There are two more parts after this one. (Sex scenes just last so much longer than I expect.)
A/N: I’ve become frustrated with this story, but I refuse to let it waste away into an abandoned WIP, because I know how frustrating those can be as a reader. I think a disappointing, full-of-holes conclusion is better than nothing, at least in this instance, so I have forced myself to keep working on this fic. What this means is, don’t expect too much. Also, I couldn’t make myself care about the details of Lex’s crimes, so I pretty much glossed over that part. But hey, for a story that started out as a bit of free writing that was never supposed to go beyond the first part…
Part Five: Zenith
Clark hears Oliver’s heartbeat enter the building just as Perry is bringing the staff meeting to a close, and he wants to cry. He has tried so very hard to keep away from Oliver, to bite his tongue and keep his hands from reaching out, to avoid being alone with him. But persistence, thy name is Oliver Queen.
As Clark makes his way to his desk and listens to that familiar heartbeat ride the elevator up to his floor, he comes to a decision. It’s not necessarily the wisest decision he’ll ever make, but he has come to believe it is a necessary one, for his sanity.
He is going to stop running.
He can’t keep doing this for the rest of his life, and missions with the League have been more frequent lately, with Lex stepping up his illegal behaviour for some reason Batman hasn’t been able to ferret out, so it’s not as if Clark can keep disappearing whenever Green Arrow heads in his direction.
Besides, he thinks Oliver might have recruited Bart and possibly Victor for his own purposes, and Clark can’t really think of anything more embarrassing than having two of his friends catch him and try to hold him down while Oliver says whatever he needs to say. And Clark is tired. He’s been running for years and hiding his whole life and maybe, just maybe, Oliver is something he can have. Something he can hold on to and keep and not let go of.
So he sits in his chair and closes his eyes and waits for the inevitable confrontation.
Clark hears Oliver before he sees him. Apparently, Lois spotted him as soon as he got off the elevator, and from the sound of things, she’s giving him a piece of her mind for taking off and never calling, and Clark is rather pathetically grateful to have her ire directed toward someone who is not him. At least until she really gets going in her tirade, and then he winces at some of the things she calls Oliver, because damn, but the girl picked up some language from her life on the base.
Oliver seems able to give as good as he gets, though, and it isn’t all that long before Clark hears Lois shocked into silence and Oliver’s footsteps coming toward him.
Taking a deep breath, Clark shifts in his chair and turns his face in the direction of the familiar rush of blood through Oliver’s veins. He could maintain his performance, reinforce the charade by fidgeting, slamming his desk drawer on his fingers, or tripping over his own chair and dropping his pen, but the need for discretion loses out to breathless anticipation, and Clark waits eagerly for the sound of Oliver’s indrawn breath before he speaks.
“We need to talk,” he hears, through Oliver’s gritted teeth, as a strong hand closes around his forearm and pulls him up and across the room. Clark allows the movement and follows Oliver’s lead, those four clichéd words echoing in his head portending his imminent capitulation.
Oliver is touching him, and Clark concentrates on distinguishing each whorl and ridge of Oliver’s fingertips through the fabric of his shirt sleeve and jacket, noting the change in temperature between Oliver’s thumb and his palm.
His breathing is starting to turn ragged, and Clark waves farewell to the last faint vestiges of self-control, watching as they run away and bang the screen door behind them.
He barely has time to wonder how the hell Oliver even knew where the copy room was, simultaneously marveling at the unusual absence of any occupants, when Oliver starts to speak.
“Five years, Clark.”
Clark is backed up against the wall, with very little memory of how he came to be there, and the look on Oliver’s face flickers between fury and something Clark is almost afraid to believe might be lust.
“What?”
“Five fucking years, Clark. You couldn’t have, I don’t know, dashed off an email on your way to enlightenment?”
Clark has never seen Oliver this angry, not even on that kryptonite-steroid, because this is a more contained anger, a simmering, boiling, dangerous, rational, distinctly arousing anger, and Clark finds himself torn between wanting to invent yet another non-emergency excuse to rush off and wanting to lean in and…well, lick that vein pulsing in Oliver’s forehead.
He wants to have this. Celibacy has nothing on that throbbing vein, and Clark has tried to be mature and responsible and self-sacrificing. He knows that Superman outweighs his own desires, that it is too dangerous for him to be involved with anyone, and that he will more than likely end up destroying this relationship as surely as he has managed to sabotage every other relationship he has ever had.
But he wants this.
So he takes it. Clark leans in and licks that vein.
Oliver stumbles back and stares at him blankly, and Clark just grins. He’ll check that off as one fulfilled desire.
“Did you just lick me?!”
He can understand Oliver’s astonishment; it was a very uncharacteristic move, at least for the Clark Kent he has become, and really, for any Clark to do to any Oliver Queen, at this point, but he also really wants to laugh at the way Oliver’s voice went up an octave on that last word.
Except there’s nothing funny about the way Oliver’s eyes go black, and celibacy be damned, Clark intends to have this.
Half a second later, his tongue is in Oliver’s mouth, and there is a brief, shocked expulsion of breath between Oliver’s lips, and then the kiss well and truly takes hold. It throws out sparks that gather at the base of Clark’s spine, and his hands are everywhere on Oliver’s body, all those places he’s been dreaming about but hasn’t dared let himself touch. It’s almost alarmingly overwhelming, and Clark is hanging on by his fingertips, slipping further with every clutch of Oliver’s hands and rock of Oliver’s hips against his.
When Oliver tears his mouth away from Clark’s, Clark actually cries out in protest, and he has to shake his head to dispel the fragments of shame that cling to that realization. His X-ray vision is flickering in and out, and he is treated to tantalizing glimpses of Oliver’s naked body, the one he hasn’t let himself more than fantasize about for years.
There is a very good possibility he will embarrass himself right here and now, and he really wishes he’d been able to get laid in Gotham that night, if only to take the edge off a five-year sex drought.
Summoning all his willpower, Clark forcibly regains control of his vision in time to watch Oliver drag air in through his lungs and release it in a rush of warm breath against his cheek.
“Damn! Clark--. Lois is going to force her way in here in about five minutes, so I really think you should do whatever it takes to get us the hell out of here and somewhere private before she finds us in the mother of all compromising positions.”
Clark nods his head and keeps nodding because everything in his body is saying yes, yes, yes, and he can’t stop it. He hauls Oliver against him, tight against his body to protect him from the wind resistance, and then he moves and they are standing next to his bed.
* * *
Oliver blinks a few times and takes a deep breath. That was…fast. He thinks he could get used to this kind of speed when it comes to finding somewhere to have sex, but just at this moment, the sudden change in venue is distinctly unsettling.
When he realizes Clark had to have carried him here, he looks down, and it isn’t until that moment that he notices the position of their bodies. If he had thought about it at all, which he hadn’t, not even in ten thousand detailed fantasies, he would have expected some kind of honeymoon-carry. Not that that would be a personal preference, because it wouldn’t be, but it’s just the image that would have sprung to mind if he had ever envisioned such a scenario. Which he hadn’t.
And that failure of imagination turns out to be a good thing, because that is not how Clark has elected to carry him. No, both of Oliver’s legs are wrapped around Clark’s waist, both arms around Clark’s neck, and the feeling of Clark hard against his body is the most delirious form of torment. Oliver doesn’t know if he’s the one who initiated this position, or if it was Clark’s doing, and he really doesn’t care. It feels good and right and extremely satisfying.
He’s sucking on Clark’s earlobe and grinding against Clark’s abdomen when Clark suddenly goes still, then sets Oliver down on his feet.
Clark looks at him very seriously, earnest and just a little bit wary. “Are you sure? If you’re going to say no, Oliver, you need to say it right now. Because I can’t--”
Oliver isn’t certain what he’s supposed to say to that. “What the hell are you talking about? I’m not exactly running screaming for the hills, here. This is me, the man who’s been doggedly pursuing you for weeks. This is me, actively engaged in having sex with you. I’m not saying no, Clark; I don’t think I can say no to you. I don’t think I know how. I passed ‘sure’ and collected my two hundred dollars a long time ago. Shut up and fuck me, already.”
For a moment, Oliver isn’t sure if it is indecision or raging lust on Clark’s face, and then the world seems to dip and spin around him and he finds himself naked and landing with a slight bounce on Clark’s bed. He laughs breathlessly and tries not to blink as Clark’s clothes go flying out from his body and land haphazardly around the room. Yes, Oliver could definitely get used to this kind of speed when it comes to the unimportant details of getting to the actual sex.
As Clark stalks determinedly toward him, however, Oliver swallows thickly and wonders momentarily if he can handle all this intensity aimed solely in his direction. Because having Superman’s attention focused solely on him is undeniably intense and more than a little bit terrifying. All that power, all that overload of sensory perception, concentrated on him, makes Oliver quiver.
He wants to retain some kind of control, wants to hold tightly to his anger, because if he doesn’t, all his dreams and fantasies about being with Clark are going to have a rather embarrassingly quick resolution. And he’s damned if he’s going to let this opportunity to finally have what he’s wanted so badly get away from him just because he’s a little eager.
“Five years, Clark,” he says again, but it doesn’t come across nearly as outraged as he felt just a few moments ago, and there’s a bit of a tremble in the way he says Clark’s name.
It’s not as if anyone could blame him, though, he thinks. Because Clark is right in front of him, naked and unapologetic, and good God, but the man looks good in nothing. There is all this skin, this flawless skin, and it seems to go on forever. Clark has the longest legs and the broadest chest and the most intimidating cock, and Oliver thinks that no human could ever possibly look this good naked. He’s gasping with want by the time he drags his eyes back up to Clark’s face.
And Clark just keeps moving forward until he crawls up the bed and stretches out over Oliver. “Believe me, I know exactly how long it’s been,” he says, just before his mouth descends on Oliver’s and Oliver starts to lose track of things.
Time speeds up, enough that Oliver wonders if that’s another power Clark has, and the feel of Clark’s skin against his is short-circuiting his brain.
It wasn’t supposed to be this way, Oliver thinks vaguely, as Clark sucks on his neck and thrusts against him. Oliver was supposed to be the one running the show. He’s waited five goddamned years for this, searched for Clark the world over, and pursued him relentlessly for weeks, and this was all supposed to end with him in the damned driver’s seat. Except Clark is a force not to be reckoned with, and Oliver can do nothing but writhe helplessly from the sensations flooding through him.
Clark moves down his body, licking and sucking every inch of skin on his way, and Oliver feels like he’s been running a marathon. He can’t catch his breath and his heart is racing, and everywhere Clark isn’t touching him feels almost numb with neglect. When Clark takes him into his mouth, Oliver hears himself make a noise he’s never made before, and then everything is hot and wet and impossibly good.
The only thought running through Oliver’s mind is that he needs to look into having Clark’s mouth insured, because it is a valuable, valuable resource, one never to be duplicated. Oliver has had many blow jobs in his life, but this is something that deserves a new name entirely. Possibly even an award.
He arches his back and bucks helplessly into Clark’s mouth and when he comes, the world turns white, and he sees the blue of Clark’s eyes like an afterimage against the backs of his eyelids.
When he opens his eyes, Clark’s face is in front of him, and there is desperation and desire and the ragged edges of a control slipping away.
Five fucking years, he thinks to himself with a grin, and no, he wasn’t the only one waiting and wanting.
Which is why he whimpers with Clark when Clark pushes inside, and why he pants in sympathy when Clark has to stop and struggle not to lose himself after their bodies are pressed flush against each other.
The first thrust makes Oliver slam his head back against the bed, and then he loses count as Clark loses control, and it’s nothing but coiling tension and an aching pleasure and oh, fuck! Clark is good at this.
It’s his last coherent thought for a very long time.
* * *
Clark comes back to himself and thinks the wait was more than worth it. He turns his head and watches Oliver’s face as he struggles to come back down, and he feels an immense surge of satisfaction. He did this. He has this. Nothing can take this away from him.
“You know,” Clark says, “I’ve had so many dreams about this, but I never actually managed to get to this point in the dreams.”
Oliver sits up abruptly and stares at him with a strange look on his face. “You’ve had dreams about us? About this? Your people, Kryptonians, they aren’t a telepathic species, by any chance, are they?”
“I really don’t think so,” Clark laughs. “Why?”
Oliver shakes his head sheepishly. “I’ve had dreams, too.”
“I don’t think that necessarily means there’s some sort of telepathic connection between us, Oliver. I think it just means we’ve both really wanted this.” He wants to say something else, to ask Oliver what exactly this means to him, and if maybe they could do this again, because Clark feels really good and he has never had a more intense orgasm—
--but his League communicator signals him, and Clark has to wonder if it’s normal to feel so much hatred for an inanimate object.
* * *
It’s Lex, of course. Apparently, he’s behind almost every major instance of criminal activity in Metropolis, now, and Clark thinks that, given how much Lex hates Superman, he would be happy to know he has just interrupted the best moment in Superman’s love life.
Lex is still doing things he shouldn’t, but instead of just swirling his fingers and muddying the water, he’s turned his life into a goddamned mudhole. Everywhere Clark turns, he sees evidence of Lex’s machinations. It turns his stomach to realize how much Lex has changed from that arrogant but insecure young man who called a fifteen-year-old kid his best friend and claimed their relationship would be the stuff of legends. Of nightmares, more like, these days, because Lex has a rather alarmingly virulent hatred of Superman. He seems to consider Superman a personal affront to his sensibilities and his very existence an offense. And, alright, Clark is willing to admit his uniform is more than a bit on the gaudy side, and he does tend to be a little self-righteous during their confrontations, but he doesn’t recall Lex ever taking his enemies or anyone who opposed him and his beliefs quite so personally, so emotionally, before.
It hurts Clark more than he wants to admit that Lex hates him this much, now, even as he remains indifferent toward Clark Kent.
The last two missions the League has undertaken have been Lexcorp-related, and each time, Clark feels obscurely guilty for not having stopped Lex before he reached this level of villainy. Lex is his problem, Metropolis’s problem, but Batman can’t seem to keep from interfering, despite his own concerns in Gotham. At times, Clark wonders if Batman doesn’t trust Clark to be able to look after his own city.
Not that he’s not grateful for the assistance, because he is; Clark never feels entirely comfortable confronting Lex as Superman. It feels dishonest, perhaps because despite his long history with doing so, it has always been Clark accusing and challenging Lex. Bringing Superman into the equation feels like some kind of bizarre betrayal of his complicated relationship with Lex, especially since Clark and Lex have had nothing to do with each other since Clark’s return.
And now, Batman has news of some new experiment Lex is performing in one of his underground labs in Metropolis. Batman has been keeping an eye on Lex’s movements, and there have been suspicious shipments to this particular lab, prompting this call to Superman. It’s not worth calling in the whole League, but Batman wants Superman to check it out as soon as possible.
Clark wants to resent the fact that Batman has been keeping Metropolis under surveillance and is now ordering him to look after his own city, but although he would have uncovered information about these mysterious shipments on his own, eventually, he is not averse to a faster resolution of the problem.
The sooner he stops Lex, the fewer people Lex can harm, and that is worth any feelings of shame or inadequacy Clark feels when dealing with Batman.
So he takes the tip and thanks Batman and leaves to foil another of Lex’s ill-advised and doubtless illicit schemes.
* * *
Oliver wakes up in Clark’s bed to the sound of his own League communicator and curses Bruce with a virulence that surprises him. It’s comfortable in Clark’s bed, and the sheets smell strongly of the two of them, and Oliver feels sated for the first time in years.
“What?”
“Have you spoken to Superman?”
Well, it’s not as though anyone, especially Batman, could have been unaware of Oliver’s interest in Clark.
“Not since you called him in. Why?”
“It’s been too long since he left, and he’s not answering his comm. I think he ran into some kind of trouble at the Lexcorp lab.”
Oliver sighs and sits up, yanking at the sheet that is twisted around his legs. “Superman’s a big boy, Bruce. I think he can handle one secret laboratory.”
“Under normal circumstances, yes. But he hasn’t checked in, and I can’t contact him, and it doesn’t take this long to investigate and destroy a few illegal experiments.”
Turning his head, Oliver catches sight of Clark’s alarm clock and the numbers give him pause. It’s later than he thought, and Bruce is correct that Clark should have been back by now.
“I’m coming in,” he says. “Call in the rest of the team. It can’t hurt to check things out.”
* * *
Pain.
Every single time he’s near kryptonite, it hurts. An agonizing, bone-crunching, blood-boiling, skin-shredding pain that turns his stomach inside out and drives spikes into his head.
It hurts a lot.
And he always forgets how much it hurts. Sometimes he thinks he makes himself forget, because if he remembered, and acknowledged that he would invariably face that agony again, Clark doesn’t think he would ever leave the Fortress.
Especially if he was going to walk right into a room filled with kryptonite. If he weren’t trying so hard not to cry from the pain right now, Clark would be very pissed off at the whole concept of lead shielding. He feels like a fool. A fool dying for his own stupidity.
“Superman. I wish I could say it’s a pleasure having you, here, but I have to admit I’m a little unprepared for visitors at this time. Not that I’m not overjoyed to find I can offer you something you wouldn’t find anywhere else. Tell me, is refined meteor rock as painful for you as it looks?”
God. Clark really can’t handle one of Lex’s speeches right now. “Lex…”
Lex turns his head sharply and narrows his eyes as he looks at Clark’s face. Clark feels a tightness in his chest when he sees the suspicion in Lex’s gaze.
“…Clark? Clark Kent?! Well, isn’t this interesting. I thought, for a moment there, when Superman first came on the scene, that he might be you. But only for a moment, because there was no way the insignificant, clumsy fool you’d become was actually the Man of Steel. There was no way that my former best friend lied to me from the moment we met. I hit you with my fucking car, didn’t I, Clark?”
This is everything Clark never wanted to happen, everything he has tried so hard to prevent, and it’s all starting right now.
“Lex, please--”
“No.” Lex laughs. “No, I don’t think so, Clark. I’ve put up with your hypocrisy and your self-righteous tirades and your thoughtless accusations. I actually apologized, over and over, for suspecting you were keeping things from me, and the whole time, you were lying to me with every breath you took.”
Lex takes a step closer and leans over him. “This is a very good day for me. Clark fucking Kent is Superman, and I know what it takes to bring him to his knees.”
Continued in Part Six: Resolutions
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lady_bug_kay) wrote2007-09-14 11:34 pm
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ollievilleThere are two more parts after this one. (Sex scenes just last so much longer than I expect.)