No preface.  Only joy.  Because black_siren is coming to visit!!!!  TOMORROW!!!

*does dance of joy*

Rating: NC-17
Characters: Clark, Lex, Jonathan, Whitney, Lana, Gabe Sullivan, plus one.
Summary: The most heroic thing Clark did on a regular basis was to stitch up Taber’s right side whenever he needed it.
A/N: Dirty, dirty, dirty.  You'll see.  *eg*

Part 1
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Friday night, and Clark should have been out with his friends.  They’d been threatening to take him to Grandville’s only sort-of-gay bar, and in spite of himself, Clark was intrigued.  But yesterday’s awkward and ill-timed confession had led to this instead – Friday night in Clark’s loft watching Whitney’s ass as his friend tried to rig the cable in the barn so they could watch the game.

“Why aren’t we going in the house, again?” Whitney asked, sitting back on his heels and wiping grimy palms on his jeans.

“Because the house is off-limits tonight,” Clark said.  It was the phrase he used whenever his father was in a particularly bad funk, and even if the cause wasn’t the usual one, the result was the same.  Dark gloom had descended like a plague over the entire farmhouse.

“And why aren’t we at my place?”

“Because I have to watch Mini-Me,” Clark answered, and Brodie emerged on cue, noisily driving a toy truck into Whitney’s ankle.  He was rarely allowed in the loft and he behaved himself remarkably well when he was.

“You know, I never noticed how much his ears stuck out until now,” Whitney said, frowning at the cable in his hands after a quick look down at Brodie.

“They don’t stick out,” Clark said, then checked for himself, “much.”

“Ah, think I’ve got it,” Whitney crowed suddenly, and the old heavy TV blared to life with a recap of the score.

“I want to watch Caillou,” Brodie said, looking up.

Clark ignored him, hoping that it was only a momentary whim.  It proved to be a good move, because the next second, Brodie was happily investigating Clark’s desk drawers.

Whitney opened a beer bottle and settled on the couch next to Clark with a sigh.  “They’re in Metropolis tonight,” he offered, not even bothering with a pretense of actual names.

Clark paused, then decided that he needed to secure Whitney’s mental health, or what was left of it.  “Lex told me it’s just a distraction to keep his father from paying attention to Lex’s business or something.  Lex and Lana aren’t really…”

“I know,” Whitney said, simply, then glanced up at Clark with a bright blue gaze.  “I mean, I can tell.  They’re faking… except, you know, they have to spend all this time together so everyone believes it.  And they like each other, you can tell.  And I know she doesn’t think it’s a big deal, if they – hook up.”  Whitney gave a small shrug.  “I just think, if you pretend something long enough and hard enough, eventually it becomes true.”

Clark mused for a moment, then broke into a grin.  “You seriously think that just *pretending* they’re together is going to make them get together?” he asked, chuckling at the notion.  “Whit, life isn’t like the movies, you know.  Besides, Lex is – he has other interests.  You know – business things.”

“So it’s one-sided, then,” Whitney challenged, not smiling back.  “Something that’s one-sided can feel just as real.  And I don’t want – he shouldn’t hurt her.”

It was at moments like this that Clark saw Whitney’s odd inability to let go of Lana as something genuine, something beyond a crutch which Whitney used to hobble through his curtailed world.  Whitney really loved Lana, or thought he did.  And yet, Clark hadn’t seen the two of them alone together since – when?  Freshman year sometime.  Nearly five years now.

“Lana can take care of herself,” Clark said, automatically reaching out to Brodie as the little boy clambered up on Clark’s lap.

Whitney took a swig of beer and focused on the television as an uneasy silence descended.  “Shit, look at Wenger!  He’s going down… aw, *shit*!”

“Bad knee,” Clark said, watching as the player curled up in agony and he was surrounded by people.  “Well, the Sharks are screwed.”

“Shit,” Brodie agreed heartily.

***

“She’s a match for you.”

He’d said it with such approval, such warmth, and it was fucking insane, but Lex had –

“No, stay here,” Lana panted as Lex made a move towards the bed.  Lex stayed, slipping the straps of Lana’s gown down her shoulders, feeling the silk of her skin under his palms, the slight stickiness left by a long evening in a close room.

-- Lex had been unreasonably *pleased* by his father’s approval, like he was nine years old and striving for Lionel’s smile, like he was twelve and striving for his father’s notice.  Not like it should be, like a twenty-six-year-old whose father had proved himself to be a heartless and amoral bastard whose only interest in his son had to do with a massive-scale human experiment.

Lana’s breasts were heavy in his palms when he reached around to cup them.  Lex buried his face in her neck and tried not to look up at his reflection, unable to summon the same sort of narcissistic fascination that Lana was displaying.

“What, you’re surprised that I like her?” Lionel had laughed, seeing Lex’s torn expression.  “Don’t tell me you weren’t hoping I would, expecting it.  Surely you’ve noticed by now that we share many traits – and our taste in women is one of them.”

Lex squeezed, a little viciously, and Lana groaned.  “Fuck me here,” she said, getting one knee up on the dresser in front of them, crawling closer to the mirror and still watching herself with savage focus.  “I want to see you fucking me.”

Lex should have been disgusted with Lionel, angry, but he wasn’t. Instead, some part of him was ecstatic that Lionel was pleased with Lex, that Lionel thought Lex had done well, even in this farce.  Lex had turned his gaze towards Lana, lit-up Metropolitan Lana, thinking weakly about how he’d been enjoying her, delighting in her, and he’d felt sick at how like Lionel he really was.

“Leave your clothes on,” Lana said.  “I want to be naked, but you leave your clothes on.”  Her small hand was insinuating itself inside his pants, pulling him free, but even as she turned to accommodate her action, she kept her face riveted on the mirror.

“I need –” Lex began, gesturing towards his luggage, towards the condoms he’d packed automatically, never really expecting to need them.

“I want to feel you,” she insisted.  “I’m on the pill, it’s fine.  You’re fine, right?”

“Fine,” Lex said, watching as Lana’s princess costume dropped away, revealing something bright and almost angry underneath.  Then she was bending over the surface of the dresser, breathing fog into her reflected face, hitching one leg up again so that she was open for Lex to see, so wet and ready and Lex thrust inside her before he could think.

“She’ll try to entrap you,” Lionel had said, “if she hasn’t already.  Make promises that aren’t true, maybe use pinholes if you prove less than trusting.  She’s after your money, Lex.  Not you.”

And it had *stung*, so much so that Lex had wondered how long it had been, really, since Lionel had taken the time to wound Lex.  It had felt so fresh, so vivid, and even if Lionel was wrong – and who’s to say he was, especially when Lex was barebacking Lana on nothing but her word – Lex saw himself as Lionel saw him.  Worthless.  Easily manipulated.  Foolish.

“Harder,” Lana cried, her eyes watching not Lex’s reflection, but fixed on herself, her breasts, her mouth, her belly.

Lex fucked harder, closing his eyes against what he saw – she was Lionel’s creature, in deed if not in fact.

How Lex had wanted to tell Lionel the truth, that Lana wasn’t mercenary, that she wasn’t pretending to love Lex, that this was all a stupid game he was playing, that Lex was on the verge of uncovering Lionel’s biggest darkest crimes, that Lex’s brain – which Lionel thought so foolish – was working to bring Lionel down.  But Lex had only clenched his jaw and marveled at his own innocence.

His decision to fight Lionel, to join with Gabe, hadn’t been about following a righteous path.  It hadn’t been about seeking the truth, either.

It had been about forcing Lionel to see Lex as he really was – worthy of fear.

Lex had set upon Lana in the limousine on the way to the hotel, needing a deeper oblivion than that offered by alcohol.  She’d protested at first, making all the right noises about keeping things businesslike, but soon enough, she’d become this feral thing that was writhing between Lex’s palms now, moaning.

“Do it,” she begged, holding on as Lex slammed the dresser against the wall.  “Do it, come.  I want to see you come.”  Talking to herself, looking at her own brown eyes.

Lex reached under Lana and got one finger on her clit, feeling hot and oppressed in his tuxedo, hot and oppressed inside Lana, inside his own skin.

She bucked under his ungentle touch, Lex’s finger grinding and twisting until she was only crying out, wordless.

Fuck you, Dad, thought Lex.  Fuck you, you don’t own me.  You don’t own this.  I own this.  I own her.

Untrue, untrue, she owned herself, Lex knew, but in this moment, it felt like it could happen.  Like he was taking her over, catching her unawares.

Lana came as she always did, multiple times in quick succession, draining her of motion, of agency.  Lex felt her thrum like a taut string, once, twice, again and again until all her lithe power subsided into his unrelenting rhythm.  Lex had the presence of mind, barely, to do it, but he managed – when everything was flashing white-bright, he pulled out and came on the small of Lana’s back, trembling.

He opened his eyes to find that Lana had closed hers, pillowing her head on her folded arms.  He bowed down and kissed her shoulder, still shaking, and she murmured it.

“Whitney.”