Contagiously

Contagiously

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Title: Contagiously (Or, My Beloved Monster)
Pairing: Clark Kent/Lex Luthor
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Three hours ago, he came to me. And I’ve wondered every second of each minute why. Why, out of the array of beautiful women he could have sought out, he chose me. An old friend. A new enemy.

Warnings: Season 5 spoilers, angst, adult situations, language, unhappy ending, PWP, M/M sex, COMPLETE.

Word Count: 4000+
Author's Notice: For christinefic, on her birthday. My first and probably last Smallville story. | As in keeping with the season, Lex still has no clue about Clark's abilities. Enjoy.


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Even in sleep, I could see his worry. The deep groove between his eyebrows spoke volumes of recent stress. Stress that showed openly on his chiseled face. And in the wide strip of moonlight spilling over our bodies, it wasn’t hard to overlook his unnatural pallor. He was paler than me, even.

He looked worn; too worn. An ache bloomed in my chest. It was hard. Seeing him like this. Knowing I might have had a hand in it all—his ragged appearance, his uneasy sleep, his being here. I’m willing to bet my Porsche on it.

Then again, I always blame myself for Clark Kent’s misery. It was common practice of late.

But there is something else bothering him tonight. I know him well enough to see it. Knew him, rather. I knew that each line on his face or crease in his brow was some potentially fatal enigma he’d taken to solving. Enigmas I devoted time, energy, and my father’s millions to deciphering. Strange mysteries I would never comprehend or get the chance to, because they were locked within the impenetrable vault that was Clark Kent’s mind.

Mysteries I probably would have been privy to, if only I had his trust again. An impossible thing.

Sighing quietly in the dark, I peered over at his sleeping form, a furrow in my own brow. Did I have his trust? Could I allow myself to cling to that feeble hope, that dying ember of faith in the shadows once more? I frowned, shifting gently so as not to jostle him. I propped my head in my hands for a better view and considered the facts.

Our friendship was finished. Over. He had made that clear more than enough times. He’d warned me countless times to stay away from his friends and family. Personally, I respected his wishes. But business rarely understood the boundaries of privacy. It was just business. Clark never understood. He probably never would. I stayed away, as far as business would let me. Likewise, he did so, except on occasion when he would barge in here to confront me personally. It reminded me of the Native Americans protecting the Kawatche Caves. You keep to your land, and I’ll keep to mine. Except for a handful of tense encounters, we’d held to our oaths.

Five hours ago, Jonathan Kent was buried.

Three hours ago, I walked into my study and found him.

I’ve wondered every second of these 180 minutes why. Why, out of Chloe, and Martha, even the exasperating Ms. Lane and his timeless love, Lana Lang, Clark sought me out. Chose me.

An old friend. A new enemy.

My father once told me it’s difficult to draw blood from a stone, but damn near impossible to make it cry. It was an adage I’d long since discarded along with several of his misshapen pearls of wisdom. I had all but forgotten it now. I had no time to chase myths, not anymore.

He was dressed in his farm clothes, the ones that upheld the image of pure corn-fed innocence and there were stark snowflakes in his windswept black hair. But more importantly, he was sitting very still. In the chair behind my desk.

I fought a smirk and thought that was bold of him. He had never once graced my sofa, let alone my chair. Seeing him there, in my domain, invading my personal space not only insulted me, it aroused my ... esteem. Only a bit. Clark Kent — daring? Kodak was invented for moments like these.

Nevertheless, I’d given him a disapproving look. The word “security” danced on the tip of my tongue before I noticed. I really noticed.

His eyes were rimmed with red. His cheeks pale, moist and stained pink. His stature was neither bold nor daring, but darkly eager. Rash. Broken.

I had never seen a rock bleed. Not until that moment. I crossed another impossibility off my list. It was too bad it came at his expense, as things in Smallville often did.

The call died in my throat. In that instant, whatever he would ask of me, I knew I couldn’t refuse him. He could have asked me to kill myself, just to make him smile. I would have done it in a split second.

Hostile takeover threats? I ate them for breakfast.

A favor for Clark Kent? For him, I’d buy my soul back and sell it again: he need only ask.

As if he’d read my mind, our eyes locked. My throat tightened. We were long past the witty greetings. And what could I have said to him, my enemy? Especially today, the day he interred his father?

It turned out words weren’t necessary after all. He said nothing. His face conveyed his message clearly.

Lowered eyebrows, a firm frown. I don’t know why I’m here.

I crossed my arms intently but kept my expression neutral.

He inhaled audibly through his nose, and his hard edge softened. I need you.

Oh? Had he needed me to access some part of LexCorp that wasn’t privy to the public? Was there someone who needed saving so soon? Was there a school bus of meteor-infected mutants terrorizing the town? I’d made my annoyance known by scowling furiously. If he needed a partner in crime, I had no doubt Miss Sullivan was available. I wasn’t about to fall over myself to please him if he was going to use his mourning as an excuse to force my hand. Not like this.

His face softened further. His eyebrows knit together, creased with something altogether different. Something painful.

Frowning, I ran over that look in the catalogue of Clark Kent’s looks in my mind. I’d seen it before, but never directed at me. I would not have forgotten such a wounded face. He looked worse than a mongrel overlooked at a pet shop; like his hopes had been falsely built up and his heart crushed. Like—

I froze.

I need you.

I’d seen that look before. Never directed at me, no. But at very close friends. At family. At Lana.

I didn’t want to allow that spark to ignite. Not after everything we’d been through. Not after we’d just declared war. I carefully let my eyebrow rise in interest.

His gray eyes narrowed and his hands balled into fists. But this changes nothing.

Yes. Impossible thing. Thomas Haliburton said impossible desires were the height of unreason. I suppose that’s why we’re here now. No matter how far we pulled away from one another, no matter who or what divided us, Clark Kent and I were magnets. Drawn together contagiously.

He looked at me expectantly. I returned his look, nodding my head imperceptibly but he understood.

I couldn’t deny that I hadn’t wanted this for a long time. Years. Since the first time he’d acknowledged his obsession with Miss Lang. Along with my less than obvious shock, I’d felt something ... else. A nudge in my chest. A twinge, really. I’d ignored it, paring it down to concern for my new friend’s heart. After all, back then, Miss Lang went through men like underwear. The football player, some meteor freaks, the power-hungry Teague. As pleasant as her company was, I feared he would fall prey to her penchant for trouble (though he found enough of that on his own). And if she hadn’t found him exciting enough, I didn’t think I could bear seeing him downhearted.

I remember this afternoon with amazing vividness. How he stood with grace I didn’t know he had the strength for, and purposely strode across the room. How his lip gave the barest of quivers before he quelled it, maintaining control. I still remembered the silkiness of his dark hair between my fingers, wet with melted snow. I felt the slightest resistance as I pressed our mouths together, his lips instantly distinguishable from my hard ones. His lips were cool, tasting of melted snow and broth, consumed, no doubt, to warm the ice inside from Jonathan’s demise.

Yet an astounding sense of rightness overwhelmed me as we kissed, enough that my knees shook. This was right. It was true. It was as if he and I were made for this, made for one another. Shadow and sunlight; the redeeming angel and the wicked monster. It was perfection personified.

But Clark didn’t feel the same way. He answered my kiss with brash strokes of his tongue, teeth clacking against mine, as if reminding me. This changes nothing.

His strong hands ... I could still feel their grip on me, hard enough to bruise, but holding back. His fingers tensed regularly as if he were straining hard not to. I broke our kiss and attacked his throat, tasting the cool salt of his neck and the heat of his skin under his clothing. The fabric of my shirt frayed at the seams as he hung on, desperately pressing himself into me. It was a savageness I knew he possessed but never witnessed for myself. Any man or woman would have been crazy to complain of his enthusiasm.

But it was wrong. So wrong. He may have been eager to drag me to bed, but for all his fervor, I didn’t hear one moan of pleasure. Not one vibration of his Adam’s apple against my laving tongue. His clutches were empty, hollow. I stopped my reverence of his neck and searched his eyes, finding nothing but vacant shells staring back. He was hell bent on standing like a corpse while I provided the necessary distraction from reality. I could let a few things slip past me, but not this. He wouldn’t have this satisfaction.

I tightened my hold in his hair and tugged, breaking his head back. His eyes flew to mine, shocked before they seared with rage, bubbling like a monster beneath the surface. There he was: the Clark Kent I fiercely admired.

It didn’t last; his eyes quickly shuttered behind their listless stare again. I would have none of that. I wondered if Clark was forcing me into the darkness, forcing me to resume the role of ruthless beast, perhaps to right things in his world. If that’s what he wanted, I certainly wasn’t going to deny him.

I roughly parted his legs with a knee and lined my thigh to his groin, pressing insistently. He’d sucked in a quiet breath, his eyes darkening, and stilled for a fraction of a second before his bones eased. I almost thought he’d returned to his normal state.

Then there was hardness. Glorious, answering hardness. So he could feel; he just didn’t want to.

Good. I would make the damned farmhand feel. By God, if I had to rock the mansion from its foundation, Clark Kent would feel something tonight.

I’d rode him against my leg, ground his denim-clad erection so hard to me I might have given him rug burn. Clark said nothing, but moaned from the deepest reaches of his soul. It literally vibrated through him like summer thunder at the height of hurricane season, shook through my very frame. God, he was feeling. I was making him feel. There was no better sensation in the world than this.

Until he moved, bringing himself up, down, and across my thigh. The next seconds were a blur. Somehow we’d stumbled upstairs, lips locked and hands groping with more vigor and authenticity than before. He was still limiting his movements, squeezing my sides with just enough force as a loose hug, and kissing me hard enough to swell my lips. As if physical pain could hurt me more than he already had.

Our trail blazed across the mansion with clothing and some once priceless vases now in worthless shambles. The staff would arch an eyebrow at the additional set of masculine clothes, but they would keep their opinions to themselves. If they didn’t want to end up working in a Third World bean factory, they knew to keep their mouths shut.

We grasped at each other like parasites on hosts, feeding off one other, drawing strength and energy and truth. Like magnets. We were still wrapped around one another when I eased him onto the bed, kneeling above him. My eyes never left his. The lifelessness was dimmed, but I could tell he was struggling against it. If there was one word to describe Clark Kent, fighter certainly won out. I’d just have to fight harder.

I moved forward. He parted his mouth expectantly, but snapped it shut just as fast, correcting himself. His jaw tensed as if readying for an onslaught of ruthless kisses, but I diverted my course. I bit gently at his swollen lip, nipping at the heat and coppery tang before heading south. He writhed under my mouth, stifling unbidden moans and clenching his fists in some semblance of regaining control. I ignored his turmoil and skated across his lips, down his jaw, his neck. I paused at the fold in his chest and finally, blew on the head of his purple length, leaking fat, clear pearls of fluid. My lips were centimeters away, and every breath I took wafted his heady scent into my lungs and over my pleasure-addled brain. I paused, swallowing, and peered at him closely.

His eyes glowed with a cold, reminding fire. I quickly looked away, uneasy for the first time. But Clark didn’t allow me to wallow. He tipped his hips upward, deliberately brushing his head against my lips. The shift smeared fluid just inside the crease of my mouth. I swiped the bitterness with my tongue and squeezed my eyes shut, fisting the duvet under us and panting harshly on his cock.

A strangled moan ripped between his gnashed teeth and his hips twitched anxiously. Still, he said nothing, but when I opened my eyes and tore it from his engorged length to his face, I read the desperate need for release rippling in waves across his features. A sharp, blinding pang stabbed through me. I felt the sheets bow beneath my fingernails. I shook my head once.

You can’t ask me to do this.

Genuine worry lined his face. Please. His eyes were hysterical, edged with red. His cock was heaving in time with his chest.

I gritted my teeth and shook my head again. It couldn’t end like this. I didn’t want it to be this way. Not without taking a chance. It had to be as hard on him as it was on me. I couldn’t stand it anymore. Despite our rattled breaths, the silence was too loud.

“Clark....” I was surprised at how much despair I’d packed into that single word.

His body wracked with violent tremors but he calmed with a pained groan, pushing his groin toward my face. He was begging. Demanding. Asking me. Confessing. It was just as hard for him, too.

I’d sell my soul for Clark Kent. Twice.

I hooked his knees over my shoulders and languidly knelt up, moving forwards until my hardness brushed the soft mounds of his buttocks. I nearly bent him in half reaching for the lubricant in my night stand, but he didn’t seem to mind, lost in his own hazily hedonistic world. Daubing my fingers with lotion I finally eased his torment and slid my hand slowly up and down his length, taking strength from his freeing moan. Slowly, I let my fingers drag through the thick, coarse hair of his groin, lightly dusted them over his sac and eased a finger inside without warning. I hissed as he clamped down with all the pressure of a wire cutter around my forefinger, but then again every insignificance was intensified today. His gasp seemed to echo in the cavernous bedchamber; whole body glowed bright and red; his eyes, so dark they looked soulless. Even my brow was stiffer than normal. I could feel every tiny shift on my face as if wired to my scalp.

I added a second finger, then a third, but Clark did not squeeze like the first time. I wished he’d still trusted me enough to tell me ... But pushed those ominous thoughts from my mind and slicked myself quickly. I braced my left hand on Clark’s bristly knee and guided myself to his prepared entrance with my right. Once I felt the furrow yield beneath my head, I paused, taking a deep breath before pushing through.

With a sharp hiss I watched his face closely for any sign of discomfort. His eyes narrowed from saucers to wide slits, refusing to settle on my face. He choked on a wince as I breached the first ring of burning muscle and squeezed his eyes shut by the time I was fully seated. Clark blew out a breath so explosive, I swore I saw a snowflake or two spew forth.

I paused, letting us both adjust, and could barely control myself when his enveloping heat gave an experimental squeeze around me. My hips shook, trembled against my self-imposed hold before I was sure we were both all right to continue. Staring down my long nose, down into those pleading, lust-brimmed eyes, I’d pulled back slowly before snapping forward.

Clark howled. That was enough consent for me to continue.

I leaned forward, trapping his cock between us and halving him as I moved. Drilled through his pain, my pain, our pain that after tonight, we could never acknowledge. My grip on his knees was sure to leave bruises, but I couldn’t muster the strength to care. So long as it reminded him of today, of us, I would bruise him as much as I could. I gritted my teeth and pressed on, hissed down at the glistening body below mine, and tilted my angle.

What followed was a mangled whine from both of our throats. He breathed so deeply I swore the air chilled several degrees and clamped down so tightly I’d felt as if I was thrusting a keyhole. Strange. I’d never heard of sex being this intense. But again, tonight, everything seemed exaggerated by sorrow. Or maybe Clark was just the tightest virgin on the planet.

I grimaced softly, but loud enough that his eyes flew open to witness my pain. Suddenly, his blood-draining constriction loosened, so much that it provided the barest friction. As I caught my breath, I studied him closely. He never met my eyes but I knew that familiar wrinkle in his damp brow. My broken rhythm faltered from its pickup pace to long and torturous strokes. I peered at him suspiciously. Accusingly.

He was holding back. Resisting. Handling me with kid gloves. I could feel it: the odd flex of his thigh muscles beneath my slick hands. The raw, vibrating power they produced as they strained against some invisible, internal force. It was all very familiar, but for the life of me, I couldn’t recall where I’d see it before.

Movement to my right brought my attention to his hand, clenched so tight in the duvet I was sure I heard his skin stretch in protest. There were mild handprint impressions in the 16th century headboard, and one of the panels had given way. I wasn’t upset. Sooner or later it would have bowed to either age or in a mismanagement of my anger.

Still, I watched closely, watched every movement of his face from his pinched expression to the beads of sweat pearling down his temple, matted with ink-colored hair. He hissed through his teeth and rippled violently, frequently. I could see the cords of his muscles and the outline of his veins in both scrunched arms. It was like watching a transformation. Comparable to a werewolf under the full moon, fighting against the venom racing through his veins to change him into a ... monster. It struck me then.

I was staring at Smallville’s own Bruce Banner, on the cusp of bursting into that frothing green monster. But this was Clark. The same Clark who, when angry, vented with a stern lecture on the difference between right and wrong. Never threatened with fists, rarely raised his voice. I couldn’t entertain the notion of him exploding into some ... rage-blinded beast. Not Clark. No. He wasn’t some monster, beloved or not. He was Clark Kent, and he was a better man than I.

But I saw how he struggled, warred not to bring me any harm me. I ached to reassure him, to let him know he couldn’t break me. Not this way.

In retrospect, I should have anticipated his response to my forwardness. I’d traced my fingers down his tense arm and over hard, contracting muscle. Clark merely dug his messy head into the pillow below it, his wanton moan spurring my hips to a gallop.

I hesitated, circling his wrist instead. His skin was inflamed, his sinew as soft as stone beneath the surface. I glanced at his face, judging his reaction. He was still torn between restraint and opening himself to the pleasure he fought to deny. Huffing in time with my thrusts, I moved, sliding my palm into his, replacing my tattered bed sheets with my hand.

His eyes burned into mine, and I caught a glimpse of my beloved monster snarling back. He dropped my hand as if it were diseased and hooked it to the headboard instead, twisting his face away. I’d read the reproach in his livid gaze.

It really meant nothing to him. Nothing.

I could taste the hot bitterness on my tongue as if I’d spoken the words. I frowned, still tasting it, hours later.

I pumped my hips faster and focused the rest of my thoughts on finishing off. I needed to get out of there before he suffocated me with his coldness. He was Clark Kent. He wasn’t meant to be ruthless.

When a familiar, liberating heat coiled in my stomach, I quickly palmed his neglected cock, so forgotten it was puce with indignation.

He sucked in another chilling breath and stiffened, jerking—with restraint, of course—wildly into the cocoon of my hand. Pearly strings coated my fingers and his chest and part of his chin, and the vice-like hold he had on my erection triggered my release. I exhaled gruffly in his ear, emptying inside him, all the while I keened his name in the prison of my mind.

I slid my spent cock from his body and untangled his legs from my shoulders, then collapsed. He said nothing as he breathed raggedly on the crown of my head. I’d expected a few moments of peace, to stay glued to him for a handful of precious minutes before our dark reality restructured. The words swooped in like Death’s all too eager hand.

“This ... means nothing,” he’d whispered, voice thick with grief. I’d already forgotten he’d buried his father earlier. I swallowed thickly, unmoving. “You’re still my enemy tomorrow.”

And while he slept, for three hours, those words twisted in my chest like a knife.

I peered down at him, bathed pale in tonight’s full moon. I had to say it; had to think it. It meant nothing. He meant nothing. Nothing. My throat burned as if I’d said it aloud.

But I still raised my hand, ran the pad of my thumb over the trench between his thick eyebrows. His skin had lost its heat. It was like stone. Cold, bleeding, weeping stone.

I anticipated he would shift away. I wasn’t disappointed. A soft, protesting groan broke through his light breathing. His head rolled away from my hand. But I was nothing if not persistent.

I chanced my earlier action and slipped my fingers between his visible hand, clinging for the last time. Like a parasite. One more time. Just one more time before it ends.

He slept on, maybe oblivious, maybe not.

There was nothing to this. I know it, and he knows it. I would be a fool to say it does not have to be this way. I chose darkness. I accept that. Live it. Clark decided his path, one far nobler than mine. We could never be what we once were.

There are too many secrets between us now. Too many people watching, waiting to step in with iron fists the moment we got too close. It kills me. Rips my heart out.

You’re still my enemy tomorrow.

On the contrary, my beloved monster.

You’re still my enemy tonight.


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