Here's another Clex fiction babble that might have been the inspiration for Obsessions. I think.



There were some things you just didn’t do. No matter how badly you wanted. No matter the temptation. No matter the need that kept you up some nights. Fifteen was simply too young. Too naïve, no matter if you were a Kansas farm kid or a trust fund brat.

It wasn’t like he was in love. Nothing of the sort. Lex Luthor hadn’t been in love since he was two weeks shy of fifteen himself and experiencing his first taste of sex in the arms of the twenty-four year old wife of an oil Tycoon. And that had been all of the week they’d stayed at the sprawling Texas ranch, while his father and her husband had conducted casual business, and she’d conducted another sort of business with a wide eyed, self-conscious kid that had been bowled over - - simply floored by the attention of a worldly, beautiful woman. A bored woman that hadn’t wanted anything to do with him after that week was up. He’d been devastated and hurt and angry and he’d hated himself for weeks, not quite understanding that her rejection had been no fault of his.

But he’d liked the sex. Oh, he’d loved the sex, and once introduced, the body craved more and he’d gone looking - - being fifteen and needy and it had filled a void.

And he’d kept filling the void, without reservation or common sense for the next six years, until he’d been exiled to the capital of moderation and puritan ethics. Oh, and corn. Don’t forget the corn.

So, there were just some things you didn’t do, and seducing a naïve, corn-fed fifteen year old was chief among them. It didn’t matter if he had the hands of a man - - large and strong, or shoulders that stretched the material of his t-shirts, cloth clinging to hard muscle. Or that he was taller and broader, and looked up sometimes from under those ridiculously thick, inky lashes with eyes that speculated on things that Lex just couldn’t think about and function in the same room with him. Innocent speculation, he was sure - - but speculation just the same.

And if he knew, that green eyed kid, with his black, shining hair and his face that was like the wet dream of a renaissance master painter- - if he guessed the things Lex could do to him, the ways Lex knew to play the body like a fine instrument, he’d never be the same. All that innocence lost, sacrificed on the alter of hedonism.

And once it was gone, you never got it back, and that Lex knew first hand and he wouldn’t do it to the boy that had been his salvation. Not to a kid that smiled at him with honest enthusiasm and demanded nothing - - who went out of his way to refuse subtle little briberies, because he actually enjoyed the company.

Clark called him ‘friend’, but Lex wasn’t certain what that meant. Some terms were so easily bandied about, they lost all meaning. People had flocked to him in Metropolis because he had money, because he went to all the hottest clubs and did all the best drugs. Acquaintances, fuck-buddies, leeches. They all knew him by name. He’d fucked more of them than he could remember, or gotten fucked.

But it was a novel place, Smallville, filled with people with no agenda past working the land and feeding their families. Filled with baffling occurrences and all too frequent X-File moments. But, Lex was nothing if not adaptive.

He’d wanted Clark the first time he’d met him, the both of them wet and dirty from the river, sitting on the muddy bank waiting for the authorities to arrive, Lex’s teeth chattering so hard he’d barely been able to speak coherently, as they’d exchanged halting little bits of information. But want and act were two different things, and - - well, fifteen. And it had been a physical fancy, nothing more. Hard not to look at that body and avoid indecent thoughts.

By the second meeting, want was tempered, both of them dry and collected, and Lex on the cusp of offended that his generous gift had been refused - - equally intrigued that it had been, because no one in their right mind - - no one of his acquaintance would pass up such a thing. But Clark had been easy to talk to, and Clark had been interested, and Clark had walked away with nothing given and nothing gained, but a pleasant hour of time. And Lex had gone about his afternoon, absently pulling sheets from covered furniture, rediscovering things he hadn’t seen in years, and reacquainting himself with the sprawling mysteries of the mansion.

And life went on. Crops continued to grow. The plant continued to process crap and Lex learned the meaning of self-restraint. He learned, amazingly enough, that there were some people that couldn’t be bought. That the type of loyalty that really mattered couldn’t be paid for. And that sometimes comfortable company over the long run was an equitable exchange for a quick fuck.

So he savored Clark’s companionship, and tested the waters of friendship, not quite certain how to go about the whole thing. But he’d always been a consummate actor, and he’d learned to fake confidence early on. And camaraderie came so easily to Clark, with his huge grin and his earnest eyes, and yet he shared it with so few. His tiny cluster of friends could be easily accounted for on the fingers of one hand.

But then, Clark had his secrets. The Kent’s walled him in with them, guarding them and him viciously, discouraging outside interest. And being sixteen, Clark let them, because sixteen wasn’t much better than fifteen in the worldly knowledge department. When you were sixteen, you thought you knew everything, but so seldom did.

Lex had been with his first man when he was sixteen. Man. Boy. Hardly a difference. The guy had been eighteen so he was somewhere in-between. He’d met him on summer break in the Caymans, dark skinned and blonde haired and sly, like all eighteen-year-old sons of wealthy fathers think they are.

‘You’re so pale. Do you even go out in the sun?’ had been the pick up line. Lex remembered that, even though the guy’s name had been long lost. He’d been offended. He’d said something suitably scathing and the guy had smiled at him, big white teeth in a sun-tanned face and things had progressed from there.

He’d sucked Lex off, on his knees in the sand behind one of the god-awful expensive private bungalows and there had been something about the feel of a man’s lips, a man’s hard hands gripping his hips that gave him something he’d never gotten from the softness of the various girls and women he’d had before this. And he’d gone down, afterwards and had taken his first cock in his mouth, and he found he liked that too.

Mutual satisfaction.

What had made it even better was walking into his own bungalow afterwards, seeing his father conferring with his aide, who never left his side, even during dubious vacations, and knowing that if Lionel knew, if he even guessed what Lex had been doing, it would drive him mad.

Clark would never, ever derive such pleasure from scandalizing his father. But sometimes Lex thought about it. Jonathan Kent’s righteous indignation over the thought of his perfect - - God, so fucking perfect - - son, on his knees before Lex Luthor.

Granted, he didn’t have those vindictive little fantasies often, only when Jonathan Kent had particularly pissed him off. Generally his fantasies regarding Clark veered far a field from his father. Far, far a field.

Whether Clark guessed, was debatable. Lex thought he’d gotten rather good at masking his interest, but sometimes, Clark would catch him off guard and he’d get snared by a set of eyes that were too worldly for any common teenager and he’d lose his train of thought, or stutter out in the middle of a sentence. An uncommon loss of words that Clark never ceased to find amusing.