A Rational Addiction
by Thamiris


It's been three months of near-tragedies, like the world's gearing up for the apocalypse.   A bomb in a chemical plant, highjackers on a jet, a collapsed bridge....

Lex has become a calamity junkie, scouring the papers, devouring world news on a wall of tvs in his study, adding up each catastrophe.   A hundred is the magic number although once it was ninety-two, another time a hundred and eleven.   Just to be safe, he starts to prepare now at ninety, leaving meetings that run late, skipping business dinners and parties, kicking all staff from his condo by sunset.

He explains his actions to no one, and no one is stupid enough to ask except his father, but Lex still has his balls, isn't above proving this when his authority's questioned, and sometimes when it's not.   Yesterday he made a secretary cry in a riot of black mascara and an assistant quit in a flurry of tossed papers, while the chairman of GlobalTech won't be returning his calls any time soon.   Reporters benefit, though:  he always gives good copy at this time, using vitriolic attacks on Superman to spend part of his frustration, defending himself and his father as the true saviors of America, a lie that sinks into his belly like cancer.

This waiting, after all, is beneath him, and Lex has never done patience well, but addictions are by nature irrational.

Last night was the world's hundredth step toward chaos, some crazy bastard with a gun and a busload of school kids.   No one was hurt, the shiny blank faces inform him in a digital chorus from the wall; some of the children even said they weren't scared because they knew Superman would save them.

"'Course he rescued us," one little girl says, gnawing on the end of a black braid as the cameras surround her like wolves.   "It's his job."   She breaks into a gap-toothed smile like she sees something the others can't.   "I love you, Superman!"

Lex wishes she'd shut up, this vulnerable reminder that, like an equal-opportunity employer, evil doesn't discriminate.    With her lisp and her scraped knees, the girl is an adorable walking guilt trigger, and the last thing he needs is for her to flip the switch.   The world is too full of vulnerable children, women and men, a constant stream of pain and need, and even Lex, who's no superhero, can feel it choking him.

A single button on the remote control shuts off the tvs, and armed with his props he closes the door behind him, heading into a room free of reminders. He sets the laptop on the coffee table, a stack of folders beside it, shit-work from his bastard father that he spreads like a deck of cards. Then he hits the shower, where he's thorough but quick.   Standing naked before the mirror, he twice drops his toothbrush into the sink before finishing, and chooses a shirt without buttons. The fly of his jeans gives him trouble, and he skips shoes altogether, leaving a trail of damp footprints on the carpet.

Ignoring the urge to pace, to check the window, he pours himself a glass of very old Scotch, takes one sip to dull the telltale flavor of mint, a second for his nerves, then places it beside the other props as he settles back on the couch with a folder in his lap.   As usual, by this point the documents make no sense, English now an unknown language -- something about another secret merger, guns hired to idiots.   Even on a good day he's mostly inured to his father's backstage brand of evil; Lex chose his path years ago,  and he's learned to shut off his conscience.

Like the files, even the room looks unfamiliar, an elegant hotel suite in Paris or London, although those are his books on the shelves, his art on the walls, his goddamn ormolu clock that clicks like wheels on a train track. To stay calm and stop his hands from reaching down, Lex pulls out a memory instead, the day that Jonathan Kent died.

Lex, unsure of his welcome, has left his car down the road, and walks despite the rain to the back door.   Peering into the gloom, he sees Martha at her kitchen table, head buried in her hands, her back shaking with sobs. At first Lex thinks that the figure with his arm around her is Clark, and turns to go, but something's wrong with the shape, so he looks back.   While it happens too fast for confirmation, he swears that for a second he's staring into Superman's eyes.

A quick blink of shock, and when he stares a second time it's just Clark, not even looking at him but down at his mother as he strokes her hair.   Lex doesn't remember leaving or even driving back to Metropolis, although by the time he arrives home it's three in the morning and he's still soaked to the skin like he stood in the rain for hours.

His reaction's chaotic, punches of emotion that leave him exhausted, and a week passes before he notices that the earth hasn't stopped spinning.   His own father, who doesn't have the courtesy to die, shows up at his condo, outraged as an old god that Lex has reneged on his duties to the capitalist religion.

Lex slams the door in his face, although he's strangely grateful afterward: his father's obscene fury knocks the world back into place, and Lex knows what to write in the note he sends with Martha's flowers:

Mrs. Kent,

Jonathan was a better man than most, more honest and straightforward, and he left a legacy that proves this every day, although I'm only understanding this now.   No matter what he felt about me, I respected him, and in my own way I'll always respect what he left behind.   I want you to trust that, no matter what.


A month later, while California breathed a sigh of relief over an averted forest fire, a second knock came at Lex's door.

The knock repeats before Lex realizes this one's real, and he scrambles up, knocking the file to the floor where it stays, the papers scattered like snow.   The red "Confidential" stamp looks like blood against the white.

One thing is different, one thing the same.   Superman looks tired as always, too pale, glassy-eyed, and he walks in without a word, kicking the door shut behind him before pushing Lex against the wall for a long, violent kiss.   Normally when Lex slides his arms around Superman's neck, he feels the strangely-smooth fabric of the cape, the slipperiness of the alien costume against Lex's more pedestrian clothes, but this time it's just a plain cotton t-shirt and old jeans.   He's not sure what to make of this, but it's impossible to concentrate or even care with Clark's tongue sliding against his, Clark's hands shredding Lex's shirt to press against his bare back.

Clark is hot as a brand everywhere and hard already, grinding against Lex, pulling him even closer.   His color's back, cheeks pink, and with his mussed hair looks sixteen again, and this drives Lex crazy, to see Clark like he was before the lies broke their friendship.   Clark's already making those little moans, half impatience, half pleasure, his hands roaming, and then in that super-quick Superman way they're in the bedroom, naked, before Lex takes his next breath.

Shoving Clark down on the bed in a flutter of blue silk sheets, Lex climbs over him, Clark's cock firm against his stomach, and he kisses and bites his way over that strong body, searching for vulnerable spots.   There's one under Clark's collar bone:  when Lex nips the skin there, Clark gasps and squirms, and Lex has to bite down on Clark's neck to hold him still, his beautiful bitch.   While it's a no-brainer, Clark's nipples are equally sensitive, and Lex sucks them stiff, then tugs with his teeth while Clark rocks up, gripping Lex's ass for leverage.   He keeps at it until they turn red, then noses around the miles of skin for other places.   The hips are irresistible, crossroads at the center of Clark's body, and he spends extra time on them, licking over the bones, even while Clark says, "Now, now, now" above him, even while Clark grabs the lube from the bed stand and drops it beside them.

But Lex can't fuck Clark without tasting him first, even though they've got all night, and licks from Clark's hipbone to the head of his cock, then down, taking Clark's balls into his mouth one at a time.   More protests from above, although Clark's cock leaves sticky traces on Lex's stroking hand while he sucks all of that power inside himself, all of that goodness, the soft skin that he rolls against his tongue.   He breathes deeply to catch all the musky, secret smells, too; even on their tenth time, it makes Lex even harder to know Clark like this, although the begging doesn't hurt.

"Lex.   Now.   Now."

Bending Clark's legs, pushing them back to his chest before taking Clark's cock once again, Lex keeps stroking as he sinks lower under the wet balls, licks in slow spirals right where he'll put his cock.   That beautiful, tight little hole opens for his tongue, and he plunges it in, fucks Clark with it, waiting for the moment when Clark will swear.   The word bursts out, a single "Fuck," like Clark still hasn't gotten the hang of swearing, and Lex switches from his tongue to his finger, just to hear it again.

Only then does he swallow Clark's cock, as much as he can take without choking, moving his mouth and finger in a slow, steady rhythm.   He hears a few more curses, then feels the warm cradle of Clark's hand on his head, pushing him down further as Clark arches up.

Lex almost forgets that this is a prelude, too engrossed in the salty taste, the stretch of his lips around the thick cock, the searing pressure on his busy finger.   His own pleasure's not distinct anymore; everything that he does to Clark goes straight to Lex's cock, and it's only Clark's rough moan that reminds him what has to happen next.   Fate, need, addiction -- it doesn't matter why, but it's going to happen and happen now, or Lex will decorate with come Clark's shaking thighs and stomach.

The lube is cool, the only cool thing in the room.   Lex blinks away drops of sweat as he squeezes some into his hands, smears it on his cock and Clark's already slick ass.   He can't resist sliding his finger back in, then another one, just to see Clark widen for him.   He'd do three if his cock could take the sight, but it's too much like this, especially with Clark watching him under his lashes, licking his lips like this is a desert, like he's dying of thirst.   Lex can relate, and swallows a few times to stay in control.

Stay in control.   What a joke.   He's about to fuck Superman, his enemy, his lover, and his oldest friend, and there's nothing to cause chaos like the thought of it -- except the reality, Clark with his wide-open thighs and his sweet, sweet begging, shiny everywhere with spit, sweat and lube.   Lex closes his eyes, breathes a few times, deep and slow as he can manage, then takes his cock in one hand while grabbing one of Clark's long, powerful thighs and...


Just a little, just a tease for them both, the head of his cock against Clark's ass, over his hole.    Clark discovers religion, chokes out a, "Jesus, Lex," and shivers like he's got a fever.   It's pure masochism on Lex's part, or mostly pure, but then he's learned to take a lot from his father.

That thought slams back some reason and sense, and Lex is able to push into Clark's welcoming body without coming.   Barely.   There's a rush to his head like a blow, and it spreads through his body, warm and bone-melting as very old Scotch.   Addictive, he thinks.   There's nothing more addictive than this.   No wonder he lets this happen every few months, needs it to happen.   His life's shit except for this --

He thrusts hard at that, but Clark can take it.   Clark wants it -- his head goes back and his eyes shut, like some saint going to God, and Lex loves nothing better than taking him there.   Hard and fast, the way Clark likes it, the only way Lex can do it now anyway, ramming his cock deep into Clark over and over again, saying things he can't stop, perverse ugly things about how good this is, finally, been waiting so long, bastard, tight ass, you're so beautiful, bitch, you deserve this, you love it, I love it, need it...

Clark's past words, panting without a break, and Lex only kisses him to shut himself up.   Clark sucks at his tongue, uses those do-gooder hands to cup Lex's ass and shove him in to his balls, and Lex slams into Clark, trying to --

lose himself --

To make Clark cry out, hurt, come.

The last one happens fast, no words, just a long rush of air in Lex's mouth, then Lex's name as the kiss breaks, Lex's name over and over again.   It's too much, with Clark holding Lex too tight everywhere, leeching everything from him, his name bouncing off the walls like a prayer, and Lex's betraying mouth is forming Clark's name, then.... Yes.   There it is, the wet spray against Lex's chest, although neither of them has touched Clark's cock, the keening sound, the rumble of the bed smashing into the wall...

"Clark," he calls as the rush peaks somewhere behind his eyes, and Lex comes on the end of Clark's orgasm, pours himself into him, blind to everything except Clark's eyes.

He's flat against Clark, face buried in Clark's neck, when there's shifting and a creak of a well-used bed and he's gently pulled onto the mattress, his face against damp sheets that smell like Clark.   He lies there, gutted, feeling drunk with his head spinning and his brain pumping chemicals, while Clark moves to the next step in their ritual.   Lex, with his mortal physiology, can do nothing but remain collapsed, and he's not entirely sure that he minds.

Clark's tongue is warm as he spreads Lex's ass to lap at him.   The edge is off Clark's need so there's no rush, no hurried, desperate darts, just a lazy, mind-blowing exploration.   Which is vaguely amusing because Lex isn't sure he's got any mind left.   His spent cock twitches pleasantly, though, as Clark licks and sucks, changing patterns and rhythms at will, teasing circles outside, tickling flicks within.   If Lex could, he'd come again, riding the afterglow to another orgasm, which is what he suspects Clark wants.   Clark, for all his reserve and occasional boyish enthusiasm, is still Superman, who likes to take charge then give until he's exhausted.

Without a real will to fight Lex allows it to happen, even the finger that joins the tongue, rough and smooth together.  He'd like to raise his hips, take more of it, but lets Clark do that too, and makes a satisfied grunt when Clark's finger pushes deeper.   With that patience deficiency he's never accepted this from anyone, not afterwards, not lying here passive, his ass this toy for someone else.   But this is Clark, and this is what they do, and, God, it feels amazing.   He's too tired even to hate the people who taught these tricks to Clark, all those people who should've --

been him --

Known that Clark would leave them in the end, disappointed that they weren't perfect like he is.

Behind him, under the wet sucking of Clark's mouth, Lex hears more of Clark's little impatient, wanting sounds and isn't surprised when the mattress dimples behind him as Clark gets to his knees.   The lube soothes his heated skin, the gentle brush of Clark's fingers as he spreads it everywhere his tongue has been.   Then there's the heavy weight of Clark on Lex's back, the hard pressure of his cock.

"I need this," Clark whispers in his ear.

There's an implicit question, and Lex nods.   He's so relaxed from the orgasm, from Clark's tongue and finger, that Clark's cock slides inside him in one long, sure thrust.   Strange that it should feel this good to be fucked without any hope of coming, but Clark knows what he's doing, finds the pace that Lex loves and sticks with it the way only Superman can.   Nothing's expected from him, also strange, and it's almost better than fucking Clark because his stillness lets him hear every moan, every dirty little word that Clark can't keep in --

And Clark, who always has to show the world a perfect cover, has a lot of dirty little words inside him, more with every thrust.   They start with "Hate you, fuck you, Lex, you bastard," but as the strokes get deeper and longer, they change.   "Need you, want you all the time, your ass, your cock."   It's almost like a lullaby, and it always finishes the same.  "Love you, love you, love you."   Clark grips Lex's shoulders, bites the back of his neck, and shudders out his orgasm, a filling wetness seeping into Lex.    This is the time that Lex almost hates Clark.

Eventually he rolls onto his back beside Lex, and they lie there saying nothing.   Worn out, Lex drifts off, waking when Clark slips back into bed, smelling of soap, his skin cold from the shower.   He draws Lex to him and gives him a kiss, then licks his scar, his cheeks, the tip of his nose.   This is new, and Lex doesn't know how to react; it's tough enough to box his emotions in this fucked-up relationship, and Clark's simple actions are wearing him thin.   With his palms flat against Clark's cheeks, Lex kisses him firmly, calling all of his expertise to remind Clark that this is just sex.   Amazing sex, complicated, confusing sex, but sex all the same.

Clark kisses him back in this wild, abandoned way, like he hasn't come twice already, like he's desperate for it, his cock stiffening against Lex's thigh.   It's getting out of hand, so Lex pulls back and kisses a straight line down Clark's chest, licking up the drops of water before settling between Clark's thighs.   Here, he figures, is a position of power, and proceeds to give Clark the best blowjob he's ever had, sucking on the full head of his cock, licking it while staring into Clark's eyes.    But even this is too intense, so Lex focuses on Clark's cock.   Not a hardship:  it's as big and beautiful as the rest of him, straight, long and thick, and it responds well to anything Lex does, from kisses to licks to two-handed masturbation.

It's the responsiveness that's the problem, Lex decides.   If only Clark would be less enthusiastic, less open and grateful for every swipe of Lex's tongue....It would drive anyone crazy, much less someone who spent years fantasizing about this moment, not to mention years investing every emotion he had in his friendship with Clark --

And somehow they're fucking again, Clark hot and hard inside him, face to face this time, one hand wrapped around Lex's cock.    It's not supposed to happen like this:  he's supposed to make Clark come with his mouth, then Clark does the same to him, and it's bearably routine in the most unroutine relationship ever.   This is too impulsive, too real, and if it didn't feel so great Lex would stop it right now.

But Clark's too fucking expert, jerking him off like a practiced whore while he fucks him, and Lex really would hate him if...

If it were anybody but Clark.

It's chaos, a calamity, a goddamn tragedy of epic proportions, this change, whatever it is, whatever else it means.   Because they're not normal, they're not in love, nothing but release and need, nothing but an addiction that will kill them both.

Lex wants to refuse his orgasm to spite Clark, spite him for ruining things, for opening something Lex isn't ready to face, but he can't.   God, he can't, not with that big cock pinning him to the bed, and he comes all over Clark's hand, saying everything he shouldn't.

And when Clark comes a minute later, Lex is still so far gone that he kisses him in the same wild desperate way that Clark had done earlier.

His life is as messy as he is, he thinks, as they lay wrapped together, sticky and sleepy.   Chaos.   But somehow with Clark here that doesn't matter the way it should.



The sun is an elusive light through the window when Lex wakes up.

Clark is still there, sitting beside him with his back against the head board.   "Lex," he says, in a strangled voice.   "I have to tell you something."

Here it is.   The official declaration.   The rewriting of their past and present, the world turned upside down.   Lex wonders if it's too late to run, and touches Clark's mouth with a finger.   Then he gives up.   "What is it?"

"I can't come here anymore, Lex.   This has to be the last time."

The shock is sudden and sharp, and Lex turns his head away, fighting the need to retch.   "If that's what you want."

"It's not a matter of want," Clark says, worrying the sheet.   There are faint silver lines of come on his chest and thighs.   "You have to know that by now.   When I'm here, I'm not helping anyone.   Anyone except me."

And me, Lex wants to say.   "It's your choice.   If that's what you want."

"Stop saying that!   It's not about choice.   I never know when it's going to happen, Lex, when the next bomb will show up, or terrorists move in. That's why I have to be ready all the time.   And when I'm with you, I'm not thinking of anything else.   I know you don't want to hear that, but it's true."

"You should go, then.   Save all those people."

Clark doesn't move, then he's dressed and standing beside the bed.   How can you stop someone who moves that fast?  Lex sits up, not bothering to cover himself, although he wants to wrap himself in the sheet like a shroud.   Every lie he has ever told himself about Clark is rising up like gorge, every lie about Superman.   He feels a calamity, like any minute a news crew will rush into his bedroom snapping shots of the description.   Man Foiled By His Own Hypocrisy.

"Goodbye, Lex."

"Wait.   I'll see you out."   It's desperation masking as courtesy, and he still won't look at Clark.  Can't.

They walk silently to the door, Clark dragging his feet, but as they pass the den Lex sees the scattered files, the spilled one.   His props.   His life.    All confidential, all toxic, all his father's....

The idea is so perfect that Lex laughs, his tension vanishing, so energized he could fly, and Clark turns to stare at him.

"Are you okay, Lex?"  Then he peers into the room.   "It looks like a tornado hit in there."

"Every couple of months or so," Lex says carefully, "my place looks like Hell."   Then he laughs again at the absurdity of it all, talking housekeeping with Superman.   "It builds up, all of this crap from my father, and...Well, I could use some help cleaning up the mess.   Do you understand what I'm saying, Clark?"

"You mean...?"   There's a glimmering edge of a smile on Clark's face.

"If you came back, same as usual, every couple of months, you could help me.   Organize the chaos because God knows I'm sick of living in it.   It could be--"  another laugh, and, seriously, he's going to lose it, "--it could be our secret.   We're both good at keeping secrets, aren't we, Clark? And you'd be helping.   And preventing future messes."

"Are you sure?"

"I'd love the help."

Clark grabs him, and for a second Lex thinks it's too late, that some messes are too big even for Superman, but he's squeezed tight in a bear hug.

His ribs ready to crack, Lex gives Clark a kiss, the kind that flips his heart on its back like a beetle, and sends him into his den to save the world.

The End

A Rational Addiction.  (c) Thamiris, December 2003

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