The Enemy Within

by Jett

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The Enemy Within
Author: Jett
Rating: NC-17
Small Spoilers: Skinwalker, Visage, Rosetta, Witness Summary: Two free hands, two bodies, one willing, one not. Warnings: Non-Con

The hands are soft. It shouldn't surprise him. The hands are his own.

He thinks of deviance, difference. He's passed for most of his sixteen years, revealing himself only to family and a single friend.

As for family, he knew no better. As for friend, he chose.

Now, he's been outed.

Clark stares into warm green eyes, wondering how precisely it came to this.


Today's like any other day. Sun bright, smelling like honeysuckle. Clark decides on a new route to school. He's faster this year than last or the year before, so he figures he can goof around a bit before he gets stuck inside. Inside isn't where he wants to be, but he'll go because it's The Right Thing to Do.

Clark's big on The Right Thing. He's not sure what his biological father was thinking. Rule them indeed. Strength, blah, blah, blah.

He's closing in on Hobson's Pond before he notices.

Clark thinks of what used to be. The moments he tore through steel, crushed locks in his bare hands, toppled trailers. Now, he strains against the chains, the metal no longer cool against his flesh as it digs in, scraping... Bone.

He feels the blood leaking beneath the wrist restraints. He's tired, and damn, it hurts, but he doesn't stop.

The warm green eyes sparkle. A smirk's proffered. "I can't believe you're still trying. I guess that's what I like about us. Too bad it's come to this."

Green Eyes leans forward, obliterating what little view there is.

Nose presses in. Familiar scent rooting in dark curls. "I like our hair long. Makes us look hot." Lips meet. Irresistible in their force, undeniable in their pull. But. This. Is. Wrong.

Can't be two Clark Kents running around.

_Hobson's Pond_

Clark isn't paying attention. He does that a lot. Just moves from place to place. Whether he's dirt biking, whether he's walking, whether he's running. The dirt biking becomes a problem with the caves and the hundred-foot fall. Today, it's the running. He face plants, compressing surrounding rocks into powder.

Clark wishes Kal-El wasn't a part of him as he levers himself to his knees, indulges klutz thoughts.

He thinks of his "dual identity" - human teenager, alien conqueror - as he breathes in pulverized stone. Clark and Kal-El, distinct entities with differing missions, inhabiting a solitary body.

The dirt baptizes him, scatters, trapped in jean creases, jammed under fingernails. More residue clings to the soles of his sneakers. Red Kryptonite fragments.

Clark hasn't been here since the after the twisters hit. He figures he's safe. He knows about the green K in the area. He knows it's underground, out of harm's way.

He doesn't know about the red. Sometimes, in the rush of living, things don't get communicated.

Clark can't concentrate. He looks over, sees a glass. He swallows, his voice raspy as he speaks. "What did you do -"

"To us?" interrupts Green Eyes. The lids beyond him droop, heavy. The heaviness doesn't last. "Damn, that was sweet. A little Valium, a little vodka... Raising us must be harder on Ma than we thought." Green Eyes pauses, evaluating. "You like the way it feels, don't you?" The question slides from tongue through teeth and lips.

"I..." The words. Gone. Falling away like old dreams. "You're not -"

Green Eyes smiles. Clark notices he does that a lot. "Of course I am. If I wasn't, would I know..." Green Eyes reaches down, powerful hand ripping through Clark's clothing. "Where to touch, how to move."

It's like he's touching himself, but he's touching Clark. Touching. More touching. Lotion added as afterthought because he knows Clark's feeling the friction.

Both move, rhythm building.

Smallville High

Clark's winded by the time he gets to campus. It should alert him, but he figures it's just because he's pressing harder, covering more territory in less time.

Even he has limits. He realizes this when he fights another Eric and the Krypto-steroid inhaler crew.

He goes into the building, not noticing, not noticing the self he's left behind.

Green eyes peer at the flannel-clad boy loping up the stairs. He smirks, streaking off in search of clothing, seeking what else there is to see.

Two free hands, two bodies, one willing, one not.

They come simultaneously. Clark's hair hangs damp against his forehead. Green Eyes kisses his sweetly, inspects the chains, currently more than what's needed. Under other circumstances, not enough.

He molds the wrist restraints himself from discarded steel.

He takes pleasure in bending. He takes more pleasure in binding.

Clark struggles under his weight but is easily overcome. No more than a pluck to the forehead and the farmboy's out like a light.


He hates flannel. It's the first thing he decides when culling wardrobe from Clark's room. Jeans, t-shirt, both selected for their skin gripping tightness. No longer worn by Clark because they reveal too much, hug the body he hides beneath loose clothing. The body KalEl refuses to conceal.

The second thing? A visit to Lex Luthor is in order.

He arrives at Plant 3 in record time. Much fleeter of foot than Clark, assured where Clark is hesitant. He breeches plant security with no more effort than drawing breath.

He wonders if he even need breathe. He'll test himself with Luthor.

Lex sits behind the desk. Industrial decor: glass, stainless steel, Aeron chair. The miniblinds are a plus.

Lex feels the rush of air. Looks up to see -


The alien smiles. Let the bald man think what he wants. Green eyes bright trace the contours of the slinky human before him. Slender, yet muscular.

Kal-El is pleased.

"To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Kal-El says nothing. Merely locks the door as he calculates responses. The tone would have to be exact - or Luthor will know. Or...

He could let his actions speak for him.

Kal-El closes the mini-blinds, shuttering the office from peering eyes. Erases the distance between them.


Lex rises from his chair. Large hands reach out, heaving him up and landing him back first at the edge of the desk's cool surface, button of wool trousers flicked away, zipper devastated, silk boxers instantly rags. Somewhere in those inches, Lex's shirt vanishes.

But not really. It winds up in a heap in the corner.

The alien smiles, peering into impassive blue eyes. Jarring. Yes, that would be the word. What Luthor's thinking and won't reveal. He'll process the information quickly though. It's the one thing Kal-El understands that Clark refuses to acknowledge.

Luthor need not say anything. His cock speaks volumes.

Kal-El leans in, takes Luthor into his mouth, all of him, every warm, thick inch. Lex disappears into heat and moistness, suction and depth. The tongue around his cock does things. Things Kal-El knows no human can do. No, he doesn't need to breathe. Not for a long, long time.

Kal-El holds on tightly as Luthor convulses, coming harder than he imagined possible.

Lex's pants go missing shortly thereafter. Now, Kal-El is naked too. T-shirt and jeans not torn but piled neatly in a corner of the office. The Kryptonian knows Luthor hasn't felt him move. There are advantages to speed.

Luthor won't notice anything until he's readjusted, thighs slung over the alien's shoulders.

Kal-El knows this will hurt.

He doesn't consider the lack of lube or otherwise prepping Lex. Kal-El simply thrusts his solid cock into the hole.

It's all Luthor can do to not scream.

Kal-El can see it in his eyes as he pushes deeper, thrusting. Pulls Luthor's head up to kiss, the tongue, violent. Lex's lips are wide. Pleasure, pain - Kal-El doesn't care. If the businessman had hair, Kal-El would be holding it too tightly. He settles for grasping the face and kissing, biting as he pulls away, drawing blood.

There's more blood on the desk.

Pain it is then.

Blood slicked cock. The thought of it forces Kal-El's over the edge.

So much satisfaction gleaned from something so fragile.

Dark hair strikingly wild, Kal-El arches back, shuddering brutally. It's surprising Lex manages to hold on at all. The Kryptonian notices the human's sweaty hands, barely maintaining grip of the desktop.

A final nuzzle. Bruising neck, flesh between pearly teeth to claim as he withdraws, further marking territory with spurted come that lands from Luthor's ass to chest.

By the time Lex catches his breath and is able to sit up, Kal-El is gone.

Clark doesn't move. He's on something hard. It's either the world's worst mattress - or the floor.

He looks. Determines it's both - bad mattress, concrete floor, quilt tossed over it.

Clark wonders. Green Eyes seems to have his strength but not his warmth or compassion.

He feels the stickiness between his legs and the wet spot drying on his abdomen that provides new meaning to the phrase "simultaneous orgasm" and he knows.

Gree- no, _Kal-El_ has had his way with Lex.


He shouldn't cry. But damn, he hurts and he hates pain and he's tired and he wants to wake up. He wants to not -

Want Kal-El.

The alien appears on as if cue. "Ready for Round Three?"

Smallville High

The day drags. Clark's barely able to keep his eyes open through most of it. He leaves campus, waving goodbyes to Chloe, Pete and Lana. The three spend a lot of time together. He misses them. Lana's ok, but she's not what he expected. Less interesting up close than through the telescope.

He's not paying attention, looking down instead of ahead. When he looks up, he peers into the bright surface, a reflection.

There's no Doublemint dance like with Tina.

He's overpowered before he realizes what's happening.

Can't be two Clark Kents running around.

Clark calculates. Round One - Valium/vodka inspired. Round Two - Lex. He's lifted gently, chains giddily ruptured by the foreign thing that isn't Clark. Deposited into the tub, bathed with utmost care.

And so it begins again.

The water's warm and smells vaguely of honeysuckle. Like any other day.

Clark's hungry. Non-linear thought, but honest. He's not afraid, even after what Kal-El did... To Lex.

Clark watches dried blood disappear, lost beneath swirls of soap and water.

He should fight, he really should, but Eric lessons have taught him better. He knows what he's up against.

"Don't worry," says Kal-El. "We'll have fun."

Clark's toweled dry, lotioned, carried back to the world's worse mattress that rests on a concrete floor.

Kal-El displays lube. Clark knows. He knows he's no longer invulnerable. Kal-El claims that part of him and is (thankfully) taking precautions.

Not like with...Lex.

Clark twitches, uneasy. The joy of being with Lex ruined by the brutality. And his absence. He felt it, him, knew through Kal-El of Lex's discomfort.

Now, the thing with Clark's face cares.

Nothing like self-sex to make a body cautious.

Clark wonders if the activity counts as sex - or masturbation. In any event, his virginity's gone - in more ways than one.

Soft fingers tease his face. Warm breath in his ear, a lick behind a lobe sends a shudder through Clark. He tries, doesn't want to want. Shouldn't. Mustn't.

Kal-El smells like Lex. And come.

Clark's cock leaps.


Tongue down his neck, pauses at shoulder. Gentle swirls to the crook of his arm, tongue lingering there, painting the underside of rarely exposed flesh.

Clark mustn't. Respond.

To the tongue that knows, just knows as though he's experimented, had sex a million times.

Clark shudders as tongue and lips find nipple one, nipple two.

Double happiness.

Clark is out of his depth. Outmatched by a doppelganger whose intent is wicked and skills are mad.

Would it be wrong to -

Kal-El fingers Clark's abdomen, sketches a line from hip to waist. Leans in close, lowering himself slowly, licks Clark's inner thigh.

Clark won't last much longer. Especially if -

He blinks and Kal-El is naked, as though he knows, he knows how badly Clark wants this. In spite of all the reasons not to.

"Fun," exhales Kal-El.

Naked, rubbing against Clark. Smooth skin gliding, cocks meeting without proper how-doyou -do's. Clark doesn't notice Kal-El reach for the lube. Merely feels the coolness of it as it slips from one cock to its mirror.

Kal-El rubs against the puckered darkness, gently at first, fingers reaching.

Clark's eyes go wide.

Kal-El smiles, expanding the hole with deftness.

In moments, he's inside Clark, watching.


He likes to watch.

Clark closes his eyes. He winces.

Kal-El takes it slowly, small, light strokes, kissing as he pumps.

Clark doesn't respond to the kisses at first, then, pretends.

Pretends he's somewhere else. With someone else.

Lips eager. Pain subsiding or perhaps forgotten, mingled with sensation as rhythm builds.

Kal-El's cock forages, hits pay dirt.

Clark arches. Kal-El shifts, adjusting Clark so he too is on his side. A long arm reaches, slick hand on Clark's cock, urging more.


Both discover a sound like no other as they come.

More simultaneity.

Kal-El kisses the nape of Clark's neck, soothed by the rhythm of the boy's racing heart.

And just like that, the teenager's chained again, trapped in a robust grip that could pass as embrace if not for its tightness.

He can breath.

Clark takes that.

In the morning, Clark finds himself alone. A new set of crude restraints binds him. He doesn't sense Kal-El and feels - whole, himself again. He tests the steel. It yields readily beneath his fingers, splitting like the fragile thing it isn't.

He gathers a handful of tattered clothing, watches dirt scatter. He discovers red Kryptonite fragments, dimming, dimming, done.

Confirmation then.

Kal-El is gone, returned to the depths of Clark's psyche.

What to do? The truth, the reality is far too terrifying to share. Even with those who -

Clark resolves no more lame excuses. Lex won't call the police. Let him think what he wants. It is, after all, Smallville.

Avoidance, avoidance it is then.

Cowardly? Perhaps. It's for the better good. And Clark is far too used to hiding.


Author's Note: Glowing red K=Smallville canon. Exposure (not proximity)=comics canon.

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