Fic: The Forest Primeval (SV, 1509 words)
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Yesterday, late at night, I had a sudden urge to write one of the AU prompts. I wanted to write something very different for this, something silly, and instead it became dark.
venilia asked for: Clex. The fantasy AU. Clark is a faery changling, maybe.
Title: The Forest Primeval
Rating: R for slash and implied gore
Pairing: Clex
Setting: S4 or early S5
Summary: Lex demands answers. Clark leads him into the forest.
They have another argument full of empty spaces. Lex asks a question, and Clark denies answers. Clark levels an accusation, and Lex draws back, unwilling to accuse him of uglier things, afraid of letting their cold war turn hot, making it freeze instead, painfully frosty.
There is wintry silence, and Clark bows his head.
"Maybe you should leave," Lex suggests, too tired. Clark will be back another day, or else Lex will be back. Begging for scraps, although he is uncertain now whether there has ever truly been a meal, whether he has ever tasted it or just dreamed of its delights.
"Are we still friends, Lex?" Clark asks, and in the same breath answers his question, "Were we ever really?"
So tired, so hungry, and Lex drops his guard for moment.
"I wanted to be."
And he wants it still. Longing meets need meets aching regret over the miles and miles between them as they look at each other. This is the one truth that is not a secret and not yet desecrated. They wanted to be friends.
"Take me for a drive," Clark asks, and Lex, like a shark in the water, tastes defeat like a trail of blood and instinct overrules reason.
And then they're on the road, driving in the after-dusk-not-yet-darkness, towards the woods where the shadows are advancing silently between the trees, blue and grey and black, waiting for the night.
"The caves?" Lex asks, his body a struck chord, vibrating with anticipation. But Clark shakes his head.
"Drive on."
They go deeper and deeper into the woods, until Clark says, softly, "Stop here."
They're nowhere. There's no sign, no path branching off the road, just the woods, the uppermost branches of trees waving gently at the sky, caressing stars. Lex remembers that he is a child of the city, and that he has survived in the heart of the jungle. Nothing has ever been the same after the island. Nature has left its brand in him, a wound that never heals, the tang of blood on his tongue, the heady scent always goading him forward, thrilling him, haunting him.
Clark moves without any sound at all. Suddenly the door on his side is open and he stands outside, his hand a wan colour in the glare of the headlights as it rests on the door, ready to shut it in Lex's face.
"It's late," Clark says, like that's something to be sorry for, something to be afraid of. "You should drive home, Lex."
Lex bites his tongue, makes the imagined blood taste real. Then he pulls the key from the ignition like a sword from its sheath and gets out of the car into sudden darkness, helpless and blind without the headlights. Afterimages of the bright lights dance in front of his eyes, obscuring the shadows.
Clark touches his arm, there beside him all of a sudden, and Lex goes still, listens instead of looking. Clark breathes, quick and shallow, full of fright or some other primal thrill.
"What are we doing here, Clark?"
No answer, but Clark leads him away. Gradually the shapes of the night emerge again, and Lex's feet remember the feel of soft earth and leaves. A twig scrapes along his cheek, some tiny living creature flutters against his ear, and all the world whispers around them, from the roots to the sky.
They both know what is happening, what is going to happen.
Once there is a creek, and a gap in the forest, and Clark cranes his neck to gaze at the sky, like a hunting dog scenting the air. Starlight illuminates his beautiful face, and Lex's mind waxes and wanes, wavering between sharp clarity and confusion, and briefly considers murder, possession, truth, and love, but ends up at lunacy, bewilderingly soothing.
"What would you do to find out the truth?" Clark asks.
The true answer is the wrong answer, and for the past three years, Lex would have lied. But this is a dream, a very gentle nightmare. "Everything."
Kill. Hurt. Hunt. Tear you apart bit by bit, flay your secrets to their pale ivory bones. Die for it, certainly.
But the truth is only one part of a whole, Clark's whole. And Lex needs the whole of him to feed the beast inside, the one that woke in the jungle, hungry and feverish, when he was all alone with himself on the island, forced to look in murky watery mirrors.
Know thyself. He laughs, suddenly afraid of his own shadow. He's going crazy, and Clark is right with him. This is more than a dream and less than real. What are the odds that Clark is even here?
"Everything is a lot," Clark says sadly.
"I know." Lex wants to sit down, maybe break down. He wants the silver beach and the soothing tide. Instead there are pines and moss. The forest smells of graves. "But you have no idea how it is, Clark. To be so close to the truth… but never allowed to touch. On some nights I feel like Tantalus, as if I'm forced to stand within arm's length of food and drink but never able to eat."
"Really?" Clark's voice is condescending. He turns away, with one huge step crosses the murmuring creek. "I think you're just not used to not getting what you want, Lex."
Anger is a burning lash, sharp and sudden. "What do you think keeps me from just taking it?" Lex hisses.
Clark stops. He points to the left, upstream. "If you follow the creek, you'll reach the road in ten minutes. Five, if you walk fast."
Lex takes a step, but not along the stream, instead he steps into it, cold water filling his shoes, and then he's next to Clark, on the other side. His tone is forceful, because this is his truth and this Clark can't deny him: "But on most days I am Icarus, flying too close to the sun."
"Even though it burns you?"
"Even though I'll fall."
"You shouldn't," Clark sighs. "It's safer to stay away."
"Arguably, it also might be safer for you to stay away," Lex retorts. "You pursued this friendship as long as I have."
"Why do we keep coming back for more, then?" Clark asks. It sounds helpless and Lex wishes he had an answer.
They walk more, in silence. Then the trees part and a clearing spreads before them, blades of silvery grass shivering in a night breeze. The moon has risen, and while night is pitch black beneath the trees where they stand, the small meadow is filled with gossamer threads of light, delicate moonbeams.
Clark stills.
He unbuttons his flannel shirt solemnly. It slides off his bare shoulders onto the ground. Tucked into his belt is a gun, some old revolver that looks as if it has been kept it in the Kent family since the first settlers. Clark offers it and Lex takes it, feels the warm metal heavy in his palm. He looks into the cylinder and finds all chambers empty but one. A silver bullet for Russian roulette under moonlight. Things shift, their meanings altered, the second layer of so many words revealed.
Lex reaches out with one shaking hand, like Tantalus, and Clark, like the sun, does not cover himself. Lex unbuckles Clark's belt, then runs his hand over soft warm skin, up to Clark's chest, reverently, while Clark holds his gaze and slips out of his boots. Lex will take this if nothing else is given.
"I'm not human," Clark whispers, turning away, his lashes lowered, as if offering his cheek for a slap, his temple for a shot.
Lex trembles. Suddenly he fears the power of words that he has wanted to hear for ages, tries to silence them although it is too late. He leans in to capture those treacherous lips, but Clark shies away, steps backwards, out into the clearing. He sheds his pants, and he is naked underneath them, bare and primeval, a blurred reflection of a man in the moonlight, a shifting shape, soon out of reach.
Lex follows, matches each step and fearlessly gazes into the heart of the night.
Clark makes an animal noise, a wrenched sob, a laugh, a howl, but he has led him here and Lex has followed, and at no time during the night and never before was there any choice but to walk this path.
The revolver slips from Lex's fingers and drops to the ground. Clark lunges at Lex, seizes him by his arms, his hands bruising and crushing, and Lex throws his head back and bares his throat, first to velvet lips, then to a shy, licking tongue, then to feral teeth as they both sink into the grass, transformed. Clark is upon him, tears of betrayal running down his face.
Lex should have shot, but he lets the truth consume him and finally his thirst is quenched as blood fills his senses and the moon drips from the sky like mercury and milk.
Yesterday, late at night, I had a sudden urge to write one of the AU prompts. I wanted to write something very different for this, something silly, and instead it became dark.
venilia asked for: Clex. The fantasy AU. Clark is a faery changling, maybe.
Title: The Forest Primeval
Rating: R for slash and implied gore
Pairing: Clex
Setting: S4 or early S5
Summary: Lex demands answers. Clark leads him into the forest.
They have another argument full of empty spaces. Lex asks a question, and Clark denies answers. Clark levels an accusation, and Lex draws back, unwilling to accuse him of uglier things, afraid of letting their cold war turn hot, making it freeze instead, painfully frosty.
There is wintry silence, and Clark bows his head.
"Maybe you should leave," Lex suggests, too tired. Clark will be back another day, or else Lex will be back. Begging for scraps, although he is uncertain now whether there has ever truly been a meal, whether he has ever tasted it or just dreamed of its delights.
"Are we still friends, Lex?" Clark asks, and in the same breath answers his question, "Were we ever really?"
So tired, so hungry, and Lex drops his guard for moment.
"I wanted to be."
And he wants it still. Longing meets need meets aching regret over the miles and miles between them as they look at each other. This is the one truth that is not a secret and not yet desecrated. They wanted to be friends.
"Take me for a drive," Clark asks, and Lex, like a shark in the water, tastes defeat like a trail of blood and instinct overrules reason.
And then they're on the road, driving in the after-dusk-not-yet-darkness, towards the woods where the shadows are advancing silently between the trees, blue and grey and black, waiting for the night.
"The caves?" Lex asks, his body a struck chord, vibrating with anticipation. But Clark shakes his head.
"Drive on."
They go deeper and deeper into the woods, until Clark says, softly, "Stop here."
They're nowhere. There's no sign, no path branching off the road, just the woods, the uppermost branches of trees waving gently at the sky, caressing stars. Lex remembers that he is a child of the city, and that he has survived in the heart of the jungle. Nothing has ever been the same after the island. Nature has left its brand in him, a wound that never heals, the tang of blood on his tongue, the heady scent always goading him forward, thrilling him, haunting him.
Clark moves without any sound at all. Suddenly the door on his side is open and he stands outside, his hand a wan colour in the glare of the headlights as it rests on the door, ready to shut it in Lex's face.
"It's late," Clark says, like that's something to be sorry for, something to be afraid of. "You should drive home, Lex."
Lex bites his tongue, makes the imagined blood taste real. Then he pulls the key from the ignition like a sword from its sheath and gets out of the car into sudden darkness, helpless and blind without the headlights. Afterimages of the bright lights dance in front of his eyes, obscuring the shadows.
Clark touches his arm, there beside him all of a sudden, and Lex goes still, listens instead of looking. Clark breathes, quick and shallow, full of fright or some other primal thrill.
"What are we doing here, Clark?"
No answer, but Clark leads him away. Gradually the shapes of the night emerge again, and Lex's feet remember the feel of soft earth and leaves. A twig scrapes along his cheek, some tiny living creature flutters against his ear, and all the world whispers around them, from the roots to the sky.
They both know what is happening, what is going to happen.
Once there is a creek, and a gap in the forest, and Clark cranes his neck to gaze at the sky, like a hunting dog scenting the air. Starlight illuminates his beautiful face, and Lex's mind waxes and wanes, wavering between sharp clarity and confusion, and briefly considers murder, possession, truth, and love, but ends up at lunacy, bewilderingly soothing.
"What would you do to find out the truth?" Clark asks.
The true answer is the wrong answer, and for the past three years, Lex would have lied. But this is a dream, a very gentle nightmare. "Everything."
Kill. Hurt. Hunt. Tear you apart bit by bit, flay your secrets to their pale ivory bones. Die for it, certainly.
But the truth is only one part of a whole, Clark's whole. And Lex needs the whole of him to feed the beast inside, the one that woke in the jungle, hungry and feverish, when he was all alone with himself on the island, forced to look in murky watery mirrors.
Know thyself. He laughs, suddenly afraid of his own shadow. He's going crazy, and Clark is right with him. This is more than a dream and less than real. What are the odds that Clark is even here?
"Everything is a lot," Clark says sadly.
"I know." Lex wants to sit down, maybe break down. He wants the silver beach and the soothing tide. Instead there are pines and moss. The forest smells of graves. "But you have no idea how it is, Clark. To be so close to the truth… but never allowed to touch. On some nights I feel like Tantalus, as if I'm forced to stand within arm's length of food and drink but never able to eat."
"Really?" Clark's voice is condescending. He turns away, with one huge step crosses the murmuring creek. "I think you're just not used to not getting what you want, Lex."
Anger is a burning lash, sharp and sudden. "What do you think keeps me from just taking it?" Lex hisses.
Clark stops. He points to the left, upstream. "If you follow the creek, you'll reach the road in ten minutes. Five, if you walk fast."
Lex takes a step, but not along the stream, instead he steps into it, cold water filling his shoes, and then he's next to Clark, on the other side. His tone is forceful, because this is his truth and this Clark can't deny him: "But on most days I am Icarus, flying too close to the sun."
"Even though it burns you?"
"Even though I'll fall."
"You shouldn't," Clark sighs. "It's safer to stay away."
"Arguably, it also might be safer for you to stay away," Lex retorts. "You pursued this friendship as long as I have."
"Why do we keep coming back for more, then?" Clark asks. It sounds helpless and Lex wishes he had an answer.
They walk more, in silence. Then the trees part and a clearing spreads before them, blades of silvery grass shivering in a night breeze. The moon has risen, and while night is pitch black beneath the trees where they stand, the small meadow is filled with gossamer threads of light, delicate moonbeams.
Clark stills.
He unbuttons his flannel shirt solemnly. It slides off his bare shoulders onto the ground. Tucked into his belt is a gun, some old revolver that looks as if it has been kept it in the Kent family since the first settlers. Clark offers it and Lex takes it, feels the warm metal heavy in his palm. He looks into the cylinder and finds all chambers empty but one. A silver bullet for Russian roulette under moonlight. Things shift, their meanings altered, the second layer of so many words revealed.
Lex reaches out with one shaking hand, like Tantalus, and Clark, like the sun, does not cover himself. Lex unbuckles Clark's belt, then runs his hand over soft warm skin, up to Clark's chest, reverently, while Clark holds his gaze and slips out of his boots. Lex will take this if nothing else is given.
"I'm not human," Clark whispers, turning away, his lashes lowered, as if offering his cheek for a slap, his temple for a shot.
Lex trembles. Suddenly he fears the power of words that he has wanted to hear for ages, tries to silence them although it is too late. He leans in to capture those treacherous lips, but Clark shies away, steps backwards, out into the clearing. He sheds his pants, and he is naked underneath them, bare and primeval, a blurred reflection of a man in the moonlight, a shifting shape, soon out of reach.
Lex follows, matches each step and fearlessly gazes into the heart of the night.
Clark makes an animal noise, a wrenched sob, a laugh, a howl, but he has led him here and Lex has followed, and at no time during the night and never before was there any choice but to walk this path.
The revolver slips from Lex's fingers and drops to the ground. Clark lunges at Lex, seizes him by his arms, his hands bruising and crushing, and Lex throws his head back and bares his throat, first to velvet lips, then to a shy, licking tongue, then to feral teeth as they both sink into the grass, transformed. Clark is upon him, tears of betrayal running down his face.
Lex should have shot, but he lets the truth consume him and finally his thirst is quenched as blood fills his senses and the moon drips from the sky like mercury and milk.