
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/5362.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Smallville
  Relationship:
      Clark_Kent/Lex_Luthor
  Additional Tags:
      dubcon, red_k
  Series:
      Part 1 of Incarnadine
  Stats:
      Published: 2009-07-08 Words: 8462
****** Incarnadine ******
by rivkat
Summary
     The Fan-Fiction Writer's Union (NY Local #527) required "Red" follow-
     up story. Contents under pressure. Two things to know: Lex Luthor has
     a nonstandard definition of "consent," and Red K makes Clark horny.
I. Gules
Gules: Old French goules, gueules (Fr. gueules) = med. Latin gulae (plural),
ermine dyed red. The ulterior etymology is disputed: the word coincides in form
with the plural of the French and medieval Latin word for `throat'. If the
heraldic sense be the original, the allusion may be to the colour of the open
mouth of a heraldic beast....-- OED
Lex bit down on a groan, not so much to avoid disturbing Clark's sleep as
because he'd trained himself that way for years. The ruined sheets stuck to the
backs of his thighs and peeled away only with concerted effort.
His boxer-briefs and trousers were puddled in the corner and he pulled them on,
muscles complaining as if he'd run a marathon. Winced at the feeling of not-
quite-fine-enough cotton on his abraded skin. The belt was - closer to the bed.
If there were stains on the black leather, he couldn't see them.
His shirts were a ruined mess. One look at his wrists was enough to make him
skip Clark's T-shirts and go straight to the closet, where plaid flannel with
long sleeves awaited. The shirt looked terrible with Armani trousers, and the
cuffs came nearly to the first joint of his fingers, but it would get him home.
The Lex in the mirror looked like a shaven-headed concentration camp refugee in
a Red Cross-donated shirt. Not good. He closed his eyes and drew on the
attitude that had carried him through years of freakdom at school and beyond,
and when he looked again mirror-Lex's eyes frankly dared him to notice the
bluish tone of his skin and the red edges of the scabs peeking over his collar.
Clark snuffled in his sleep and turned over. Lex noticed that, where he'd been
lying, the sheets were stained a faint pink. That was confirmation, though of
what he wasn't quite sure.
He was beautiful, with the sheets twisted across his groin and his chest like
an Olympian's. Tan and red-lipped and rosy-cheeked. Mostly harmless.
Lex smiled, a death's head reflected back at him in the mirror, and opened the
door to leave Clark's room.
Something was wrong with his left quadricep, and he had to grab at the wall,
trying to avoid the family pictures posted down the hall and along the stairs.
As he limped down, Martha and Jonathan Kent came into view, huddled together on
the couch, looking up at him with apprehension cut with full-on terror.
How loud had they been? It bothered Lex that he couldn't remember. Not that the
evening's activity could have been unclear even without sound effects.
"Lex," Mrs. Kent said, her paralysis breaking first, and she hurried over to
the stairs to help him down. It hurt more when she slung her arm around his
ribs, but he allowed her to do it.
"I think -" He had to clear his throat to continue; he didn't realize how raw
his voice had gotten. So, they'd been loud. "I think he's sleeping it off."
The Kents exchanged a complicated series of looks. Lex envied them their easy
communication, though in this case he would have preferred it be out loud.
"I'll just be going," he continued, attempting to pull away from Mrs. Kent.
She held on, and he was not at his best. "You can't drive in that condition.
Jonathan, I'm going to drive Lex back -" the look she shot her husband could
have dropped a lesser man at twenty feet - "and you can stay with Clark."
Mr. Kent looked like he'd just bit down on a kumquat, but he wisely didn't say
anything.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
"Clark hasn't been feeling well," Mrs. Kent said, wrapping her hands nervously
around her dishcloth. "He went upstairs to rest." There was an edge in her
voice that he recognized as related to the Mystery of Clark. He could have
attributed it to concern that the Kents couldn't afford a doctor. Could have,
but didn't.
"Do you mind if I check on him? If he's not feeling too bad, I could keep him
company."
"Lex, I'm not sure -" she said, but he was already on the stairs. Clark's
bedroom was just at the top, his door cracked open enough that late-afternoon
sunlight from his window spilled on the hallway floor.
Lex opened the door a bit further and leaned in. Clark's back was to the door,
his faded red T-shirt damp with sweat. His legs were tangled in the bedsheets.
"Clark?" he asked softly, not wanting to wake him if he were truly ill.
Clark stiffened, then half-turned so that he was lying on his back, his head
turned to Lex, nestled in the curve of a well-muscled arm. "Hey," he rumbled,
his voice an octave lower than usual.
He came all the way into the room, standing by Clark's bed. Clark's face was
flushed to his hairline, and his pupils were dilated.
Lex put out a hand to touch Clark's forehead, because that was the inane thing
one did when one suspected a fever, but a hand, snake-fast, caught his wrist
and held it a few inches from Clark's face.
Clark carefully moved Lex's hand down several inches, until it hovered over his
mouth, and then licked Lex's palm.
Shocked, he pulled away. Or tried to. Clark's hand around his wrist was like a
steel clamp.
"Hi, Lex," Clark said and smiled up at him, then brought his hand down again,
this time to suck on the center of his palm, which immediately developed a
hotline to his cock.
"Why are you still standing?" Clark asked, in a reasonable tone that let Lex
know, definitively, that he'd entered the Twilight Zone. He tugged, and Lex
found himself sprawled over six-odd -- very odd -- feet of golden boy-man.
Clark's other hand was already at work on his shirt - he heard buttons popping,
and then fabric tore as Clark realized that there was an undershirt in his way
as well.
"Clark," he stammered, though he had no idea what the rest of the sentence was.
Clark's fingers stroked down his chest as if he were petting a favorite cat as
he struggled to put his weight on his knees and get some maneuverability back.
"Clark," came Mrs. Kent's voice from the hallway, "I'm not sure you should be
having g-" Her voice cut off abruptly as she pushed the door fully open. Lex
turned his head to look, even though he shouldn't, and plausible deniability
was over the rainbow by now. If he hadn't liked Mrs. Kent so much, the absolute
surprise on her face would have been funny.
Below him, Clark continued to rub his chest, fingers dipping below Lex's
waistband. "You should close the door, Mom." A wet lick over his ear, what felt
like a fucking acre of tongue. Somehow, Clark had pushed the remains of his
dress shirt over his shoulders, so that it tangled around his wrists. A large
hand on his head, not gentle, turned him so that all he could see was Clark's
face. When he was pulled down for a kiss, he surrendered, closing his eyes as
Clark's tongue swept through his mouth.
Jesus, Mrs. Kent was still in the room! He pulled back, dazed, and wondered
where the blood on Clark's mouth came from. A quick glance told him that Mrs.
Kent was frozen in the doorway, her hand pressed to her mouth.
"Wait -" he said, before he was flipped and pressed into the cheap, lumpy
mattress. Was he losing time? That had happened too fast.
"I'd let you watch," Clark said lazily, "but I'm getting the feeling that Lex
here would be uncomfortable." He rubbed three fingers over the bulge in Lex's
pants. "What do you think, Lex? Should I make her stay or should I make her go?
And if you're wondering where that special box is, I wouldn't bother looking if
I were you." That last was directed at his mother and raised a number of
questions on which he could not have focused even if his father were watching.
He didn't want to see Clark "making" his mother do anything. "Please, Mrs.
Kent, I'm all right," he gasped, and dimly heard the door close, praise the
Lord in whom he didn't believe.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Outside, feet dragging in the dust, he fumbled in his pants for the keys, and
could barely feel when he'd closed his hand around them. Mrs. Kent stopped him
when he headed to the driver's side, and guided him around the car.
"A gentleman never lets a lady open a door," he protested, feeling a bit
punchy.
She gave him a disbelieving look as she wrestled the keys from his clenched
fist. "I'm going to take you to the hospital."
"No!" Thankfully, it came out with the full force of command. "I'll be fine. If
you take me to the hospital, it'll end up on the front pages of the Inquisitor.
It always has before," he added, because she looked undecided.
Tasting blood as he bit down again on his lip, he eased down into the passenger
seat. It hurt, so much so that he barely noticed Mrs. Kent starting the car.
Halfway back to the castle, after shooting a baker's dozen of worried looks in
his direction, Mrs. Kent finally spoke. "Clark was - wasn't himself."
"So I gathered," he said in a voice carefully cleansed of sarcasm. "I'm
guessing he somehow ingested some of the meteor rock, the red kind that was in
the class rings a month back. I think it's leaving his body gradually, through
the normal workings of his metabolism." He didn't offer to have doctors from
Metropolis brought in, even though his doctors were as close as anyone had to
specialists in meteor-related phenomena. More than pride, he thought, would be
at stake in Mrs. Kent's refusal.
He watched the tasseled heads of the corn blur by in the darkness. For once, he
didn't have to try to make his mind blank. It was as if his thoughts had been
torn free, leaving nothing behind. He felt light, almost weightless, ready to
fly.
The car hissed to a stop in front of the castle. "Thanks for the ride, Mrs.
Kent. I'll send someone for the car -"
Mrs. Kent turned the key and let the engine fall silent. "I'm coming inside. I
don't want to leave you alone."
Lex could have pointed out that the castle was chock-full of people who wanted
(or were paid) to be with him, but he had a strong intuition that it would be
useless.
He let his head fall forward, indicating acceptance of defeat. "All right, but
if we run into my father, please don't try to be solicitous of me. He likes to
investigate my allies, have something to hold over them. Okay?"
"I understand," she said.
"Good," he said and opened the door, then stopped with one foot on the gravel.
"No. I need you to agree, not just to understand." He was in pretty poor shape,
to almost miss that one.
Mrs. Kent flashed a quick, almost mischievous smile. "Fine. I agree." She'd
been spending too much time with Lionel.
"Don't lose sight of what you need to protect," he warned her, for extra
security.
He managed to uncurl himself from the Ferrari, though every major muscle group
screamed at him for it, and he took a few unassisted steps towards the entrance
before she caught up with him.
Going up steps was actually easier than going down, he discovered as they
ascended, and then he managed to key in his security code and they were in.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
As they kissed, Lex struggled to free his trapped arms from his shirtcuffs, and
then wriggled them out from under his torso. He tugged at the hem of Clark's T-
shirt and helped Clark strip it off, breaking the kiss just long enough to toss
the shirt aside.
Running his hand along Clark's sweat-slick spine, Lex knew he ought to be doing
something about Clark's obvious personality change. His id whined that he'd
done the so-called "right thing" last time, and a second chance was proof that
it was his turn to take what he wanted.
Up close, Clark's face looked as alien as anyone's ever did, the pores on his
skin visible and the fine hairs on his face outlined in the dying sunlight.
When he looked at his hand curling over Clark's shoulder, it was tinged pink
where Clark's sweat had collected on his fingers.
Well, fuck. Or not, as the case might be. He'd never fucked anyone he didn't
deem reasonably likely to consent if he or she were fully sober, and Clark Kent
was not going to be the first exception.
He pulled back, even as Clark tried to follow, and pushed against his rocklike
shoulders.
"I don't think you're -" He was not going to say "thinking straight." "Thinking
clearly right now, Clark."
Clark grinned in what was almost a snarl. "Nobody in this town does anything
fun when they're thinking clearly."
"Yes, and look where giving in to impulse gets us. Me married to a homicidal
maniac, Lana stealing my car -"
Clark thrust the lower half of his body against Lex, and he lost the thread of
his argument.
"I don't want to take advantage of you," he said weakly.
"Yes you do," Clark breathed in his ear, followed by a slow lick from the
corner of his jaw to his temple. "You want not to want it, but you do." That
truth evoked a full-body shudder.
Fingers scrabbled at his belt, and abruptly his arms were over his head, lashed
to the cheap metal spindles of Clark's headboard with fine Italian leather.
"There." Clark smiled at him, sunny and open. "Now nothing's your fault."
Lex shook his head, but it didn't clear. Was Clark actually moving too fast for
him to see? Or was the influence of the red meteor rock seeping into him, too?
Oh, nice excuse, one corner of his brain protested.
Clark took the opportunity to shuck off his jeans and boxers, and the sight of
him wearing nothing but gym socks was not at all funny. Shockingly, he was
uncut, the delicate crinkled foreskin surrounding a shiny red cockhead. He
reached down, his eyes never leaving Lex's face, and pumped his cock several
times, slowly.
He straddled Lex's body, his intent fairly clear as his erection bobbed by
Lex's chin. The angle was terrible, but not utterly impossible, so Lex opened
his mouth and let Clark thrust inside. Gripping the belt, he did his best to
move up and get a better position, but there was only so much he could do and
he could only take Clark about halfway.
Fortunately, Clark didn't seem to have any spectacular past blowjobs to compare
this with, and he stared down with a fierce, pleased concentration, leaning
over Lex so that Lex was surrounded. Lex watched Clark's stomach and arms flex
with his thrusts, shining red-gold in the sunset light.
With his head and neck in such an awkward position, he couldn't breathe around
Clark's cock. The buzz of oxygen deprivation made his cock throb harder and,
fuck, he was still wearing pants, which seemed extremely unfair.
"Oh yeah," Clark grunted out and came. There was a cracking sound from above
Lex's head, but he ignored it as he tried not to choke. Clark's come was bitter
and metallic in his mouth, the taste like something he'd always known but had
almost forgotten.
When he'd got his breath back, he realized that Clark had pulled back, the
better to look him over.
"Now what," Clark said indulgently, "are we going to do with you?"
"Take off my pants?" It came out a little more desperate than he liked, but
dignity had followed plausible deniability out the door.
"Heh," Clark said and bent to lick Lex's stomach, his tongue fluttering over
Lex's abs and into his belly button, easily holding him down when he tried to
arch up into the touch. He bit down on his lip, trying to keep his needy whine
from becoming actual begging. Clark's hands flexed on his hips, and he was
going to have bruises, which was fine by him.
Finally, Clark unbuttoned and unzipped him, clothing vanishing with the same
speed as before. "How - oh! - how do you do that?"
Clark smirked and trailed his fingers over Lex's cock, which jumped at the
touch. "You've got no idea what I can do. But you're going to find out."
------------------------------------------------------------------------
"Lex!" His father appeared at the end of the hall and moved towards them, his
uneven but forceful gait oddly like Lex's current one.
"Yes, Father?" He waited as Lionel approached.
"Where have you been?" Lionel stopped half a pace away, reaching his hand out
to cup Lex's cheek. "Ah. You smell like a whore." His fingers dipped under
Lex's collar, tracing the outline of a bite. "Letting some `rough trade' hurt
you? How disappointing."
His father's fingers returned to his cheek in time to feel his jaw work as he
swallowed, trying not to react.
"Where did I go wrong, Lex? This is weakness, appalling weakness."
He figured that it was a rhetorical question. He could feel Mrs. Kent getting
more upset beside him, and reached out without looking at her to put a
stabilizing hand on her shoulder.
"Who's that?" Lionel asked, hearing the shift of bodies.
"Martha," she volunteered.
"Here to pick up the check for the produce," Lex offered, since that was her
only reason to talk to Lex instead of his father. He didn't let himself hope
that his father would decide to keep the family's dirty laundry to himself.
Public humiliation was an art, and Lionel could have done a museum
retrospective in it.
Lionel harrumphed. "For some reason, Lex seems to get along with your son.
Interesting young man. My son could learn some things from him. Perhaps -" his
blind eyes flashed as he raised his eyebrows - "perhaps he already has?"
Well, this day was officially a clusterfuck.
"Clark's a good boy," Mrs. Kent said, her voice like a wall of ice. Lionel
beamed, momentarily satisfied with the trouble he'd caused. "Mr. Luthor, I
really should be going." This was directed to Lex.
"Of course," he said. His ribs were like broken branches, jabbing him with
every breath.
"If you'd give me that check -" she prompted.
"It's in my office," he said and pulled away from his father.
"We'll discuss this further, Lex," his father warned as he limped past, not
daring to lean on Mrs. Kent.
When they reached his office door, Lex essayed a look back and saw that his
father had disappeared back into his rooms. Mrs. Kent followed his glance and
her mouth unpursed a bit in relief.
"I don't much like the way he touches you," she said, her voice as taut as a
drum.
I've been saying that for years, he thought and was fairly sure she could read
it on his face. "I should go up. Can you find your way out?"
She sighed. "Let's get you upstairs."
"I want to call a doctor," she said as they approached his bedroom.
"I told you, I'll be fine. One of the gifts the meteors gave me was extremely
fast healing."
Another flicker of her eyes, showing the guilt that all the Kents had about the
meteor shower. Did they really think he couldn't put the pieces together? The
dry rattling voice of his father whispered that this incident might have a
positive outcome, might leave them feeling that he was owed a real explanation.
"I'm going to take a shower," he announced, because, whatever the validity of
his father's other advice, he did stink. "Take whichever of the cars you want."
"I'm not leaving," she said.
"Clark -"
"Is with his father. I'm not leaving you alone. Unless you want me to call a
doctor?"
"And to think Clark says he gets his stubbornness from Mr. Kent."
She had to smile at that.
In the bathroom, letting the hot water steam up the mirrors, he undressed with
fingers nearly numb from fatigue and, he suspected, some variant of shock. The
blood loss alone couldn't account for it. He refused to think that betrayal
might, or whose betrayal he'd be talking about.
The hot water stung his back and eased the tension from his muscles. He leaned
against the wall, pressing his cheek to the cool tile and trying not to jostle
his ribs. He watched pink streams of watered-down blood make their way down his
legs, across the tiled floor and into the drain. The color wasn't that
different from the color of whatever Clark was sweating out onto his sheets.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
He refused to beg, which made it all the worse when Clark simply ignored his
cock and sat beside him, barely staying on the narrow bed, touching him. Hands
sweeping down his arms, over his chest, detouring to his hip, the front of his
thigh, the back of his calf, and then returning. Clark hummed to himself, lost
in a world of his own. Lex tugged against the belt holding his wrists and
panted like a greyhound after a race.
Clark's touches were not gentle. They didn't focus on the weirdly hairless
portions of his body, either, and he loved that. Even the most outwardly blase
of his lovers inevitably revealed some prurient interest in his bare skin, and
most didn't bother to hide their fascination. Clark seemed to be equally
entranced by the normal parts of him, moving from chest to armpit to shoulder
to neck with strokes that he wished would leave marks.
Fingers slipped beneath his balls, teasing the loose skin there, and Lex turned
his head from side to side, attempting to keep control. His hands were numbing
from lack of circulation, and the rest of him was on fire.
"You don't let most people see you like this," Clark mused. "And even then, I
bet they don't see you, really. Did Victoria see you?"
He found his voice just in time to participate. "No." Even in his own ears, his
voice sounded as if he'd spent the night drinking whiskey and smoking
cigarettes.
"Did Desiree see you?"
Now there was an easy question. "No."
"But I see you. I see you and I'm not scared." Clark's hand was back on his
thigh now.
The words bypassed his neocortex and went straight through to his reptile
brain, making him struggle even harder against the belt. The pain in his wrists
was a sweet counterpart to the rapture of his flesh where Clark was touching
him.
"Would you come just because," Clark paused for a scorching look down his body,
"I want you to?"
He heard his breath go out in a tuneless whine. He tried to twist himself over,
get some sort of friction, but Clark's arm across his thighs was like a
titanium bar. Clark's face was so close to his cock, hovering eagerly.
"Come for me," Clark coaxed, and he wanted to, desperately, his fingernails
digging into leather, the headboard groaning and tilting forward as he pulled.
"Oh you fucking fuck please -" he said, and miracle of miracles, that was the
magic word just like Miss Manners always said, because Clark opened his mouth
and sucked the head of his dick in, and Lex went off as if he were a virgin
getting to third base for the first time. His brain shut down as his head
filled with white light and every muscle in his body seemed to spasm at once.
When his head cleared, which was not immediately, his first thought was that
"little death" was an inapt metaphor. That had to qualify as a Big Death, and
he ought to know.
Clark was fumbling in his nightstand - no, he realized, Clark had punched in
the drawer of his nightstand, and that would have seemed more surprising if (a)
the oxytocin and phenylethylamine weren't still buzzing through his body and
(b) he couldn't see, when he tilted his head up, that Clark had wrenched the
metal spindles of his headboard apart as if they were soggy matchsticks. Not at
the cheap welds, either; Clark had gone for the connecting rail, which now
looked a bit like crumpled tin foil where he'd crushed and torn through. The
punching-in of the nightstand had more to do with impatience than efficiency,
though, and Clark's soft curses suggested that he was having trouble.
You're fucking a boy whose idea of rebellion is to say "damn" at about the one-
decibel range, he thought and winced. And possibly includes having sex in front
of his mother. Basically, then, Clark was bracketing him in terms of depravity.
Don't forget the part where he tears things apart with his bare hands, and
where the next things on which his bare hands are statistically likely to close
are possessions you value very highly.
When Clark finally extracted his tube of hand cream (the Farmboy's Friend) from
the ruins of his drawer, it was all Lex could do not to laugh hysterically.
Right now, the director's commentary on his life always running in his head was
not on his side.
Clark slicked his fingers with the air of a dedicated student turning theory
into practice. "Lift up," he said and Lex raised his legs in the air. Absent
the belt, he would likely have responded with equal alacrity to "fetch." One
big finger, then two, fast and rough enough to hurt before he could relax into
it.
"I'm going to fuck you now," Clark said. Yes, he'd rather thought that was on
tonight's curriculum.
It was hot watching Clark pump his cock, slow and almost careless. Mainly in a
theoretical way, because the physical infrastructure was not yet ready to
respond, but then sex was mostly in the brain anyway. And it was hot to feel
Clark against him and tuck his knees up to his chest.
The first thrust made him cry out, but that was all right because Clark's groan
of pleasure drowned it. Clark's hands on his shoulders tugged him down on the
bed, onto Clark, his arms stretched to their limit and possibly a bit beyond
over his head. His lower legs were rubbing against Clark's sides, feeling the
soft skin and hard muscles. Clark's eyes were closed in concentration, and each
stroke seemed to dive further in. Jesus, Clark was going to reach his spinal
column if he wasn't careful, and this variant of the meteor rocks seemed to
drive "careful" entirely out of his consciousness.
Then again, careful might be overrated, like defensive driving, Lex thought as
he watched the changes play on Clark's beautiful, closed-off face. Like a
marble angel come to life, awesome in the proper sense of the word. Snow White
and Prince Charming all at once, though he doubted that Disney heroes fucked
like this, sweaty and hyperreal.
Clark's eyes snapped open, surprised, as he gave one final thrust that felt
like it could have shortened Lex's spine by a few inches. He could feel every
pulse of Clark's cock and see a hundred colors in Clark's eyes. "I see you," he
might have said, but Clark didn't respond, so maybe it was just a thought.
Panting, Clark pulled out and Lex did not make any additional sounds.
"That was ... amazing," Clark said after a minute, pillowing his head on Lex's
shoulder. Idly, he reached up and picked apart the tight knots in the belt with
no more effort than if he were just unbuckling it. Or, Lex suspected, bench-
pressing a ton. His hands, released from bondage, were numb, but he brought
them to drape around Clark's shoulders nonetheless.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Finally, the water ran clear and he turned it off. When he stepped out into the
bathroom, pulling a towel around his waist, he was confronted with Mrs. Kent's
gasp of horror.
"That's just the reaction I'm looking for when I get naked," he muttered,
grabbing for a bathrobe to cover himself more fully.
Martha's eyes were averted now, but too late. "Lex, this is ridiculous. You
need treatment for your ribs, and the - the bites."
He considered pointing out that while the human mouth was filthy with germs,
that wasn't necessarily relevant, but it probably would just make her mad.
"There's no treatment for broken ribs, and I already told you I heal fast.
It'll be much better in the morning, I promise." Inspiration struck. "If it
would make you feel better, you can put some bandages on me." Now that it was
out of his mouth, it sounded a little too Mrs. Robinson, but there was no
taking it back.
"Broken -" she put her hand to her mouth in shock, and he realized he'd fucked
up again. He really needed drugs that would knock him out, stop his mouth and
his mind from running.
"Mrs. Kent -"
She turned away and began opening drawers and slamming them closed, looking for
bandages. Beneath her cheap pink cotton sweater, her shoulders were shaking.
He took two steps and was behind her, bringing his hands tentatively to her
shoulders. "Mrs. Kent, don't. We both know that I got what I've been asking for
since I met Clark."
She stopped her frantic search and braced herself on the marble counter by the
sink. "You didn't ask to be hurt."
"I didn't say no. Even - even Clark could see what I am -" Humiliatingly, his
voice cracked.
She turned and, to his utter disbelief, gathered him into a hug, her arms
avoiding his ribs and her cheek pressed against his throat. "It's not your
fault," she said.
He knew this trick; he did, really. Small kindness after great pain would break
a man when the pain alone would never suffice. Knowing was no defense. He
crumpled like cheap plastic, clutching at Mrs. Kent, crying tears that stung as
they leaked out of his closed eyes.
Mrs. Kent crooned something in the wordless universal language of mothers and
led him into the bedroom, allowing him to hold on to her all the way. She eased
him onto the bed, where he curled up on his side and she rubbed his back
through the bathrobe as the tears shook him apart.
He fell asleep with her hand on the back of his neck.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
"On your hands and knees," Clark demanded, and Lex complied. Clark didn't
engage in any extra preparation, just thrust in, and Lex shoved his hand in his
mouth to keep from crying out. Something inside had torn, though he was unclear
on the details. The immediate agony faded quickly, though, and the sandpapery
quality of the background buzz of pain kept him focused, kept him in his body,
feeling the good with the bad.
"How are you doing?" Clark asked, sounding amused as he brought his hand around
to check on the status of Lex's cock, which gave a few hopeful twitches.
"I'm good," he said, even though it wasn't really a question for the part of
him that could talk. With both hands braced under him, he could push up and
feel Clark's solid chest against his back, covering him completely, Clark's
chin hooked over his shoulder.
"Don't be modest," Clark said and nipped at his shoulder, then licked the bite.
One of his hands wrapped around Lex's wrists, holding them together as the
other went to work more seriously on his cock. Lex went to his elbows, changing
the angle of penetration as Clark panted into his ear. "God, I could fuck you
forever."
I could let you, he almost said.
There was a smear of blood on Clark's pillowcase, in the tacky stage before it
had fully dried but after the stain was permanent. He stared at it as if it
could be used, like a Rorschach blot, to diagnose his condition.
Clark fucked him until drops of sweat dripped steadily from their bodies, until
time narrowed into a ceaseless present in which they were the only ones alive.
His steady, almost indifferent hand on Lex went from pleasurable to torturous
and back again, until he surrendered, clenching around Clark and emitting a
soft, breathy sound that he'd almost rather die than admit to. The orgasm was
like flying, floating, annihilating his self in its uncontrollable power.
Clark breathed "Yeah," with a greedy sort of satisfaction, and tugged at Lex's
hips. He wrapped his arm around Lex's waist and squeezed, hard.
Lex screamed into the pillow as he felt several ribs give way. Now that was a
buzz kill, even with all the natural analgesics his body was pumping into his
bloodstream in the wake of orgasm. Say stop, the hopeful part of him said.
He'll probably stop.
And if he doesn't? You really want to make him angry? Not to mention how guilty
he'll feel when he's better.
He won't feel particularly good if he rips your spine apart, either, the
increasingly less hopeful voice rejoined. Clark was speeding up now, pushing
Lex against the remains of the headboard with every thrust. One hand moved from
Lex's throat down his body, stopping on his upper thigh.
"Oh, God, Lex!" he cried, and his hand clenched. The pain was so intense that
Lex was pretty sure he passed out for a moment. When he next could assess his
surroundings, Clark was no longer inside him, but had spooned up against him,
murmuring his name and palming his stomach with one large hand.
"Lex, Lex, Lex," Clark chanted, his breath warm against the back of Lex's head,
and he realized with dull resignation that the price of this embrace was
perfectly acceptable to him. He'd survived it, after all.
II. Sanguine
The similarity in form between sanguine, "cheerfully optimistic," and
sanguinary, "bloodthirsty," may prompt one to wonder how they have come to have
such different meanings. The explanation lies in medieval physiology with its
notion of the four humors or bodily fluids (blood, bile, phlegm, and black
bile).... If blood was the predominant humor, one had a ruddy face and a
disposition marked by courage, hope, and a readiness to fall in love.... Both
the Old French and Latin words meant "bloody," "blood-colored" .... - American
Heritage Dictionary
Morning came like an invading army. Lex opened his eyes when Julio came into
the bedroom. His body cried out with a thousand pains, worse when he turned his
head to see Mrs. Kent slumped, asleep, on a chair beside the bed.
"Will Mr. Luthor and his guest be having breakfast?" Julio whispered.
Well, this wasn't exactly the Kent he'd had vague fantasies of scandalizing the
servants with, but she'd do. He could only hope that Julio would stay bought
and not tattle to Lionel.
He shook his head at Julio. As soon as the door closed behind him, Lex tucked
his robe more firmly around himself, swung his feet to the floor, and said,
"Mrs. Kent?"
She started awake, her eyes blurry with confusion. "Oh," she said, one hand
going to massage her undoubtedly stiff neck.
"I'm sure you need to get back," he said. Standing, he flexed protesting
muscles. The ribs had improved markedly overnight, but even cracked they made
breathing decidedly unpleasant. The leg seemed much better.
"My God," she breathed and reached out to take his hand, examining his wrist as
the robe fell back. "These bruises look a week old."
"The meteor rocks giveth, and the meteor rocks taketh away," he said and ran
his free hand over his bare head. "I told you, I heal fast. Let me get dressed,
I'll walk you out."
She let him go, and he hid in the walk-in closet. His father ought to be in
physical therapy now, so he could probably get her out of the castle without
further incident. As for the rest of it, he had no idea.
He chose a black silk turtleneck, obvious as all hell but still a decent
coverup. Against the dark background of suits, his reflection in the mirror
seemed to be a disembodied head, floating like a Malaysian vampire.
When he returned, Mrs. Kent was at the window, looking down on the castle
grounds.
"I'm sorry to keep you waiting, Mrs. Kent."
She turned, her face tired. "At this point, I really think you ought to call me
Martha."
He smiled, and it even felt natural.
The castle corridors were cool and empty. Walking slowly, he managed not to
limp, and navigated the stairs passably well.
When they got to the front hall, Martha turned to him.
"Lex, I don't have any right to ask -"
"Anything," he said, and meant it.
"Just - I know how much your friendship means to Clark. If you could - forgive
him -"
"There's nothing to forgive," he said easily. "Meteor rock madness. I doubt
Clark will feel comfortable around me, but -"
Martha silenced him with a hand to his mouth, and that was so astonishing that
he stopped talking.
"I could hate your father for making you think you deserve to be hurt," she
said fiercely.
Lex felt a silent explosion in his chest, something white and prickly expanding
inside him that threatened to rend him in two. Martha removed her hand, but the
paralysis of his vocal cords continued.
"Clark isn't perfect, and you're going to be disappointed if you think he is.
But if you really feel - how I think you feel - then you need to recognize that
you have something to give. Not your cars or your money, but you.
"Family, real family, doesn't leave anyone behind. You're not going to
sacrifice yourself for Clark, or for your father, or for anyone else. We are
going to get through this, you understand me?"
Overwhelmed, he nodded.
"Good." She went on her tiptoes to press a soft kiss to his cheek. Even after a
hard night, she smelled of apricots. He wanted to get down on his knees and beg
her to stay with him forever, press his head into her lap and never leave.
"I've got to get back to the farm. I'll stop by later when I come back to see
your father." He nodded again, and she looked worried. "I mean it, Lex. You're
not alone. You call me if - if anything happens, all right?" The third nod
seemed to be the charm, and she hugged him close one more time, then released
him.
He watched her go, and stayed there for several minutes, even after he heard
the Ferrari sputter to life.
He'd kill for Clark, but right now he'd die for Martha. Even if it was a ruse
to keep him on their side, and he thought that moderately unlikely, it was an
illusion he needed badly enough to accept.
Because he was a Luthor and lived in a castle, an architect's desk at which he
could stand was produced not long after he asked for it. He reviewed reports
with a moderate level of distraction, sometimes moving to stand in the light
from the restored stained glass windows when he didn't need to use the
computer. He remembered standing in the same place, holding Lana Lang's
necklace to the light. Different light, different windows, even if they looked
the same, and that adolescent metaphor would die a slow and painful death if he
had anything to say about it.
"Lex," his father called, tapping his way into the office. He turned and went
to take Lionel's arm. The architect's desk was new, and he didn't want Lionel
stumbling against it.
"Yes, Father?"
"Are you recovered from your little adventure of last night?"
"Adequately," he said and pulled away when Lionel was safely at the couch. The
last thing he needed was Lionel's prying hands discovering that he was
significantly less bitten than he'd been the day before. He didn't think Lionel
would have him disappeared into a research lab, not really. Not on a permanent
basis. But Lex did, after all, have one eye more than was strictly necessary.
Also, there was a chance he'd submit to whatever medical experiments his father
asked for just out of guilt, without the need for even more unpleasant means of
persuasion. Better to remove the possibility of discovery.
"I'm disappointed in you," his father said as he sat, putting his hands
together on the top of his silver-headed cane, stuck out in front of him for
all the world as if he wanted to trip careless passers-by.
"Imagine my shock and dismay." He folded his arms and leaned against the wall,
using his shoulder to make the contact.
"You've got a company to run. A small, insignificant company to be sure, but
that simply makes it even more important not to be distracted."
"I have the focus I need." God, not another of these Darth Vader-like
conversations. He would have rubbed at his temples, but years of self-
regulation, and the niggling sense that his father would know somehow, kept him
from that overt sign of weakness.
"Are you fucking the Kent boy?"
There was only one chance to get this right. "No. Should I be?" Amused disdain,
no significant pause - even the East German judge would have to award him the
victory on this one.
"Mrs. Kent is privy to many of my secrets."
"If she takes them home and leaves them lying around for her son to read, then
there are probably simpler methods of corporate espionage." Now, this was
delicate, but potentially rewarding. "The boy's not pretty enough to justify
the inconvenience. I got used to Metropolis," he said, letting just a trace of
resentment leak into his voice. Lionel had never been entirely readable, but he
thought he saw a relaxation, as if a sensed weakness had failed to materialize.
"Then is it Mrs. Kent, perhaps, who's caught your wandering eye?"
That was a jab in the dark, figuratively as well as literally. "They have a
functioning family, Father. Sometimes I want to see what it's like."
His father snorted. "We have a functioning family, Lex. It may not function the
way you like, but that doesn't make it any less real."
The conversation could now be terminated, with each thinking he'd achieved his
goal and, it was to be hoped, Lex actually right. "Don't you have some
vulnerable corporation to destroy while they all think you're still walking
wounded?"
Lionel laughed, an honest and genuine sound from a man who barely remembered
the meaning of those words. "I'm awaiting my moment, Lex. A lesson you'd have
been wise to emulate."
"Perhaps you could await it somewhere else. Isn't Mrs. Kent supposed to keep
you from bothering me?"
Lionel hoisted himself to his feet. "Oh, she's been delayed with some minor
agricultural emergency. And I do so enjoy these father-son chats."
As his father made his way out of the office, Lex gave in to temptation and
rubbed the back of his head to ease some of the tension. The sad fact was that,
even defeating his father in this, Lex was learning to be just like him, no
word uncalculated, unweighed, unmeasured. Lionel, of course, had known this
long before Lex realized it.
If you swim with sharks, you're either chum or you're a shark yourself. Lex had
no desire to be fish food, and he hadn't been given the choice whether or not
to enter the water.
The encounter left him enervated, even more distracted than he'd been before.
His muscles were stiff, and he tried some isometric stretches, more for the
psychological effect than the physiological. Gabe Sullivan had some personnel
recommendations, which he approved almost automatically.
Twice, he walked over to the phone to call the Kent farm. He considered it
something of a victory that he didn't pick it up.
He was like a fucking office temp, wishing for the relief of lunch and staring
out the window.
"Lex?"
Clark's tentative voice made him jump, and for a moment he thought he might
have been imagining it. But no, Clark was poised at the room's entrance,
looking as if he wasn't sure he had the right to cross the threshold.
"Clark."
Identifications successfully completed, they watched one another. In the
millisecond between the time Clark's eyes narrowed as he stared at Lex's chest
and the time he reappeared not six inches from Lex, he realized that this, too,
would offer him only one chance. If he flinched, for any reason, Clark was
gone, might as well be in outer space.
"God, Lex, I'm - sorry," Clark's voice cracked.
"I'm fine," he said in his most reasonable, silken tones.
"You're all bruised, and - there was so much blood."
Clark obviously had very little experience with bleeding. Still, there'd been
enough to warrant concern. "I'm sorry about that." If he'd been thinking more
clearly, he would have taken the sheets when he left. It couldn't have been a
pleasant way to wake up.
"Yeah, how dare you bleed all over me - what are you --? I'm the one who, who
cracked your ribs and -"
"What, you have X-ray vision now?"
Amazingly, Clark blushed.
"Oh," he said and stopped. That was, frankly, a surprise. Speed and strength
seemed reasonably standard meteor mutations, ones he wished he'd gotten for
himself but seemed to have been too old for, but the wild card was usually one
thing, and he'd thought, based on recent events, that Clark's thing was
firestarting. Infrared and fire, he would have thought more likely - maybe
Clark's vision went up and down the spectrum?
Like a brain-addled fool, he said the first thing that occurred to him. "What
does the sky look like? It must be amazing." Stars in the daytime, and at
night, background radiation, blazing where everyone else saw scattered jewels
on black. Black holes, globular clusters - maybe even gamma rays.
God looks after fools and drunkards. Clark smiled, his eyes growing distant.
"Yeah. It's pretty cool. I could show you -" He broke off, obviously
remembering the present difficulties.
"I'd like that," Lex said, ignoring the hesitation.
"Lex, I -"
"Temporary insanity is a way of life in Smallville. If you're looking for
blame, you're going to have to go somewhere else."
Clark reached up a hand as if to touch Lex's shoulder, then withdrew into
himself and stepped back, hands fisted at his sides.
"Sometimes - temporary insanity is the truth. About who you are."
"It's only ever part of the truth. The rest is all the morals, the common
sense, the rationality, everything that makes you a person instead of a
collection of needs and wants."
"I'm not old enough to be having sex!" Clark burst out. "Okay, no one is old
enough to be having that kind of sex."
Privately, Lex thought that youth and super health were primary qualifications
for "that kind of sex," but his bout of stupidity for the day was over and he
said instead, "You're absolutely right."
Clark took a deep breath. "But me, the whole me - I wanted you. Want you. Want
to be with you."
That was, as they said in boarding school, a bit of a facer. Hi, Lex, here's
the truth you wanted. Naturally, it's dangerous - possibly no more so than the
rest of this fucked-up town, but with extreme potential to go pear-shaped. And
he was under some time pressure to respond.
"Clark, as you alluded to, you're not exactly ... sexually experienced. You may
be confusing a physical response with an emotional one. Sex can be extremely
powerful. It can make you want to believe that the person you want is right for
you."
Clark's face was uncertain, but he braved it out. "It's been intense with us
from the beginning. And that's why I want to, you know --?"
Lex didn't want to torture Clark (well, only a little, friendly-like), but he
honestly didn't know. He raised his eyebrows and tried to suggest with his
posture that Clark should keep talking.
"Date," Clark finally managed.
By dint of considerable effort, Lex did not repeat the word, with accompanying
dubious inflection. "Do your parents know about your sudden change in
orientation?"
"I think they kinda got the message last night." Was it possible to feel the
heat of Clark's blush, or was that all in his mind, he wondered. "My dad -
well, he's not looking at me, but I actually think he'd feel the same way if
you were a girl." So, dedicated hatred of Luthors. Lex had to respect that. "My
mom said some stuff about - you. Us. I told her what you said, about our
destiny. I told her that I believe you. She said that, deep down, you think
your destiny is to be hated and make yourself into someone who deserves to be
hated. And - that's so untrue. Even if - you don't want me, I won't let you be
that kind of person."
"How are you going to stop me?" he said reflexively, and could have slapped
himself. It would be so easy to believe. His soul yearned for it.
"I'm going to love you." It was said simply, with the weight of a lifetime
ahead of it.
Give me a strong lever and a fixed point and I can move the world, Archimedes
said. Even with his father levering right back, maybe - possibly - perhaps -
Clark might be right.
"Can I, um, hold you?"
Overcome, he nodded. Arms wrapped around him, their carefulness more apparent
for knowing what they could do. With his chin over Clark's shoulder and one
hand in Clark's hair, he felt - safe. Frightened. Maybe, a little, loved. More
terror. Curiosity.
A strong desire to stop evaluating and spend some time in the moment.
After a while, Clark's arms relaxed, and Lex immediately let go.
"Okay, so that's - going well, right?"
He nodded. "I told you, this is destiny. Me, irresistable force. You, immovable
object."
"You know I'm very definitely movable." There was a small part of Lex that
rejoiced as he took this as another truth revealed, and a slightly smaller part
that cringed.
"As it turns out, I'm occasionally resistable, so there you are." Victory! A
Clark Kent Shy Smile. He allowed himself a smirk in return.
"You're fishing for compliments."
He cocked his head as if considering. "True."
"You don't need them."
Clark's confidence was touching, if misguided. "You'll never know until you
try."
Clark's fingers were warm against his cheek. "You're going to have the world at
your feet. I want to share it with you."
Yes. Yes, Enkidu, you and I are going places. He closed his eyes and thrilled
to the touch.
"Yes."
End
Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood Clean from my hand?
No, this my hand will rather
The multitudinous seas incarnadine,
Making the green one red.
Macbeth. Act ii. Sc. 2
Feedback!
  Works inspired by this one
      Livid by rivkat
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!
