HAPPY BIRTHDAY SLODWICK!
Story soon, I swear. I got muchly distracted and gripey. *hugs hugs hugs* Many happy returns. Many MANY.
Wow, LJ two days in a row. Who would have thought?
koimistress has joined us in LJ land! You might know her from her brilliant and infamous Clark/Lex futurefic Mercy posted this summer, and her equally excellent and funny A Nice, Friendly Game (both posted to Level Three). I know her because I stalk her as much as possible.
Let us restore the zen. Sort of.
Perpetual Slumber Party by Tara LJC. Who rocks, btw. A wonderful episode extension of the Chloe and Lana scenes in Dychotic, making it make SENSE, which Tara does beautifully. She also manages a seriously kick-ass Lana, both sympathetic and interesting. That alone deserves some serious quality time of happiness. *nod*
Cold Blooded Fish by Isilya. Ooh. Hee. IN which she takes one throw away line from the show and crafts a CREEPY story around it. Lionel is--well, you'll see. Read now.
Spin Cycle by Isilya. It's a sweet bit of a ficlet. Clark. Memory. Comfort. Takeover of the warm spot. Hee!
Choose Your Own Adventure by Jessica. Clubfic, but not quite like it. Second person POV, which works. Jessica, who has to be so damn different and do it with style. Fun, fasciating, and totally hot. CLex. I loved it.
My Baby</> by Illuferret. Oh damn. No spoilers on this one. Just read it tabula rasa. Trust me on this one.
L'amour au premier regard by illuferret. And lo, pain. And wistfulness. And kinda creepy. And still wistful. *sighs*
Ahh, that's zen-restoring. *g*
Made pic for [Bad username: =isilya]. When I'm in a bad mood, it's either write or Adobe. I couldn't concentrate enough yesterday to write, so Adobe and I bonded.
And for the really, really bored or those needing distraction--this is unbeta'ed and not quite right yet, but those who seem to be following the Two Paths series might get a kick out of it. Isilya's been very gracious and agreed to work on a few more Clark POV stories for it, so this one comes right after the last one she posted to SSA and Level Three.
He feels the shift of the bed with the first pressed knee--visualizing soft flannel pajama bottoms and that damned faded red t-shirt, smelling of the detergent Mrs. Harrison always uses when she does laundry. Some nose-itching combination of spring flowers and baby powder that drives Lex crazy.
Martha Kent's detergent of choice, though. He just makes sure his clothes aren't washed in it.
"Lex? You awake?" And it's the damndest thing, that Clark always knows. Maybe he's that attuned to Lex, or hell, maybe it's a lucky guess. Lex opens his eyes, watching Clark sink down on the bed--on top of the covers, actually, and that's new. Rolling on his side, Lex watches Clark settle down, one long arm folded under his head.
He hasn't slept yet. It's written in letters five feet high on his face, in the soft thickness behind his eyes. Tired and tense, a little wired, and Lex thinks that teen angst might have its own smell.
"Yes." Not that he's any less guilty of skipping sleep. Twelve hour days at the plant when he can manage it, and he's been looking into Rachel's husband's face every day, waiting for some twinge of conscience to tell him that, yes, Lex, this is wrong. Across his desk, rationally lining up papers in neat stacks for Leo to sign, aware that he could smell Rachel's sex on his hands from the quick fuck in his office. She straddled his lap and he breathed deep, eyes closed, feeling how she surrounded him.
Pure sensory overload, his fingers digging into the arms of his chair and coming with a quivering shock with the phone ringing endlessly in the background.
They hadn't even locked the office door. Anyone could have walked in. Shit, for all Lex knows, someone might have.
He doesn't even realize he's closed his eyes until he opens them at the touch of Clark's hand on his face. He expects the brush, quick and soft, as if Clark's afraid of leaving fingerprints behind on Lex's skin, but the touch thickens, a slow, careful stretch of big fingers, finding and tracking skin across cheek and forehead. Nothing close to soothing. Nothing close to familiar.
"Clark--" Like Rachel, he's not touching back. His hands fist in the blanket, feeling the soft material strain.
"It's so hot," Clark whispers, and somehow he's closer. Long, lean body, pressed against him, warm soft flannel and soft cotton the only things separating them. The touching's changed--firmer, heavier, careful stroking that's less like searching and more like enjoying. Pressure on the delicate veins at his temples, pushing in. "I--thought it wasn't about that, but it is, isn't it?"
"Clark--" His voice isn't anything recognizable, too thready, air forced through a constricted space. It makes Clark smile, slow and thoughtful and impossibly pretty. Shiny-bright, hint of teeth behind full lips.
"David," Clark murmurs, and the hand moves from his face, settling on his shoulder. Lex can't fight the slow roll that lands him on his back, Clark moving liquid-easy to straddle him. Almost delicately, he reaches down, picking up Lex's fisted hands, placing them on his thighs. Instantly, fingers spread, and Lex sucks in a breath at the feel of moving, living muscle beneath skin and soft cloth. "Clark's dead. Right?"
He shouldn't know--
"Did you order it?" A slow, sinuous stretch upward, like he's alone but performing for an invisible audience, before Clark braces a hand on either side of his head, lowering himself down. Cock heavy and thick against Lex's thigh, a shift that brings them in contact and Lex arches, digging his fingers into tight muscle. "Is that why--"
"No." Jesus, no. He's not a killer. Even when he should be.
"I don't believe you." And Clark's close enough to kiss, warm breath against his lips like the most unimaginable tease. "Lex. Stop trying."
He has, hasn't he? His hands are moving, warm thighs to the sharp bones of Clark's hips, pressing his fingers into thin skin, feeling every quiver. Arching up into Clark, solid, immovable, so warm. Warm in places Lex has always been cold. In *ways* Lex didn't know could be warm. He slides his palms up Clark's back beneath the thin cotton shirt, rucking it higher, and jerks it off, throwing it off the bed.
"Just *take*, right, Lex?" Clark's moving into him, matching every twist, every arch. A gorgeous flush is washing over his face, sliding down his throat, down his chest. Digging his nails into Clark's back, Lex gets a handful of hair, pulling that mouth down. Big, warm lips, just made to lick and crush and suck, a mouth he can lose himself in. Fine, dark hairs twisted between his fingers, rolling Clark onto his back, between long legs, holding him down with the weight of his body.
"It's always better this way," Clark whispers. "When you get what you want on your terms." When the slim hands reach for him, Lex grabs Clark's wrists, pinning them to the bed above his head. It only makes him laugh, arching up, head back, neck stretched out pale gold on the white of the pillows, so beautiful. "Just like that. You have all the power here. Over me, her, everyone."
Her? Grinding between those legs, Clark's eyes rolling back, flush deeper, and he's never felt this good. His bed, his rules, and this body, his beautiful boy. Stretched out like an offering or a promise. Take everything you want. And take it just because you want it.
Kneeling back, Lex blinks, suddenly aware of sweat, damp on his forehead, slicking his hands. "Take off your clothes."
He watches Clark do it, legs drawn up, and tantalizingly perfect golden skin appears at every twist--miles of long, muscled legs, dusted with dark hair, cock and heavy balls, just asking for touch. Knees bent and Lex brushes his fingertips over the soft skin of Clark's inner thigh.
"You're perfect." Couldn't possibly be natural, this. Alien in every way a human can define, a wet dream, a fantasy made-to-order. "Jesus, Clark."
"All yours." The smiles twists up, a parody of pure innocence. "I don't have anyone else. You can *take*."
"That's--not why." Lube in the drawer. No condom, not necessary. Perfect virgin, stretched out on offer. Clark's smile widens, and Lex imagines that mouth around his cock. *Wants* it….
"*Take* it, Lex," Clark answers, and maybe the kid is psychic--stranger things have happened. "You can--Jesus, Lex, it's good this way, isn't it?"
Pushing two fingers inside Clark, and he feels *amazing*. Even looks amazing, stretching out, arching, head thrown back, eyes closed, lips parted just enough for a sharp gasp. Invulnerable--
"Yeah, you can't hurt me," Clark whispers, eyes still closed. "But--who cares if you do? Who can stop you?"
Fuck. No time, no thought, has to *have*, and Lex pulls the long thighs up, curling Clark's body, and it's natural, easy to slide inside, like coming home. Tight heat, like being pulled inside, and it's never, ever been this good, not with anyone else. When he opens his eyes, he's staring into rich green, autumn-dark, and filled with something that isn't familiar at all.
"Make me into whatever you want," Clark murmurs, arching again, and Lex pulls out, thrusts. Perfect. So perfect. "You--can, you know. A name here, a personality there, and who can tell the difference, right? Clark's *dead*. Say my name, Lex."
"Wrong." Huge hands are closing over his shoulders, long legs somehow getting around his waist, high and tight, holding on. Jerking him farther inside than should be fucking *possible*. There's not enough air to breathe, but Lex doesn't want it anyway. "David, Lex. What you made me."
"Jesus." The smile's slow, cool interest, practiced distance behind green eyes, being watched and evaluated and measured. Not Clark in any way except in body.
"David Usher, David Luthor, whichever you want, whatever you want. I'll be anything you want me to be--"
"I don't want--" It's too much sex, it's too good, Clark's too hot, slick and sweaty and Lex bends down enough to taste. Beautiful, fuckable mouth.
"Sure you do. Every Luthor does. That's what you *do*. That's what you *are*. And this is how you get me."
Shock of heat--and he *likes* the idea of it, all of it. Maybe he has since the beginning, being the man who nodded to Martha and took away her son and this is why. Because--
"You wanted to own me. Now you do."
He comes so hard it *hurts*, ripped out of his body almost involuntarily, and Clark's so close, saturating him with nothing like hay and wind and the memories of cornfields, but something else entirely. Rich and bitter and satisfied--
"Say my name, Lex."
Sunlight's spilling across the bed and Lex doesn't need to be told his fantasy life just took a turn for the seriously disturbed. He opens his eyes on a ceiling dappled white and gold, and he's overslept for the first time in recent memory.
Clark's sitting at the foot of the bed. Strangely young in dark green and blue jeans, a soft leather jacket over one arm, backpack slung over one shoulder. He looks worried.
"Lex, I--are you okay?" Not coming any closer, and Lex thanks God for that. Taking a deep breath, Lex tries to think through--everything. Handle this moment.
"What time is it?"
Seven. Not so much overslept, though Clark's active early, and Lex sucks in a slow breath, sitting up. The sheets need washing. He'll be late to work.
Clark's still looking at him, brows drawn tight together, obviously worried. "I'm fine," Lex lies, running a hand over his head, surprised by the sheen of sweat. "Bad night."
"You--" Clark stops, mouth set in a line Lex recognizes right before the dark eyes dart down. "You never oversleep. Are you sure you're feeling okay?"
"I'm--not feeling well, actually." The lie slides out as smoothly as truth could ever be. He can see it reflected back at him from Clarks' face--and Clark knows how he lies, knows in some frighteningly intimate way that Lex can't define at all. "I think I'll call in for Leo to take care of plant business today."
"Oh." Clark hesitates, then stands up, pulling his backpack more securely over his shoulder. "I'm picking up Missy and Steve before school. I'll probably be late--"
"Five o'clock," Lex hears himself say automatically, called up from whatever part of his psyche is devoted to Clark's schedule. "No later."
"Got it." And the perfectly teenage eye-roll is--disturbing. "See you then." With that, Clark wanders out, absently running his fingers back through his hair, and the door shuts on Lex alone with his thoughts.
Completely unacceptable, and what the fuck possessed him to tell Clark he was *sick*? He doesn't *get* sick, shit, he barely gets injured, and if Clark hasn't caught onto that yet….
Getting up, he strips--boxers to the trash, sheets too, fuck laundry, he never wants to look at those again. His skin feels cold despite the sweat, and maybe he wasn't too far wrong after all, because when he looks in the mirror, a stranger's looking back wearing Lex Luthor's face.
Not--entirely a stranger, he thinks, leaning into the sink, shivering at the cold of porcelain pressed to bare skin. Someone who fucks the children under their charge and likes it.
That why you jumped his age a year, Lex?
Shuddering, Lex steps into the shower, automatically taking a backward step as he turns on the hot water--it's always cold for a few brief seconds before the ancient water heater kicks in. Clark uses a lot of hot water every morning. After school, too, when he gets done with the horses. Some kind of imperative from living at the farm and needing to be clean. Martha Kent's training, Lex thinks, having noticed he's picked up the same habit after work as well.
The hot water washes over one foot, and Lex steps into it, eyes open, bracing a hand against the porcelain before letting his head hang, just feel.
Twenty minutes later, Lex is downstairs, sitting at the kitchen bar, mulling the fact a new pot of coffee's been brewed fresh--Clark must have made it before he left, thoughtful boy. A bagel neatly centered on a plate, Clark's bizarre way of stating that Lex doesn't eat enough. Lex wonders if he can stomach food right now.
There are papers spread out in front of him--a half dozen reports, dated at three day intervals. Two glossy photographs: one street-level view of the hit, one taken at an Amsterdam morgue, where a body came in with five bullets lodged in its brain.
The coroner's report's a confused mass of contradictions--the one that never got released, the only proof in existence, in fact, that this boy died at all.
Assumptions are fatal things. Lex had been thinking they'd want Clark *alive* at any cost. Apparently, though, a dead alien is better than no alien at all. They've been doing their homework. Each hollow-point bullet had been laced with green meteor rock..
Taking another drink of coffee, Lex wonders how long it will take for them to find out who the boy really is. The chain of evidence leading to Lex was broken a long time ago. He's nothing if not prepared.
He thinks he has to have been ready for this to happen, but he finishes two cups of coffee staring blankly into a glossy image of closed eyes that aren't Clark's.
I really do love the lj tags thing a LOT.
Now, must find caffeine. Lots of it.