt, the 15 years of yearning, with a second of painless pressure that would put his fingertips into Lex's soft black brain. As his hand began to close, Lex shuddered, full body and full out, making a whole pillow book of his name.
"Clark"
The shudder passed into his hand, through his arm; into his chest and groin. From his crouch above Lex's mauled back he replaced his hand with his mouth, cupping his lips around the small bump on the back of Lex's head, gently suckling and tonguing. Lex called Clark's name one last time, so full of "help me", Clark thought he might die from it.
"Clark"
Because his heart didn't stop he executed plan B and faded away. Failing the failure one more time, running when he should have stood fast and still, giving into his fear while pitying Lex for giving into his. Clark fucking Kent, pathetic hypocrite.
For a week, he stayed away, until the dream drove him back. Hot in his bed in his tiny tenement apartment he relived that first/last night again and again and again.
Clark Kent and Lex Luthor, both so very young and innocent, sat in the back of a red pick-up truck and watched the sun set. Lex had picked him up in the truck and let him drive. On a small hill overlooking a still pond, Lex produced soft woolen blankets, lined with silk, a big woven basket full of junk food and brandy. The air was thick and soft with the end of summer; the breeze carried a hint of cold. Lex's right hand, white knuckled the brandy bottle, draped over the edge of the truck. His left arm was stretched under the window of the cab, almost resting on the top of Clark's head as the teen slouched beside him, weight resting on his right arm. Clark could play all of that day in his mind, smell the conflicted air, taste the foreshadowed winter under the muggy heat of the Indian summer. Sometimes Clark woke from the dream at this pure sweet place with tears in his eyes, unable to catch his breath. He ached for their innocence, perfectly preserved in the moment before their weakness and youth combined to destroy them.
Cheated of sleep, Clark simply forced down his tears, panted until the pressure in his chest eased and unspooled the rest of it in his alien brain. He lay on his sweaty, musty sheets for 7 days. He didn't drink or rest or eat or come as he touched himself and relived perfection.
Lex's arms spread wide as he sat wedged in the corner of the truck, his jacket brushing the top of Clark's head like Lex's ghost caressing him. Looking up from under his eyelids, he shivered at the way Lex's top lip curled over his teeth as he gulped the brandy, pulled the bottle away and rested his hand on the side of the truck. The tension in his whole body sought release, as he detailed the meeting with his father. Clark watched the pansy colored marks on Lex's throat and jaw flex with anger and knew these marks showed the exact shape of Lionel Luthor's long hands.
When Lex looked down at him, one pale eyebrow arched, the fingers on Clark's right hand twitched. Misreading badly, Lex curled over Clark to hand him the brandy, but Clark reached past it to lay his palm against Lex's face and caress away the marks left by his father.
Lex panicked, of course. Rearing back in horror and fear, he almost fell out of the corner of the truck. At fifteen, Clark knew little about sex and less than nothing about sex between men, but he knew Lex. Rapidly he grabbed the bald young man and held him secure against the soft blanket, keeping Lex still with his lower body. God, it was amazing. Lex all firm and soft, grim and yearning. Clark stroked Lex's naked head and exposed throat, murmuring into his ear.
"It's okay, Lex," and the body under his arched toward him at the sound of the name.
"It's me. You’re with me. Feel. I won't hurt you. Please, just let me. . ."
Heal you, love you, touch you, Clark wasn't sure what came next, but his body was. His cock pressed along Lex's, the lengths of them touching, making him crazy and desperate. He began to lick Lionel's marks with the flat of his tongue, trying to erase them, ease Lex, own Lex.
As Lex arched into him again, rubbing the length of them together, Clark lost control. He’d never used his speed in front of any one before, it was a secret, intimate thing, part of his difference. He used it now because it was secret, dirty almost, stopping only when Lex lay naked along his chest, trapped in Clark’s arms. His bald head tucked under Clark’s chin, the smell of him filled Clark’s brain, all burning fall leaves and ambergris. It was liberating and peaceful and breathless and - God - so hard, so home.
The goodness of it was so overwhelming Clark began to cry. Silent tears slipped down his face and it was his turn to move against Lex. His dick was so hard it was weeping, too. Lex felt the tears, like rain, and gazed up at Clark. His look was enigmatic, full of secrets and pain. But what it was mostly full of was need. He set his hands on either side of Clark’s head and began to shift his hips. Slowly at first, his eyes boring into Clark’s as the length of him moved. His head dipped and his lips brushed against Clark’s, so soft, leisurely like the movement of his groin. His pink tongue traced the edges of Clark’s mouth and then moved up to lick the tears off Clark’s cheeks and out of his eyes. The movement changed the way they were connected, making it more urgent. Clark felt his entire body bend upward, looking for Lex. He wondered, ridiculously, if he could die from this and if Lex’s eyes had always been that strange, perfect shade of blue.
Then he ceased to think at all, because Lex returned to his mouth, plundering it. Biting his lips, sucking his tongue, stealing his own name from Clark’s throat and replacing it with sounds Clark didn’t even know he could make. Then somehow the length of him was slick and hot against Lex’s stomach. Unable to stay still, he parted his legs and twitched, the spasm lodging the smooth hairless length of Lex across his balls, towards the centre of him.
Lex moved away from his mouth, biting the sides of his face, hard enough to break somebody else’s skin. Biting his neck and the curve of Clark’s jaw, trying to hurt him, mark Clark as Lionel had marked him. Failing he moved down to bite Clark’s throat and neck. Forcing his legs further apart, Clark pressed more firmly into Lex’s stomach, Lex pressed more firmly into his balls. The head of Lex’s cock nudging, pressing, barely breeching Clark. Promising things. Filthy wonderful things that he had never even imagined, but now wanted beyond honor or hope.
He moved his hands above his head to grip the rim of the truck bed, because he had to touch something and he wasn’t sure he could safely touch Lex. The thurst of his chest moved Lex’s mouth away from his throat and he gasped at the loss, until Lex began to lick his right nipple. Softly at first, then with lapping and bites and sucking, so intense, so hard and soft, so sick, and yet somehow pure. Clark had no idea a person could feel so many things at once, know so many contradictory truths, want something to go on forever and yet die to be released from it.
Lex’s body reared up suddenly, his chest pale in the moonlight, smooth and hairless, abs and pecs glistening with sweat and pre-cum. His arms like a cut glass sculpture growing out of Clark’s chest. His terrible beauty forced Clark’s eyes to close, until Lex spoke.
“Open your eyes, Clark.”
As he did, Lex thrust his hips forward and down, seating himself deep into Clark, locking their lower bodies together as their eyes were locked, rough saphire blue to meteor green, in to out, yin to yang, completed. Lex’s chest was heaving as he rocked his hips in slow short strokes, probing Clark, burning him.
In a breath all control was gone, all rhythm given up, stroking becoming slamming, whimpers becoming gulps and then screams, then howls at the bright Kansas moon. Their blood pulsed together as Lex came inside Clark and Clark came into the soft bitter night.
Lex boneless on his chest was almost better than what had gone before. Lex spooned against his chest with the back of his skull pressed to Clark’s mouth, so he could lick and suck to his heart's content, was best of all. Clark’s name on Lex’s lips as sleep came was a sign from fate and the Gods that all was unfolding as it should.
But, of course, it wasn’t.
Clark woke alone, on his stomach in the bed of the truck. It was moving. His clothes were gone and before he could sit up the truck stopped at the road that led to the farm.
The voice coming out of Lex’s mouth was one he had only ever heard directed at Lionel.
“Get out.” It said. “Now.”
So Clark did, moving towards the front of the truck, knowing if he could see Lex’s eyes he would know what to do. He got an arm instead and it dropped his clothes to the ground. Stunned, Clark froze and in that moment, Lex just drove away, leaving him standing in the dust of morning, naked, confused and embarrassed to death.
Lex shut him out and shut him down. He only slipped once. At a concert in the town square, Clark turned a corner and brought the two of them face to face. Their eyes met and for a single moment, the pain and the need in Lex broke through, making his eyes the exact raw color that they had been that night in the back of the red truck. Then the mask fell into place, Lex turned to the blonde woman on his arm, gave her a smile that ripped Clark’s heart out and moved on.
The next day, Lex Luthor went back to Metropolis and Clark Kent began to collect rationalizations.
From the sky above the penthouse, Clark could look back and see the fear. He understood now that Lex had been trying to drive him away from the moment Clark had first touched him, the biting, the lack of lube, it was all fairly clear. Now.
Lightening split the sky behind him and thunder echoed seconds later in his head. His ears, still cheating traitors, reached for the ragged sound of Lex’s voice, so far below him. Underneath the sobs of anguish, he could hear the pleading, surprised one man could work that much pain and want and need into a simple name. His name.
The rain started and before he was even wet, Clark Kent dropped like a stone towards Lex Luthor, finally strong enough to submit to his own particular force of gravity. Clutching a bright shiny new rationalization to his soul, Clark went to do what he'd lacked the strength to do before.
Either love Lex Luthor or kill him.
END
Cold late night so long ago
When I was not so strong you know
A pretty man came to me
Never seen eyes so blue
Heart (1976)
Lex was Clark's only failure.
The kind of huge, nasty, messy failure you poke with the stick once in awhile, to see if it still hurts.
So it was, on this soft autumn night, Clark Kent was watching his erstwhile best friend weep on the terrace of his Metropolis penthouse. He was far up, watching with his super-vision, confident Lex couldn't see him. He didn't have the suit on, or the red cape or the boots. He was a tall, dark haired farmer, with a red plaid flannel shirt, faded jeans and lace up steel toed boots, hanging miles up in the night sky staring down.
Superman watched Lex Luthor all the time. Clark only watched Lex sometimes. When the tension in his chest was too large to contain, on warm nights, kissed by the coming winter, he found Lex wherever he was and watched.
Clark had seen many things watching Lex. The man engaged in perversities beyond naming, but from bottomless rage and anger, self-pity, self-loathing, and fear. Lex’s life was arid with it. At the ripe old age of 30, he finally understood what he could not at 15; Alexander Joseph Luthor was very, very afraid.
In the past year, Clark had replayed every interaction he'd ever had with Lex and from "now" he could see everything as clearly as he could see Lex weeping miles below him. In the past year every plot, every shady deal and ugly scene he had witnessed stank of fear.
Years ago Clark had watched Lex, smiling tightly, signing the contracts that destroyed Martha and Jonathan Kent. Nothing shady, nothing illegal, nothing Jonathan's upbringing would allow Clark to fix, just some changes to a federal farm bill. Five years later Jonathan would be forced to sell the farm and move into a charming modern 50+-condo complex. Clark's father had not died, but been transformed. He doddered around, squabbled with the other old men in the complex and pestered Martha. Once a month Clark spent the weekend with his parents, the total absence of dignity making it difficult for him to breathe.
Viewing the scene in his head, Clark could see Lex's fear in his eyes, his shoulders and even in the small tight smile. Martha and Jonathan Kent had shown him respect, Martha actual affection. They had seen the weakness and could not pass untouched. Recently Clark had to remind himself to be grateful Lex's fear hadn't killed them.
Clark often wondered if this ability to see Lex's fear was his brain's latest rationalization for not simply killing the bald man outright. There had been a number of rationalizations over the past 15 years. As a boy in the barn loft, he simply disbelieved. Lex could not live without Clark; he would realize that in time and come back.
As a romantic, mostly cynical 22-year-old Met U student he told himself to kill Lex would be to become Lex and that would never do. At 25, interning at the Daily Planet, the rationalization became all tied up in justice and duty and change from within the system. This was a rather more workman-like rationalization and it lasted almost 5 years, until Lex started to get worse, much worse.
A week ago Clark watched the dark haired Dom beat Lex nearly to death. They were both so stoned. The two of them stumbled through the door to the penthouse, latched onto each other's mouths, pulling at each other’s clothes. Lex was all in black leather, the dark haired boy in mesh and satin. The low lighting concealed nothing from Clark, who was gazing right through the roof. Two men, naked to the waist, Lex straddling the dark haired boy's lap, hands in his hair, devouring his mouth. Lex's long pale fingers rolling the boy's dark nipples between them, pinching and tugging, replacing his fingers with his tongue and teeth, licking and biting. Clark had almost gone home then, embarrassed by his growing arousal. He told himself four times he would watch only a moment more. As he began to flex into the turn that would take him away, the boy grabbed Lex's smooth skull, hauled him up to eye level and spit in his face.
It went down hill from there and even though Clark knew he should not stay, watching half hard as the Dom humiliated Lex, he couldn't bring himself to leave. Like the dirtiest of old men he unconsciously touched himself though his jeans as the Dom pushed and dragged Lex out on to the terrace, screaming at him. Clark's hearing reached down for the sounds without his brain's permission.
"Now you're gonna get what you want, bitch. I'm gonna give it to you so hard, so long, I'll be able to kiss you and suck my own dick." The voice was low and hysterical; the hands pushing Lex were angry and uncontrolled.
"Please. Please." Lex's voice was breathless and whining as he stumbled on to the terrace.
In no time, Lex was tied face first on a garden table, and the boy began to beat him. Starting with a soft silk flogger and ending with a bamboo cane that whistled before it struck with a stinging waspish sound on Lex's bare back. Clark stayed in the sky, fascinated and appalled, aroused, until Lex quit breathing.
Without thinking, he was on the terrace freeing the pale, bloody, half-naked Lex. The dark haired boy brushed aside as he lifted the limp body in his arms and carried it into the penthouse. In a weird re-enactment of their original meeting, Clark sealed his mouth over Lex's pale lips and brought him back to life. The man whose hobby was destroying all that Clark loved, Clark saved.
And not just saved. Trapped in a bubble that was part past and part future, Clark tended Lex. He gently bathed his bruised and bloody back, once, just once bringing his mouth close to Lex's shoulder, feeling his breath reflected back from the mangled skin. Clark realized he needed a new rationalization when his next breath came out a strangled sob.
He still could not leave. After cleansing Lex, he found the expensive alligator wallet, paid the stoned grinning boy and pushed him into the elevator. He sat on the bed with Lex motionless beside him, raw back exposed to the air and Clark's gaze. As the drugs wore off and the pain began to penetrate his brain, Lex came to consciousness in a thrashing panic. Without thinking, Clark's right hand cupped the back of Lex's naked skull, holding him in place. His head turned away, Lex couldn't see but he still knew.
That voice, harsher and sweeter for the years of absence, made his name a prayer and a curse, a tone poem to need.
"Clark"
And Clark almost killed him. Tightened his grip on the back of the warm skull intending to end all the hurt, the 15 years of yearning, with a second of painless pressure that would put his fingertips into Lex's soft black brain. As his hand began to close, Lex shuddered, full body and full out, making a whole pillow book of his name.
"Clark"
The shudder passed into his hand, through his arm; into his chest and groin. From his crouch above Lex's mauled back he replaced his hand with his mouth, cupping his lips around the small bump on the back of Lex's head, gently suckling and tonguing. Lex called Clark's name one last time, so full of "help me", Clark thought he might die from it.
"Clark"
Because his heart didn't stop he executed plan B and faded away. Failing the failure one more time, running when he should have stood fast and still, giving into his fear while pitying Lex for giving into his. Clark fucking Kent, pathetic hypocrite.
For a week, he stayed away, until the dream drove him back. Hot in his bed in his tiny tenement apartment he relived that first/last night again and again and again.
Clark Kent and Lex Luthor, both so very young and innocent, sat in the back of a red pick-up truck and watched the sun set. Lex had picked him up in the truck and let him drive. On a small hill overlooking a still pond, Lex produced soft woolen blankets, lined with silk, a big woven basket full of junk food and brandy. The air was thick and soft with the end of summer; the breeze carried a hint of cold. Lex's right hand, white knuckled the brandy bottle, draped over the edge of the truck. His left arm was stretched under the window of the cab, almost resting on the top of Clark's head as the teen slouched beside him, weight resting on his right arm. Clark could play all of that day in his mind, smell the conflicted air, taste the foreshadowed winter under the muggy heat of the Indian summer. Sometimes Clark woke from the dream at this pure sweet place with tears in his eyes, unable to catch his breath. He ached for their innocence, perfectly preserved in the moment before their weakness and youth combined to destroy them.
Cheated of sleep, Clark simply forced down his tears, panted until the pressure in his chest eased and unspooled the rest of it in his alien brain. He lay on his sweaty, musty sheets for 7 days. He didn't drink or rest or eat or come as he touched himself and relived perfection.
Lex's arms spread wide as he sat wedged in the corner of the truck, his jacket brushing the top of Clark's head like Lex's ghost caressing him. Looking up from under his eyelids, he shivered at the way Lex's top lip curled over his teeth as he gulped the brandy, pulled the bottle away and rested his hand on the side of the truck. The tension in his whole body sought release, as he detailed the meeting with his father. Clark watched the pansy colored marks on Lex's throat and jaw flex with anger and knew these marks showed the exact shape of Lionel Luthor's long hands.
When Lex looked down at him, one pale eyebrow arched, the fingers on Clark's right hand twitched. Misreading badly, Lex curled over Clark to hand him the brandy, but Clark reached past it to lay his palm against Lex's face and caress away the marks left by his father.
Lex panicked, of course. Rearing back in horror and fear, he almost fell out of the corner of the truck. At fifteen, Clark knew little about sex and less than nothing about sex between men, but he knew Lex. Rapidly he grabbed the bald young man and held him secure against the soft blanket, keeping Lex still with his lower body. God, it was amazing. Lex all firm and soft, grim and yearning. Clark stroked Lex's naked head and exposed throat, murmuring into his ear.
"It's okay, Lex," and the body under his arched toward him at the sound of the name.
"It's me. You’re with me. Feel. I won't hurt you. Please, just let me. . ."
Heal you, love you, touch you, Clark wasn't sure what came next, but his body was. His cock pressed along Lex's, the lengths of them touching, making him crazy and desperate. He began to lick Lionel's marks with the flat of his tongue, trying to erase them, ease Lex, own Lex.
As Lex arched into him again, rubbing the length of them together, Clark lost control. He’d never used his speed in front of any one before, it was a secret, intimate thing, part of his difference. He used it now because it was secret, dirty almost, stopping only when Lex lay naked along his chest, trapped in Clark’s arms. His bald head tucked under Clark’s chin, the smell of him filled Clark’s brain, all burning fall leaves and ambergris. It was liberating and peaceful and breathless and - God - so hard, so home.
The goodness of it was so overwhelming Clark began to cry. Silent tears slipped down his face and it was his turn to move against Lex. His dick was so hard it was weeping, too. Lex felt the tears, like rain, and gazed up at Clark. His look was enigmatic, full of secrets and pain. But what it was mostly full of was need. He set his hands on either side of Clark’s head and began to shift his hips. Slowly at first, his eyes boring into Clark’s as the length of him moved. His head dipped and his lips brushed against Clark’s, so soft, leisurely like the movement of his groin. His pink tongue traced the edges of Clark’s mouth and then moved up to lick the tears off Clark’s cheeks and out of his eyes. The movement changed the way they were connected, making it more urgent. Clark felt his entire body bend upward, looking for Lex. He wondered, ridiculously, if he could die from this and if Lex’s eyes had always been that strange, perfect shade of blue.
Then he ceased to think at all, because Lex returned to his mouth, plundering it. Biting his lips, sucking his tongue, stealing his own name from Clark’s throat and replacing it with sounds Clark didn’t even know he could make. Then somehow the length of him was slick and hot against Lex’s stomach. Unable to stay still, he parted his legs and twitched, the spasm lodging the smooth hairless length of Lex across his balls, towards the centre of him.
Lex moved away from his mouth, biting the sides of his face, hard enough to break somebody else’s skin. Biting his neck and the curve of Clark’s jaw, trying to hurt him, mark Clark as Lionel had marked him. Failing he moved down to bite Clark’s throat and neck. Forcing his legs further apart, Clark pressed more firmly into Lex’s stomach, Lex pressed more firmly into his balls. The head of Lex’s cock nudging, pressing, barely breeching Clark. Promising things. Filthy wonderful things that he had never even imagined, but now wanted beyond honor or hope.
He moved his hands above his head to grip the rim of the truck bed, because he had to touch something and he wasn’t sure he could safely touch Lex. The thurst of his chest moved Lex’s mouth away from his throat and he gasped at the loss, until Lex began to lick his right nipple. Softly at first, then with lapping and bites and sucking, so intense, so hard and soft, so sick, and yet somehow pure. Clark had no idea a person could feel so many things at once, know so many contradictory truths, want something to go on forever and yet die to be released from it.
Lex’s body reared up suddenly, his chest pale in the moonlight, smooth and hairless, abs and pecs glistening with sweat and pre-cum. His arms like a cut glass sculpture growing out of Clark’s chest. His terrible beauty forced Clark’s eyes to close, until Lex spoke.
“Open your eyes, Clark.”
As he did, Lex thrust his hips forward and down, seating himself deep into Clark, locking their lower bodies together as their eyes were locked, rough saphire blue to meteor green, in to out, yin to yang, completed. Lex’s chest was heaving as he rocked his hips in slow short strokes, probing Clark, burning him.
In a breath all control was gone, all rhythm given up, stroking becoming slamming, whimpers becoming gulps and then screams, then howls at the bright Kansas moon. Their blood pulsed together as Lex came inside Clark and Clark came into the soft bitter night.
Lex boneless on his chest was almost better than what had gone before. Lex spooned against his chest with the back of his skull pressed to Clark’s mouth, so he could lick and suck to his heart's content, was best of all. Clark’s name on Lex’s lips as sleep came was a sign from fate and the Gods that all was unfolding as it should.
But, of course, it wasn’t.
Clark woke alone, on his stomach in the bed of the truck. It was moving. His clothes were gone and before he could sit up the truck stopped at the road that led to the farm.
The voice coming out of Lex’s mouth was one he had only ever heard directed at Lionel.
“Get out.” It said. “Now.”
So Clark did, moving towards the front of the truck, knowing if he could see Lex’s eyes he would know what to do. He got an arm instead and it dropped his clothes to the ground. Stunned, Clark froze and in that moment, Lex just drove away, leaving him standing in the dust of morning, naked, confused and embarrassed to death.
Lex shut him out and shut him down. He only slipped once. At a concert in the town square, Clark turned a corner and brought the two of them face to face. Their eyes met and for a single moment, the pain and the need in Lex broke through, making his eyes the exact raw color that they had been that night in the back of the red truck. Then the mask fell into place, Lex turned to the blonde woman on his arm, gave her a smile that ripped Clark’s heart out and moved on.
The next day, Lex Luthor went back to Metropolis and Clark Kent began to collect rationalizations.
From the sky above the penthouse, Clark could look back and see the fear. He understood now that Lex had been trying to drive him away from the moment Clark had first touched him, the biting, the lack of lube, it was all fairly clear. Now.
Lightening split the sky behind him and thunder echoed seconds later in his head. His ears, still cheating traitors, reached for the ragged sound of Lex’s voice, so far below him. Underneath the sobs of anguish, he could hear the pleading, surprised one man could work that much pain and want and need into a simple name. His name.
The rain started and before he was even wet, Clark Kent dropped like a stone towards Lex Luthor, finally strong enough to submit to his own particular force of gravity. Clutching a bright shiny new rationalization to his soul, Clark went to do what he'd lacked the strength to do before.
Either love Lex Luthor or kill him.
END