by DreamingClark

Special thanks to Chelly (Rumpuso)

Title: Empire
Author: DreamingClark
Author Email: dreamingclark@hotmail.com Author Webpage:
Category: Non-Consensual, Episode-Related Spoilers For:
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Clark/Lex
Summary: Chloe never found Clark unconscious at the mansion during the second meteor shower. Lex did.

The skies are on fire and his face burns from all the fake pretences, gestures of reassurance and concern, words like droplets of cold rain splashing on the reluctant ears of the girl finally packed away to supposed safety and deserved ignorance.

Time is running out and there are too many questions to answer, so much going on and the key to it all hidden somewhere so near, so far, relished power just a stone away, the dangerous glow wiping out his father's sight and releasing the flood of his ambition, ardent lava more dangerous than the rocks from above. Where to begin?

He flings the doors to the study open, jaw set and wrinkled forehead, his thoughts racing while he anticipates the strike of lightning, the imminent shaking of the walls; the end of a world that will mark the beginning of a whole new era, his reign, his kingdom, the empire he'll raise from a handful of stones.

His quick stride is cut short by the wreckage. He frowns and his reaction is fast, he turns around, scans the room, no one... Then he moves slower, warily towards the ripped open safe and the eerie green glow; tense and alert, he wonders is the gun is still where it should be, if he should really head first for the drawer, if the vacant mad eyes of his father will be the ones mocking at him from the depths of the sanctorum. And when he's made up his mind, he sees the lying boy.

He knows who he is long before his brain registers the dark hair and the red jacket, and long before he finds the time to be surprised or angered or curious or worried he finds himself looming over the unmoving body, looking down to the pale skin, the closed eyes, the long legs. The left one is lightly twisted as if seeking protection under the stretched right one and the arms are lying limply at different angles, one hand pointing upwards, the other holding something between weakened half curled long fingers. He knows what the fingers were trying to grasp even before he sees the dull shimmer of the stone.

But oddly it's not the stone that catches his eyes and quickens his breath. Before coherent thoughts and reactions find the way to the surface, before he's up to summon feelings of puzzlement or outrage, his eyes are trapped on the slightly rolled up shirt and the narrow fringe of skin exposed between the hem and the waistband of the jeans. There's a green aura delineating the sprawled figure, but the skin seems to have a golden glow and he doesn't know if the source is the red jacket or sparkles of light trespassing the coloured glass are tracing anomalous reflections on the flawless surface. Or maybe the glow radiates from inside, maybe the unconscious boy is burning like the whole world around, like his own, suddenly arrhythmic pulse.

Glued to the spot, he dwells on the inane quiz, idly, while his eyes lead a life of their own and now roam the still body until they come to rest, fascinated, on a drop of sweat that trickles slowly down the boy's forehead, oozing under curling locks of dark damp hair stuck to a temple. And when his gaze follows the drop's uneven descent he allows it to remain an eternity fixed on full, slightly parted lips, and he suddenly finds himself on his knees, unable to resist the urge to hear the painful, laboured hiss of the boy's breath struggling to find a way in and out of the mouth. So, he's breathing. Oh, God, he's breathing!

Relief replaces fear that had gone unnoticed before and then confusion returns because, while his lips are close to pale cheeks, almost brushing them, and the tongue is surrendering to the impulse to lick one sweaty temple, his eyes tend to wander again and they are now lingering over a chest that is almost too still, and they're feasting on that fringe again, the sweet, uncovered territory with the golden glow and the soft, so soft skin, his fingers are realizing how soft it is now and they are hating the feeling of the belt, it's really a shame that the belt should be oppressing the exposed, virginal land. Shameless, bold fingers set to ease the pressure, to allow the air to brush past the parted lips, slid over the tempting hidden tongue and reach the barely moving chest, and the belt is quickly and expertly undone, and the annoying button underneath, and then the zip.

His shaking hands get rid of shielding, constricting clothing and maybe the boy is breathing better now, maybe, because there's a low, very low moan and he looks up expectantly, but he doesn't know if he fears or regrets the body stirring back to life. But there's no further movement, the unconscious boy remains oblivious to his t-shirt being rolled up till his nipples are uncovered, oblivious that a hand, reassured of impunity, caresses his chest, tracing meaningful signs over the slightly clammy skin, delineating a slow path across the belly and hovering over the elastic band of the boxers. And now the hand is searching between the blue folds, crawling sneak-like fingers finding the way in and greedily grabbing the limp, warm flesh; cold tipped-fingers measuring and caressing, trembling around the generous length, hesitating for the briefest of seconds and finally bringing it out, on display.

He, already on his knees, fixes his burning gaze on the exposed bounty and realizes, at last, this is the deepest secret he yearned to unveil, that knowledge and fortune and power are all resumed and contained in this unique moment of wonder, in this static, frozen slice of eternity before the end of the world, the apocalypses. Angered stones hit the earth mercilessly and outside life shatters and empires maybe tottering and crumbling far away but what matters is this fiery hunger inside him, this longing...

He bows reverently and brings the warm flesh to his lips, the dawning and the end of times oddly converging. Instincts raw and enhanced, he smells, and licks, and bites and sucks and puts it deeper into his mouth, and savours...

Rush of life in his ardent mouth, flesh becoming alive, engorging and pulsating and filling up and trembling. Blood explodes in his own veins and his hands tend to his own bulge, free his own straining flesh. And then his mind, intoxicated, stops working and it's just his shell-like body, filled with a flood of incandescent need, rubbing against the unmoving body, twisting it, adapting it to fit, disturbing long limbs, bobbing head, clammy beautiful face; holding it and pressing into it as if to make it melt into his own; and there are guttural moans but they come all from him, the boy's lax, crumpled body helpless and unresponsive while he's grabbing and scratching and tearing, and kissing and searching, and loving and wanting and hating and possessing.

Burning rocks fly hissing over farms and fields and screaming figures on landscapes. A helicopter struggles to take flight over small dots of cars jamming narrow roads. Black smoke obscures white, impassive clouds. But where he is, time has been detained. The world may end today, the odd green, threatening glow may engulf the last flecks of his sanity, long-desired stones may turn to dust, alien to him and forgotten, his doomed heritage and carefully plotted schemes vanishing alongside them. But he knows he will remain where he is, as oblivious to destruction as the body he's craving and violating, intent on exploring this only surviving virgin continent, lost forever in its wilderness and in the far distant, absent planets he may never learn about, in the dream he sought and dismissed, in pain and ecstasy.

Defeated in victory, he will remain here, conquering and surrendering to his wounded boy: his empire.

If you enjoyed this story, please send feedback to DreamingClark

Also, why not join Level Three, the Smallville all-fic list?


Level Three Records Room