Ride II: Spin Out
by The Spike
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Summary: At the Gala, Lex checks his brakes.Notes: This is not the sex-drenched sequel to Ride. This is the deep breath before the sex-drenched sequel to Ride. Thanks to betas Livia (who put her finger on it), Sarah T. and Laura, and always to my Webrain: Debchan and Te
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The gala is... a gala. They sit in the Luthor box, listen to the bands. Lex drinks the champagne, shakes the hands he's supposed to shake, writes the checks he needs to write and he is... buzzing.
The plan had gone perfectly.
Evidence in his car.
Clark in his mouth...
Visceral memory, and the Backstreet boy to whom he's just been introduced gets a hell of a handshake. Gives Lex a speculative look.
Pretty, glittery blond. Easily dismissed. Not Clark.
Which stops him for a second. Amused. At what point during the evening had Clark become his sexual ideal?
His mystery to solve, yes. His current obsession, sure. A turn-on in his own right, definitely -- who could resist genuine innocence in such a pretty, albeit flannel-wrapped, package? But the standard by which all others are judged? That was... new. Ish. The standard was Victoria. Also tall, also dark, also mysterious.
Except he wasn't 18 any more and Clark didn't think of him as anyone's 'beautiful freak'...
The usual flash of rage and humiliation is barely noticeable under the buzz, which is interesting. Acceptable.
Victoria as not-Clark.
Freeing.
So. Clark. The new mean.
He could do -- has done -- worse and at least this insanity is keeping him focussed. Giving him some measure of control, even if it's only enough to keep the car headed straight for the edge of the cliff. And that is such an apt metaphor.
Clark, as ever, his unwitting passenger. Flying right by his side. Lex can't help himself, keeps sneaking glances at all that looming, nervous heat at his right elbow. Never knows if he's going to catch Clark rapt or bored or... staring back at him. Intense enough to make Lex remember vividly what he'd said. Why he'd said it when really, the need for seduction was past. Just... Clark. Wine-stain blush and shining eyes that...
The truth is he can't actually look into Clark's eyes, and he's not entirely sure why not. Everything is fine. Everything is aces. The evidence tucked into a locked safe under the limo's seat. The taste of Clark still on his tongue.
Gives him a strange, sharp thrill.
What exactly had the plan been, again?
Oh, yeah. Same plan it is every night. Screw Lionel. Show Lionel. Do great things.
More than excitement. Not entirely unlike fear.
But you don't do great things -- not really great things -- by planning out every step. Ask any hurricane. It's called Chaos Theory, Father-mine. Look into it. Or don't. I promise to have a good lesson ready for you when the time comes.
Glances over at Clark who is still looking at him. Frown of worry.
Might be the way he's grinding his teeth. White knuckling the arms of the seat like he's thinking about strangling somebody. Now that's the kind of control Lionel is right about. He relaxes his fingers, shrugs it off with a lazy, self-deprecating smile that fits into the groove where his real smile would be if he wanted to let that out.
Not a chance.
Leans in so he can shout into Clark's ear over the noise. At least that's what he means to do. But Clark leans toward him too, and then his nose is in Clark's hair and he remembers...
No control at all. Everything torn open with gentle fingers. Everything wanted. For a minute he is lost in it. So easy. He wants to bury his face in Clark's hair, rub and rub against all that sweet-smelling boy until Clark has to have him again.
I'm going to ask you to fuck me.
He can't catch his next breath. It's not that he can't believe he said it. He says things like that all the time. It's his best line for God's sake. It's just he never...
No reason to panic. He's just been a little horny, wishing for company. No reason to believe in anything.
He's got what he needed. Time to cut and... Well, Luthors don't run, but he knows what he means.
Soft hair brushing by his nose, Clark's head turning. He really needs to get something like a grip going. At least enough to move but it's already too late because Clark's face is right there. Jawline, mouth. Clark's breath warm on his lips. And --
--whatever you do, don't look --
Clark's eyes are so... open.
--up.
"Lex...?"
The plan had gone perfectly. Perfectly, apocalyptically wrong.
Make words come out, he tells himself. And they do, smooth as smoke.
"Not enjoying the show?" Utter bafflement on Clark's face and then that reliably endearing guilty look down and up and Clark's smile is gratifyingly uncertain.
"No, I... It's... great."
"Good," says Lex. And manages to turn his gaze back toward the stage. Can see nothing there but light and motion and the sunspot burn in the corner of his vision that is Clark.
... ask you to fuck me.
Too late.
He has his hand on the tail of a dragon that could swallow Lionel's empire whole. He has something cold and lithe curling around the place where his heart is caged.
He has a crystal brandy snifter with the perfect, half-inch deep impression of a farm-boy's hand-print in the bowl. Moment of Perfect Pleasure Betrayed.
If he wants it, he can have Clark Kent for his first-kiss boyfriend.
Clark's mouth suddenly warm, buzzing against his ear. Breathless and pitched low enough to shake his bones.
"Lex, can we... Is it time to go... back?"
Shudder that has nothing to do with anything but need and he can feel the moan slip out. Helplessly.
He'll smash the glass. He'll drive the car off another bridge if he has to.
"God, yes." And he has to. Clark's radiant smile is the sun soft on his face and it makes him shiver like it's something strange and molten and new.
And if that isn't already fucked, he doesn't know what is.
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