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by Annie

Castaway: Lex on the Beach

By Annie

Rated: R
Summary: Just what the title says; Lex can take care of himself. :) Spoilers: Exodus; Heat
Disclaimer: So not mine. :(

Forced to choose, Lex Luthor has no trouble picking the worst out of the hunger, thirst, sunburn and betrayal. It's definitely betrayal. Loyalty is something to be cherished, nothing to be taken lightly or for granted.

Lex has. Lex is paying for the error.

Mostly, he's exhausted. He has to venture out from under cover of the tropical trees during the day, to look for food. He hasn't found anything he can identify yet, but he has discovered some fruity, green things that look like they could be found in the imported food section of the store, (not like he's been in stores like that a lot) and has eaten tiny nibbles of them intermittently, waiting for pain, nausea or possible agonizing death. None of these things has happened, and he assumes the little bit of liquid his body derives from these edibles is keeping him alive for the moment. He hasn't found any fresh water yet, and has this ranked right up at the top of the problem list.

He actually finds a crab on the beach this day, but he isn't hungry enough to eat it raw, and he doesn't have any matches. There is a piece of glass in that damned compass in his pocket, and Lex thinks he may be breaking it apart in another day or so, trying to use it like a magnifying glass to start a fire. Lex has no idea if this will actually work, but figures he has nothing but time to try it out.

Now, as he lays on the midnight-dark beach, staring up at constellations that almost look familiar, Lex plots revenge. He has never enjoyed the beach, too much sun, too hard on his skin, even with sunblock, but here, in the middle of the night, he might grow to like it. Soft sounds of the surf brushing the sand just next to him, millions of stars above, almost touchable, cool ocean breeze stumbling over his exposed skin. He has slept right here these last three nights, fitfully at first, because he doesn't know if there are any creatures to sneak up on him in the dark. After a careful perusal of the small piece of ground he now owns, he has realized there are no other inhabitants. Snakes maybe, that he can't see hidden in the trees, but he has yet to see a trace of one in the sand.

It's warm here, regardless of the night breeze, the sand holding the heat that has baked into it throughout the day, the night temperature feeling like it stays around 80 or so, but at least the sun is blessedly absent. Lex moves purposefully, pushing his shirtless back into the soft, warm sand, making himself a Lex-space to sleep in. If he stretches out his left arm, his fingers will touch the ocean as it crests onto the beach, can dabble in it for the split second before it whispers back into itself. His shirt is hanging discarded on a tree limb a little way up the beach, along with his pants. It's way too hot to keep them on, and besides, the dried salt water is hell on his skin. He has taken to walking around in his black boxer briefs, which also make him itch a little, but he draws the line at turning into Naked Jungle Boy. If he ever finds any water, the second thing he's going to do is wash his clothes.

When he isn't plotting revenge, he has taken to wondering what everyone is doing back in Smallville. Wonders if Lionel (bastard) has taken up residence in the mansion, and if the grieving widow (bitch) is there as well. Helen's body hasn't washed up on the beach anywhere, Lex has been sure to check. He's glad he took care of the Talon's business after his brief insanity al la Desiree. Lana will be able to keep running it and Lionel can't have anything to do with it. He wonders if Martha Kent is making apple pie today, and if Jonathan is secretly smirking over the special bulletins that Lex knows will be all over the television, hopes, just to be difficult, that he has pre-empted something good. Tries to avoid the thought of his abandonment by his best man that day, but does realize that he himself told Clark the wedding was off, and Clark should keep it to himself. Even so, the visible support of his best friend would have been nice if Lex had actually been required to relay the bad news to a church full of people. Can't figure out why the Kents simply didn't bring their wayward son back to the wedding. Not that they had come back themselves. Lex frowns. He has to abandon this train of thought, because betrayal by Helen and Lionel is one thing; betrayal by Clark is something unthinkable that chews delicately at his insides. Wonders instead if Clark is in his Fortress, mourning the loss of his friend; wonders if Clark holds out some ray of hope that Lex might be found and realizes, with a sharp twist of sadness, that Clark is probably the only person who will do so.

Thoughts of Clark make Lex want to see him, and he has to close his eyes to do this, tries to sleep while he mentally reminisces about every conversation he's ever had with Clark. This doesn't help him to get to sleep; quite the opposite. Lex suddenly realizes that he has been laying with his hand on his bare stomach, idly sketching lazy circles on his warm skin. Instead of relaxing him, it's definitely waking him up. Or at least parts of him.

Now Lex thinks he has lost his mind. He's probably going to be dead in a few days, if no one finds him here, and he's drawing on his skin while he thinks about his best friend a hemisphere away. And his cock's getting hard.

Damned Luthor dick anyway. Never socially appropriate; getting into this state while Lex is 1, lost at sea; 2, starving; 3, dying of thirst; and 4, contracting skin cancer at a likely world-record rate.

Lex sighs in resignation. Not like he has never done this while thinking about Clark. It's difficult to not think of Clark in relation to sex, with his looks, his obvious strength, that eminently kissable mouth and whatever indefinable something it is about him that draws Lex like the proverbial moth to the flame that will be his downfall.

He reaches down to remove the briefs, ocean breeze kissing the half-hard cock. Lex closes his eyes and teases his fingers across his skin, moving further down, stopping before he gets to where he wants to be. Not yet. He doesn't have an early business meeting or anything, no reason he can't just laze away the entire warm night like this.

Lex drags both hands back up across his chest lightly and runs them across his face, eyes still closed.

The hands are Clark's, and Lex smoothes them across his scalp gently, tease to his skin, tiny jump in his pulse. Back of his fingertips down across the sides of his face and along his jaw, slow track down his throat to his collarbone and chills race across his skin. Warm palms brush unhurriedly across his chest, contrast to the cooler breeze that is Clark's breath across his flesh. Fingers hesitate a tantalizing few seconds before rolling around hard nipples, and his heart beats faster, back arching up into the touch. He can feel his cock getting harder, his hips want to move and thrust into the dark warmth surrounding him, but he makes himself wait, waits for something tangible to move into.

The hands are Clark's, and one moves away from his nipples reluctantly, dips into the next crest of ocean and returns to share the salty drops, both hands, wet now, moving down, tracing the line of his ribs. Flattening across his abdomen, harder now, because Lex wants to feel some weight behind it, wants to feel the power of the muscles he knows are there, under the simple flannels, waiting for Lex's touch. His cock jumps when his fingers move down even lower, and his breath is ragged, heart beating furiously. Lex keeps his eyes closed tightly, doesn't want to risk opening them and destroying his little fantasy. He's breathing through his mouth, and he licks his too-dry lips. They're Clark's lips, and they taste like apple pie or Talon coffee or something like a promise of more. The fingers bypass his aching cock deliberately, and a moan of frustration slips out before he can stop it, the fingers teasing along the tops of his legs, brushing his balls lightly, and he can't stop the thrust of his hips this time, feels his cock searching blindly for friction, touch, heat, release.

Can't wait anymore.

The cock is his, the hand is Clark's. The cool fingertips run along the shaft delicately, and Lex moans, because he wants this, despite the hunger and the betrayal, wants to feel this with a desperation that shreds him wide open, and fuck it, the hand wraps around him, pulls a groan of relief from his parched throat, and he pushes up into the heat almost frantically, heart pounding, breath screaming in his chest.

The cock is his, the hand is Clark's, and the feeling races like lightening bolts through him, straight to his cock. He explodes into Clark's hand, keeps thrusting until he can't move anymore. Takes his hand from his too-sensitive flesh and drops it weakly to the sand, waits for his breathing to even out. Rolls over onto his stomach and waits for the ocean to come and clean his heated skin. Mumbles into the wet sand, waits for someone to come to save him.