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by Angryhamster

Title: Platitude
Author: Angryhamster
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Clark/Lex
Summary: Dark PWP.
Spoilers: None specific.
Contact: or Disclaimer: If they were mine, I'd have much better things to do than write fic.

His father had been right, of course, like he always was-- vision that was sometimes irritating, often infuriating, and always, always irrefutable.

"You can't free a fish from water."

What the hell was that? Advice, or a platitude? And he could almost hear his father's voice inside his head: "I'm only trying to warn you, son." He had, of course, ignored his father's warnings, determined that he could prove his father wrong, that his father could be wrong, that he could be right.

Stretching, he briefly surveyed the article in front of him, unconsciously avoiding the by-line which had, to be honest, always made him feel more uncomfortable than proud. The hem of his shirt rode up over his stomach as he raised his arms over his head, brushing against skin, and--

Sense memory of the same sensation, bright flash of white-hot something, shirt sliding upwards, over, puddling on the floor, joined swiftly by pants and underwear, and then...

Skin. Just skin, soft under his fingertips, unyielding, taut over strong muscle and God, they were kissing. Clark's fingers slid over Lex's shoulders, tracing the outline of his spine, digging his nails in a little as Lex sucked at his lower lip, swallowing the tiny moan that almost escaped as he bit down. He trailed kisses over Clark's jawbone, his throat, dipped his tongue into the hollow there, revelling in the choked-off noises Clark was making.

Lex moved lower, nipping his way down Clark's body, at the line of his sternum and over his abdomen, eyelashes obscuring his view of the golden curves of skin above him. His hands moulded over hipbones, and suddenly Clark was pulling away, pushing Lex away from him.

"No. Not like this."

Reality resurfaced, and he rested his head in his hands. He shouldn't be thinking about this, not now. Years had passed, and things had changed. He wasn't wanted that way anymore. And he couldn't afford to want that way any more, to want anyone that way-- least of all him.

He returned his eyes to the article in front of him, and tried to concentrate. Really tried, focus almost intense enough to set the paper on fire.

It wasn't enough to drive out the memories. Maybe it would never be. Maybe nothing would ever be.

Six years had passed in the interim and it had only been one night, but it had haunted him all the nights in between. He wondered idly if it would ever cease to haunt him, and then just let the flood of memories wash away everything else until they were all that mattered.

Really, these days, nothing else did.

"No. Not like this."

They weren't exactly the words Lex had wanted to hear at that moment, and he looked up, startled, into Clark's eyes.

"You have no idea how long I've waited for this, do you?"


"No," Clark cut him off with a decisiveness that Lex found a little surprising. "You don't get to talk right now."

"Clark, what--"

"What did I just say...?"

God, the look in his eyes... Lex shut up almost immediately, and just stared.

"That's better," Clark continued, the little smirk that had been curling at the corners of his mouth now in full bloom.

"I can't believe you didn't know how much I wanted this. I don't believe it. I think," he said, tracing his finger along the curve of Lex's collarbone, "that you knew all along, and that the reason you didn't say anything was because you just liked teasing me. All those looks, all those little glances..." He leaned forward and licked a stripe over the bone, and in an instant, Lex found himself with his back to the wall.

"All of it. Just teasing. All the things I wanted to do to you, and I was just too scared to tell you." He glanced up, and once again Lex was caught in the intensity and sheer ferocity of his gaze, and a realization skittered across the back of his brain, almost tangible--

"I'm not afraid anymore," Clark said, and swooped in for a kiss that fused Lex's synapses, and his thoughts slid away from him.

Clark was flushed when they parted; his hair was mussed from where Lex had been tugging at it. His lips were slightly swollen, redder than usual-- sex, visualized, even before Lex let his eyes wander lower.

"Do you know what I wanted to do, Lex?" Clark caught his chin and tilted it upwards, catching him in the depths of that gaze again, and when he spoke again his voice was lower, rougher, sending sparks of arousal coursing through Lex's blood. "Do you want to know?"

"Yes. God, yes."

"See, I used to think about it all the time. Think about you all the time. You. Me. Us. I used to look at you when you were helping me with my homework-- watching the way you wrote, the way your wrists moved... Wondered what they'd look like... Tied.

"That was what I thought about. Wanted. Want. To strip you down, tie you up, work you over, and wear you out."

And, Jesus, if his cock hadn't been at full attention before, it was now, and it didn't matter that this was Clark, if he wanted to play at this game, then Lex could play it too-- and better.

"You wouldn't know how."

The light in Clark's eyes flared, just fucking flared, and there was that thought again, eel-slippery, wriggling out of his grasp. Fear accompanied it, and Lex was suddenly struck with the realization that Clark had never provoked that reaction in him before.

"You'd be surprised," he breathed against Lex's lips, and then they were kissing again, and there was that flash of sensation-- lust; hot, pure, and present only for the briefest moment before Clark was pressing him against the wall, imprinting the pattern of the stone on his shoulders and scalp.

Biting kisses over his shoulders, down his chest, nails raked over the muscles of his stomach and then Clark was on his knees, looking up through those dark lashes and thought was an impossibility again, because--

Because it was Clark, on his knees, in his bedroom, sucking him off, and every part of that thought was better than the last and God, he didn't know where Clark had learned this, didn't want to know, just didn't want him to stop. He was vaguely aware of his hitching breath as Clark's lips slid over his flesh, the tiny gasp that escaped as Clark's tongue fluttered over the head of his cock.

A deep chuckle --a fucking chuckle-- at his reaction, and Lex wanted to struggle with him, wanted to a lot, but... The extra sensation was incredible; he leaned into the wall, his fingers digging into the stone, and let his hips thrust with the rhythm of Clark's mouth, the movements of his tongue, the look in his eyes... Lex was so, so close now, almost at that sweet high point of no return, and Clark was pulling away from him.

He groaned his frustration, and Clark half crawled up his body and silenced him with a kiss, and Lex could taste himself in Clark's mouth, feel himself in the flavour of Clark's tongue. When they parted, that smirk was back and it was all Lex could do to keep himself from pressing against Clark's hip and rutting to completion.

"I know you were sort of enjoying that, but you're pretty old and I don't trust your recovery time," he said, his eyes never leaving Lex's face, and his expression and tone belied his words. "Besides," he added, his tone darkening, "I want to watch you come when I fuck you."

And that wasn't even close to what he'd been expecting, and Lex stammered a half-hearted protest before he could quite process what was being given to him.

"Clark, I don't think--"

"And I like it best that way," he interrupted. "I'm not thinking about much right now either." Clark was tugging him over towards the bed, pushing him onto it pressing his wrists onto the sheets and gazing down at him with that implacable, hungry expression again, and urging his legs apart.

"Clark--" he began, and then simply gave up on trying to stop him or give him room to think, or back out. "Drawer," he gestured with his right hand, which was still pinned to the bed by Clark's much larger one.

"Glad you're cooperating," he said with a smirk, which left Lex wondering, albeit briefly, what would have happened if he hadn't been. As he stretched to reach for the nightstand drawer, Lex admired the play of muscle under his skin, and raised his head a little to swipe his tongue across Clark's chest. A tiny shudder and a moan resulted, and Lex suddenly realized that was the first proper reaction he'd gotten for some time.

Reminded of the pleasure of power and control, he raised his hips to press against Clark's, bumping their erections together, and Clark gasped openly, his mouth falling open and the tip of his cock weeping pre-come. Lex smirked almost without meaning to, but Clark caught him, and, having found the lube, returned his attentions to Lex.

"If you keep doing that, this is gonna be over a lot sooner than I'd intended," he purred. "Maybe I'm going to have to tie you up after all."

The idea in general was very appealing, but right at that moment, the thought of more teasing was beyond Lex's comprehension, so he simply stopped the circling of his hips and spread his legs a little further to accommodate Clark's body.

"Just fuck me," he said, watching as Clark spread the lube across his fingers with obscene relish, leaning forward, dipping his mouth lower to brush across Lex's, and he couldn't see, couldn't fucking see what was happening, and then Clark's finger was circling his hole and pushing in.

He knew he was gasping against Clark, under him, into his mouth, and didn't care, because it had been a long, long time since he'd been on his back like this, spread out, open, vulnerable, but-- But it was all right, because it was Clark, and...

Lex knew Clark would never hurt him, not even when he was looking at him like he was some sort of rare delicacy, biting at his lips, fingers driving him higher and faster, and...

When Clark's tongue slid into his mouth, imitating the rhythm of his hand, Lex knew he was finished, that there could never be anything else after this, never be anyone else, they would be a candle-flame against sunlight, impossible to match.

Clark was sliding into him then, and because it had been so long, there was heat, burning, and because it was Clark, he knew he would remember this, his body would remember this, this feeling, for what was probably forever.

"God, Lex, it's so good," Clark breathed against his lips, looking, for a moment, almost his usual self, so shy, so easily amazed. Then he began to move, and the expression of awe was quickly swallowed by something hungrier, older and darker. His head dropped onto Lex's shoulder and he fell into a fast, hard rhythm; his hand slid between them to wrap around Lex's cock, and started to stroke.

"Come for me, Lex," he whispered roughly, barely inches from Lex's ear. He turned his head to bite down at the sensitive skin of his neck, and Lex moaned without awareness or intention, sound and sensation wringing it from him.

"Yeah, like that, I want to hear you, want to feel you... Jesus Lex, it's so fucking hot, I never imagined... God, Lex..."

He was coming, shuddering, whimpering, mouthing nonsense and words against Clark's throat. "Clark, it's-- Oh, God, Clark, you-- It's always you..."

He felt it when Clark came, didn't need to see his face, could feel the heat of his exhalation against his throat, feel the bruises forming on his shoulder and his hip, feel Clark pulsing inside his body, the imprint of his own name whispered against his throat, like a brand of his lover's pleasure. His lover's. His.

It felt like hours later that Clark was muttering soothing noises against his shoulder, kissing him and touching him and holding him and asking him --again-- and this time the answer was yes, would always be yes, ever after, no matter what the question.

"Yes, Clark. Of course. Always."

They'd left for the city that night, and yes, of course he'd known something was different. Wrong. He wasn't stupid, or blind, but he could do a damn good impersonation of both when it suited him, and it did suit him to pretend everything was fine and not to question Clark's behaviour.

He'd tried. Damn it, at first he had tried, but... But it hadn't worked. It hadn't worked because nobody was strong enough to turn down an offer like that-- every fantasy, every dream, offered without hesitation. Nobody was that strong, least of all him.

And nobody was less surprised than he when Jonathan Kent showed up to drag the boy home, demanding time alone with Clark, who suddenly looked distinctly queasy, and when Lex emerged from the bedroom, the both of them were gone.

The next time he saw Clark, all the hunger and want in his now avoidant gaze had been stripped away, replaced with shyness and shame and embarrassment, and Lex couldn't look at him like that. Couldn't, and wouldn't.

When he returned to the apartment in Metropolis, it was full of the things he hadn't bothered to unpack, too eager to be with Clark, and he couldn't stand to look at them either.

The next few weeks passed in a haze of which he remembered almost nothing, except the state he'd been in when his father had finally found him. His father, who had, of course, known about what had happened, because sometimes it felt like all of Metropolis could fit inside the pocket of Lionel Luthor, and did, and that there was nothing that eluded his notice.

"I'm only trying to warn you, son," Lionel had told him. "Nothing good can come from this, that boy is nothing but a child, full of nonsense and wholesome platitudes he inherited from his father. You can't try to take him out of that and not expect it to come looking for him."

"I suppose not," Lex had agreed, blearily, wondering which version of his father he should center his gaze on.

"You know what Jonathan Kent would say, don't you, son?"

And he did. So he allowed his father to help him to his feet, and followed him out of the room. In the six years that had passed nothing had changed, because Clark was still Clark Kent, and he could barely bring himself to look at Lex now.

He knew he should be proud of what Clark had accomplished --without any patronage-- but he couldn't quite bring himself up to that level, so he contented himself with the anger he felt whenever another article with his name on it appeared in the Planet under the by-line of 'Clark J. Kent', and tormented himself with his memories.

Because, in the end, his father was right, and so was Jonathan Kent. Right about Clark, and right about him.

"You can't free a fish from water."

- fin -