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Entry tags:
SV fic: This Happy Morning
Title: This Happy Morning
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters:Clark/Eric, Clark/Claude, Clark/Bruce, Clark/Lex
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 5085
Summary: four memorable Christmas Eves
Notes/Warnings: The characters Clark dates are OCs (except for Bruce Wayne, of course) from my SV 2011 Big Bang, When I was Lost. It would be helpful to have read that story before this because it explains the characters, but the most important thing to know is that Clark's a hooker and these are three Christmas eves he spends with clients
Lex Luthor was a man who was rarely at a loss for words—except in altogether too many circumstances involving his…what did he even call Clark? He'd never come to any comfortable idea of what Clark was to him. He was so very much more than employee, certainly. Less than lifemate. And that rested on Clark's shoulders, alone. Left to Lex, if he could make it so, he'd love to hold Clark's hand, look him in the eye and know that Clark was his…well, his boyfriend. God, he'd slit his own throat before he called Clark that to his face. He could only imagine the peals of laughter that would bring.
The man who confused him so much was currently sitting comfortably at Lex's desk, settled there like it was his own. "Lex! There you are."
"I—what?" Lex was nudged off balance by Clark's big smile, the sparkle in his eyes. "Clark, I've been looking for you—"
"And here I am." He smiled even wider and Lex was torn between strangling him and fucking him…then again, no reason why he couldn't do both….
"Lex," Clark said, a scolding in the way he drawled Lex's name out. "Tsk." He shook his head.
"What? I'm just looking at you."
"You're mixing sex and violence again. What's up?"
"It's almost Christmas."
"You know, I noticed that, believe it or not." Clark smirked. "There's more pine in here than in the forest. And that tree in the great room…it's really quite…something. Very…bright." and went on in a softer voice, "so much glitter died for that tree…."
Lex chose to ignore the heavy dash of sarcasm underlying Clark's words. "I had hoped that you'd like it. I thought that…it's probably been a while since you had a proper Christmas."
"Oh, Love. Did you think that I didn't celebrate? I did. Usually with my clients but…."
Lex firmly refused to blush and—and simper at that casual 'Love'. Clark uttered it so easily, but with such fondness. Of course, Lex knew it was just a thing with Clark. He'd heard him talking to Eric on the phone and it didn't make him jealous that 'Darling', and 'Love' and 'Precious' flew back and forth between the two and seriously, he wasn't jealous in the least bit. "I'm not sure I'm up to hearing about you and your clients." Especially Eric, but Lex honestly wasn't jealous. Eric was just…tedious. Lex took a breath, and then actually looked at Clark.
Lex cursed himself for a terrible, childish, self-absorbed fool. There was no missing the bleak, blank look in Clark's eyes, brief as it was. And then he graced Lex with a kind, sweet smile, as if Lex hadn't figuratively slapped him in the face.
"I just wanted you to know you shouldn't feel sorry for me," Clark said. "I had Christmas. It wasn't bad. It really wasn't. And it wasn't about the clients."
Clark led Lex to bed, and told him how he spent Christmas bringing boxes of food and bags of clothing to the shelters, of walking the streets handing out care packs and checking up on friends, helping make dinner for dozens and….
Clark talked until Lex fell asleep with his lips curved into a small, satisfied smile and it made his heart thud out of rhythm with how much he loved the man. How much he wanted to stay with Lex the rest of his life. Willing not to tell him that, willing not to tell the truth about Christmas because he wanted Lex to be…happy.
cKc
The first Christmas that Clark actually *remembered* that it was Christmas he spent with Eric, who pulled him off the corner and took him back to his studio. Still nearly strangers, Clark perched on a chair and listened to Eric spin stories of his latest brush with the stupidity of the art world, and particularly would-be patrons. Eric snapped picture after picture of Clark in his working clothes, eyes wide but brushed with tired, violet shadows, and his mouth still a little swollen from the night's work….
After athletic and for Eric, vanilla sex, Eric reminded Clark that it was Christmas. He looked so sad when Clark expressed some mild surprise that it was…
"Christmas?" Clark wondered. How in the world was he supposed to care about that? Or celebrate it. Clark tried to dissuade Eric, but Eric, in his typical way, steamrollered Clark with a carefree laugh. He dressed him head to toe, in deep brown, smooth and sinful as chocolate. He took him to a restaurant that was way above Clark's means, would always be above his means. They made their way through crowds of elegant people, all of them more graceful, richer, and more certain of their place in the world than Clark could ever be. He sat at the burgundy swathed table, gazed at crystal and bronze everywhere, reflecting the flames of dozens and dozens of creamy white candles. The smell and the feel and the sound—he was an elephant among gazelles. He was hurt; so absurdly hurt that Eric would ridicule him this way.
The waiter brought their menus, and laid Clark's in front of him as if Clark was someone special, when Clark glanced up and caught the man's eye, the waiter smiled and Clark blushed. He was sure the man was laughing at a whore dressed up like a doll, playing Eric's game. He stared at his hands, stared at the point his knuckles turned white, the creases they made in the thick paper of the menu and wanted so much to leave. Would leave but he hadn’t been paid yet. He had to get paid….
"Clark," Eric said, his voice a soft warm whisper. "Do what I do, hold your head up, and smile. Just smile. This is a lesson."
Clark snorted. Of course it was a lesson. Clark wasn't an idiot. Since the tornado, his life had been nothing but lessons. He knew what this lesson was—you can look like someone, you can go somewhere important people go but in the end, he was what he'd always been—nothing. No one.
Eric tapped his hand and frowned. Clark fought to put a bright, empty smile on his face. He nodded. "Yes, Eric. Lessons." He reached out for his crystal glass of water and took a sip, almost choked trying to force it down his tight throat.
Eric's fingers slid between Clark's and Clark startled at the seemingly intimate touch in public. "Not the kind of lesson you seem to think…Clark, you're better than anyone here, a more decent person than…" Eric shrugged. "Anyway, I'm going to put a little polish on the gem that you are. Starting by treating you to the best meal ever, and I'm going to explain to you why it is the best meal. Understand?"
Clark fixed his eyes on Eric's and just…looked. Stared deep into him, and saw nothing but that slightly distant fondness he'd come to associate with the man. After a bit, he nodded. "Yes, I understand, Eric. You have a teacher fetish and I'm supposed to satisfy your itch." Shaking inside, he opened the linen napkin across his lap and risked a glance at Eric. Eric burst into laughter, shook out his own napkin as he grinned at Clark. Clark felt a bubble of relief release the knot in his chest.
"Ah, see, learning already, darling," Eric smirked.
"'Well," Clark shrugged. "You are the maestro, I'm simply the student."
"Maestro--oh my dear, how flattering. But I'm hardly that, darling, hardly that."
cKc
That Christmas was one of Clark's favorites. His first holiday meal with Eric. The only time he didn't turn down a client at a holiday was when Eric was busy. Thankfully, it was a rare occurrence, but he remembered a year he agreed to spending a Christmas eve with Claude…the first dinner he'd had with Claude, the first time he'd actually *been* with him, this client Eric claimed would be good for him….
"Clark." Claude stood, held his hand out and Clark walked across the narrow dark room towards Claude. The room was silver and white, but it was difficult to see in the gloom. He came to a stop in front of Claude but didn't take his hand and Claude gracefully turned the movement into a sweeping gesture, indicating which seat Clark should take.
"Sit, please," Claude spoke the words with more than a hint of command. "Tell me, have you ever celebrated Christmas before? I'll explain if you don't understand something."
Clark dropped his eyes and waited out the breath-taking roll of fury that swept over him, the assumptions that Claude had made him hate the man. It felt like he'd insulted Clark's parents, that he made light of their memory. Claude of course went on as if Clark had agreed with him.
It wasn't that bad. The food was good, conversation was minimal. At the end of the meal, Claude pushed Clark to his knees. Clark reached for Claude's pants but Claude held him off. He asked Clark if there was anything he wouldn't do and Clark didn't hesitate before saying no. It'd been the truth for quite some time.
Claude asked, "What if I wanted you to bleed?"
Clark said, "Than you can make me bleed. Just…this necklace goes in my mouth and stays there. No exception." He pulled the chain holding the little lead box free of his collar and let it drop against his chest.
Claude's eyebrows rose. "All right," he said, after a slight pause. "I see no reason why you shouldn't…" he circled Clark, running light touches over him, his shoulders, his neck."Take the shirt off, no—take all of it off. I want to see what you're like under all that poly-blend."
Clark took a quick breath, and began to unbutton his shirt. It meant nothing; this guy was just one of hundreds of faceless johns. No, clients, that's what Eric wanted him to call these arrogant, over-privileged jerks that paid for him to do these… things. The men that Eric introduced him to, who paid for anonymity, discretion, or maybe the thrill of owning another human being for however long they cared to….
"Perfect. Eric was right." Clark felt something slim and cold moving over his shoulders, along the side of his neck. He moved to slip the necklace in his mouth and Claude brought his fist down on Clark's back.
"Did I give you permission to move?"
Clark hissed, angry as when he'd been younger and kneeling for the cops in the alley…"Then you need to tell me when it starts and ends. Me stripping off doesn't mean a thing." Clark raised his head and glared at Claude and Claude laughed.
"All right. Fair enough. The minute that thing is in your mouth. That's the sign. But you don't stop until I say so."
"What if—it's too much?"
"Ah, then you're not who I want. But I think that won’t be a problem for us, Clark."
Clark shook his head. "No." and lipped the little box into his mouth, slipped it open and pain danced down his spine, and he felt Claude's hot breath expel shakily across his neck, hot, damp hitches, tiny muttered words muffled to Clark's hearing, now that the stone cast its pall on him. Hot, searing streaks worked down his shoulders, the tops of his arms. Claude steadily muttering something, something….the streaks of pain faded and Claude moved, Clark caught a metallic clatter as whatever Claude used on him dropped to the floor. A warm weight moved over the stinging skin of his back—thick heat, velvet warm flesh, blood hot fluid dribbled and cooled against his skin and he realized Claude was following the streaks he'd cut with his dick, rubbing precome into the blood…he shuddered. It shouldn't arouse him like this, it was wrong and sick and his dick was throbbing between his legs. All the heat concentrated in one place, Claude pressed the head of his dick between Clark's shoulders and came. "Go ahead," he gasped, demanded, "Now." A few short strokes were all it took, and Clark was coming over Claude's shiny, spotless floor.
After his appointment ended, Clark wandered the damp streets, confused, a little frightened, and wondering what had happened there, why…?
He called Eric that evening and told him he'd decided to take Claude on as a client.
"Your decision, darling boy, not mine at all. He's…hmm. He's…"
"Different?" Clark laughed.
"Yes. I have a feeling that Claude's good for you—for now," Eric stressed. "Just don't…Oh Clark. Just. Don't."
"Maestro, love, I'll be careful, I promise you." Clark murmured into the phone, watching the dark through his bedroom window, lying flat on his unmarked back. "You know I won't let things get out of hand."
cKc
Bruce…the memory of the one and only time he'd celebrated the holiday with Bruce still had the ability to unsettle him, just like theman himself had. After Bruce, things changed. The way Clark thought about himself changed, and what he thought he needed changed….
Clark sat at one end of a long, long table. The room was dark, heavy paneled wood and dark wallpaper and dark trim. The table was set with white dishes trimmed in gold, and the glasses were all a deep wine red. There were pine boughs and holly branches and tall white candles scattered the football field length of the table. Clark was alone at his end of the table, another place setting sat far away at the other end.
There was a click, and a wedge of light brightened the gloom as the door behind Clark opened. Quick sharp footsteps came, muffled as they hit the Persian rugs scattered here and there on the hardwood floor.
Clark recognized the small, dapper man with a neatly trimmed, old-fashioned mustache who came into view, he was the courier who'd brought the costume change to Clark his first date with Bruce. He had a pitcher filled with something ivory colored and creamy in his hands. He set it down next to Clark. His expression trembled on the edge of contempt and pity and Clark leaned back in his chair and smiled. "Dude, where's Brucie at?" he asked and contempt settled firmly on the man's features.
"I'm sure Master Bruce will join you once he's completed matters that are much more pressing than your…visit."
"Wow…you're really obnoxious seeing that Bruce is paying you, too. What're you, his butler, right? He's paying you to stick around, same as me. Only I don’t have to clean up after him," Clark sneered. He felt a bit of surprise when, instead of getting angry, the little guy seemed to threaten to break into a smile. He swept a small elegant finger over his mustache and stifled a cough that Clark thought sounded suspiciously like a chuckle. "Whatever, tell Bruce I'll see him around, I've got other appointments." Which was a lie, Eric was out of the country and this Christmas Eve, his other clients all remembered that they had family or other obligations…he'd never admit it to anyone alive, but he was a little disappointed that he'd been stood up by Bruce.
"Actually, Master Bruce asked me to ask you, if you wouldn't mind waiting a bit longer, though he fully understands if you do not."
"He does, does he? Well okay, Butler Guy, I guess I can wait just a little bit longer—"
"Alfred. I've shortened 'Butler Guy' to Alfred," the dry little man said.
Clark was stunned. The butler had a sense of humor. And seemed to be a little less disgusted by Clark. "Hunh. Well then," Clark muttered as the man walked back out through the double doors. Christmas music began to play shortly after and Clark smiled to himself, seemed that Alfred really did want to play nice, now.
Time moved slowly, and Clark waited, his mind wandering as he occasionally checked his watch. He went over his appointments for the week, mentally sorted out his bills, made a grocery list…wondered how Eric was doing with his latest showing. And waited. Not that he minded over-much waiting on Bruce, still there were rules. He'd give Bruce a minute more, and then leave. He poured himself a glass of eggnog and sipped, made a face. That was darling. Nonalcoholic, though probably Bruce would offer him half a glass of wine later, or tip a thimbleful of rum into his eggnog. He snickered. Bruce was years too late, but Clark couldn't help but find it—relaxing. It was nice to play the boy he'd never really had the chance to be.
Bruce came in before Clark finished his glass and even though he'd ordered Clark from the menu, so to speak, and paid for the entire night, he looked delightfully surprised to see him at the table. Alfred swept in not long after Bruce and went to pour something bubbly and golden in Bruce's glass, far away at the opposite end of the table. Bruce stopped Alfred, grabbed his plate and silver and trotted down to sit with Clark. Bent over and kissed Clark, a lingering, suck of Clark's lower lip between Bruce's, a swift warm sweep of tongue into Clark's mouth, over his teeth and in his mouth and a small, sweet, faint pop when he let Clark go. "Hey, Clark, Merry Christmas."
"Mm, you too, Bruce." Clark felt a faint wave of heat sweep through him. Bruce did affect him in ways that none of his other clients except Eric did. Bruce was…sweet, for a border-line pedophile with terrible social skills and an amazing inability to interact with humans unless he was acting the part of Bruce Wayne. Clark liked him very much.
Alfred silently and efficiently served their meal and left them alone, shutting the doors behind himself. They ate and talked and laughed, and Bruce bent over more than once to kiss Clark, his cheeks flushed with wine, good food and arousal. It was a good look on him. His hair slowly lost its mousse stranglehold; a few long wisps fell across Bruce's forehead. A bead of sweat at his hairline dampened the curls and made its slow, slow way down Bruce's temple. Clark saw, reached out to wipe it away with his thumb. Bruce caught his hand and kissed the inside of his wrist. He whispered, harsh, rough, "You have no idea how much I want to fuck you, Clark. I want to blow you, climb under this table and suck you off, have you come on my face…"
Clark grabbed Bruce's chin and roughly jerked it aside, nipped at his earlobe and murmured, "Yeah, sounds good, but not here—I just got your butler to like me a little bit."
Bruce leaned back into his chair, stared at Clark, and burst into laughter.
Clark startled. He didn't recall Bruce ever laughing so loud, his whole body engaged. Bruce jumped up from the table and went to the door. He yanked it open and shouted out, "I'm locking the dining room door, Alfred."
Clark heard a faint, "Very good sir. Good night to you and your companion."
Bruce closed the door and leaned against it. "He likes you."
Clark laughed into his napkin. "Okay, if you say so…what now?"
Bruce grinned, a wide, white, maniac grin, and popped his suspenders off his shoulders, ripped off his tie and dropped it. His shirt buttons went flying and the wounded shirt fluttered to the ground. His eyes were locked on Clark. He snapped his fingers. "Strip off." He yanked at his zipper and kicked off his shoes, peeled black silk socks from his feet and shoved them out of the way, kicked his pants under a chair. All the while he was moving, stepping on fallen clothing carelessly, eating Clark up with his eyes.
Clark didn't hesitate, he did what Bruce wanted because the client wanted it…and truth to tell it was hot as hell. Bruce, surprising the hell out of him. Where was the shy, reticent guy he'd gone to the movies with, spent the day at the beach with, suffered along with through boring business dinners and self-serving charity functions? This guy, this guy was a little…scary. And fucking hot as hell….
Before he could think or move or breathe, Bruce slammed Clark flat onto the table, sent him sprawling in a cloud of old lace and linen, sent glasses toppling and spilling sweet red wine. Serving dishes were overturned, sliding off to the floor and Clark was pretty sure that was chestnut stuffing his elbow was sliding through….
Bruce growled and pulled Clark's legs wide. He smacked the butter dish open and slapped his palm down on the pats of butter made to look like little flowers, smearing them into blobs against his skin. Bruce curled his greased fingers around Clark's dick and drew them upwards, slowly, down again, torturously slow. Clark hissed, stomach muscles jumped and clenched. "Ah, shit, Bruce."
"Damn, so pretty Clark, fat and long…I love your dick, your fucking mouth."
"Bruce—?" Clark was startled—Clark was stunned. Who was this guy and what had he done with Bruce?
Bruce growled, "Ever been fucked? I'm gonna fuck you on the table, I'm gonna make you come all over this—this heirloom linen and let the housekeeper try and figure out how spunk got all over the holiday linens…make you come all over yourself and then suck my dick, get me hard and do it all over again." He stopped and grinned at Clark, ran his tongue over Clark's stomach, pressed his face into the crease of his hip. Looked up at Clark and asked, "Ever done that before?" in the same tone of voice he'd ask for Clark to pass the salt.
"Jesus—" Clark shuddered from head to toe. Bruce was running amok with his script and that made it even hotter. Clark imagined himself as the kid Bruce loved, the one who'd never done anything more than maybe a few handjobs, given head once or twice, in the back of his daddy's car. Furtive and quick and never like this. He groaned out loud, "No, never," voice trembling, muscles jumping, right on script. Bruce hummed in approval when Clark spurt out precome, thick and leaking all over Bruce's hand.
"So wet; I like that," Bruce said and licked his hand, palm and fingers. "Tastes good." He bent over and drilled his tongue into Clark's slit. "Love the taste of you." He pulled Clark down to the edge of the table and draped his legs over his arms. "You good Clark—? What do you need, because I'm going to fuck you blind and you are going to love it."
Clark arched as much as Bruce's hold would let him, and wished like hell he could coordinate his brains and hands to open his fists and jerk himself off. All he could do was watch Bruce fuck him, watch his own dick dribbling over tension-tight stomach muscles. Clark's grip on Bruce's expensive tablecloth tightened and distantly he heard a long, low rip. "Shit. Go, do it," he moaned. "Fuck me."
"Like you have a choice," Bruce laughed, thick and dark, not like Bruce at all. His eyes were dark, pupils swallowing all the blue. "Beg me, bitch. Beg me to fuck you 'til you scream—" He shoved inside all at once and Clark felt it all the way up his spine.
"God damn it—"
"Shut up and take it. Take it," Bruce punched in, pulled Clark's legs higher until he was nearly resting his weight on his shoulders. Clark felt it, every stroke in, his whole world centered on where Bruce was. Bruce felt big and hot and when he wasn't deep in him Clark felt empty and when he pushed in Clark felt too full and he ached. Every stroke sent hot thrills cascading through him, his hole ached and thrummed and he almost came when Bruce shoved a finger in alongside his dick, stroking Clark's walls, stroking himself inside Clark.
"Come, come on, you can come like this. Clark—" Bruce hooked his finger inside and pulled and Clark screamed—pushed down, tried to push away, confused and so fucked up by wanting Bruce to stop and hoping he would never, ever stop.
Bruce dropped Clark's legs, grabbed his waist, fingers slipping in sweat, raking Clark's skin. He drove in deeper and hit a place inside Clark that made him feel like Bruce plugged a live wire into his nerves, like he uncorked Clark's brain and filled it with sparks. Everything faded but the feel of Bruce screwing in and out of him, he felt Bruce getting harder, it felt good, him grinding into Clark and doing what he wanted. Clark floated on the edge, sew-sawing back and forth, hanging there while waves of ecstasy crashed into him but never quite enough, almost there—it felt amazing and horrible and the best he'd ever experienced and then Bruce touched him finally—wrapped his hand around the head and rubbed his thumb under the crown, hard—and broke Clark into a million pieces.
Distantly he heard Bruce cursing, spewing outrageous filth that if Clark hadn't been in the middle of a life threatening orgasm, might possibly have offended him. But at the moment, with Bruce's come filling him, Bruce's hand milking him, and Bruce's teeth grinding in the crook of his neck, Clark didn't mind one little bit.
Crashing sounds snapped him back to reality— he wondered briefly, without much real concern, if Alfred had broken through the door but then Bruce muttered, "Oh shit, I'm so screwed," into Clark's ear and he realized that they'd shoved a lot of heirloom china and glassware to the ground. Antique linen was wrapped around Clark's legs, stained, shredded, steeped in wine and other fluids.
Bruce leaned over him, grinning indolently, his whole attitude one of satisfied arrogance. Clark gaped blearily up at him, hole still clenching around Bruce's dick. Clark was completely bewildered as well as totally fucked out. Bruce just kept smirking; he thrust in and out a few lazy times before suddenly jerking to a stop. His mouth dropped open on a horrified gasp and the Bruce Clark knew was back. Shock, fear, flooded his eyes and he pulled out and staggered back. He held his hands up, like he wanted to ward himself from the sight of Clark—naked, spread open on the mess of the dinner table.
"Oh god, I'm so sorry, so sorry, Clark please forgive me, I'm—sorry—"
"No Bruce, god that was—fuck, the best I've ever had. That was fucking amazing, I can't…"
Bruce slumped into a chair and pulled a section of ruined linen into his lap. He bowed his head. "God, what I did—I know you're not—but I was thinking—god. I'm…I. I wish I could take that back. I hurt you. I didn't want to, please believe me. Sometimes it just—I just get this, god, this rage I can't control."
Clark slithered off the table and grabbed Bruce's shirt off the floor, draped it around himself. "Listen, not to make light of what you're feeling but…would it help at all if I said…I liked it? Bruce. You know I'm not what your script says, not really. This is my job, you know," he said softly. He cupped Bruce's cheek and coaxed his head up. "And you call me, okay? Whenever you feel like that. I can take it."
Bruce looked at him, his eyes pained but…hopeful. "You really don’t mind? I didn’t hurt you?"
"No, fuck no. it was…fantastic. A little rough, a little wild—but normal. I promise."
Bruce almost collapsed in relief. "Oh god, really? Because it was amazing for me too, it felt good not to hold back…."
Clark wondered who'd taught Bruce that what he wanted was wrong. Or maybe he'd done it to himself…Bruce was just too concerned with being a 'good guy' to ever completely let go. Unless he found someone who didn't mind giving in completely. Clark hoped that he would someday, of all his clients, Bruce was the one he hoped would someday no longer need him.
Clark slid to the edge of the table and hopped down. "So, how are we making it to your bedroom and what do we do about this mess?"
"Well…I'm the boss and I sign the paychecks so, we do nothing about this mess. And it's my house so I do whatever I want in it and that includes walking buck-naked down the hall covered with butter and…and… bean casserole."
Clark stared, mouth open and eyes stunned wide—and laughed until he cried. "Wow…I'm not sure I can handle this Bruce," he gasped.
Bruce smiled wide and flushed a dark red. "Yeah, well, don't get too used to him," he said, swept wet bangs off his forehead. He held out his hand to Clark. "Shower?"
"Yes, god yes. I'm sticky on top of sticky." Clark stopped Bruce, pulled him close and kissed him, slow, deep, ended it with tiny pecks across Bruce's cheeks, his nose. "Remember, whenever you need me."
Bruce gave Clark a wry smile. "Whenever you're free."
Clark studied Bruce for a moment, his eyes, his sad, little smile…"Yes, of course, whenever I'm free."
Clark watched Lex sleep. In the morning, they'd open presents because he knew Lex. Lex would buy gifts. Nothing ostentatious or very expensive…he would have looked for something that had meaning for Clark. His heart warmed, thinking of his Lex searching for just the right gift for him. He loved that about Lex, that he thought his money couldn't buy Clark. It was sweet of him.
Clark wanted to give Lex something special too, of course. Ignoring Eric when he'd wanted to give it to Clark for free, he'd bought a small print of one of the first pictures Eric had taken of him. A close-up of Clark's shoulder, adorned with needles in a spiral pattern. It meant something to Clark and he hoped Lex would understand.
In the morning they'd have coffee and pastry and he'd make Lex eat a whole piece and then kiss him in front of the tree. They'd go to the Smallville Memorial which was all he had of his parents and watch the sun rise before returning home and exchanging gifts. He'd know that he was loved.
Life could get no better than this, Clark thought.
1-2-2013
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters:Clark/Eric, Clark/Claude, Clark/Bruce, Clark/Lex
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 5085
Summary: four memorable Christmas Eves
Notes/Warnings: The characters Clark dates are OCs (except for Bruce Wayne, of course) from my SV 2011 Big Bang, When I was Lost. It would be helpful to have read that story before this because it explains the characters, but the most important thing to know is that Clark's a hooker and these are three Christmas eves he spends with clients
Lex Luthor was a man who was rarely at a loss for words—except in altogether too many circumstances involving his…what did he even call Clark? He'd never come to any comfortable idea of what Clark was to him. He was so very much more than employee, certainly. Less than lifemate. And that rested on Clark's shoulders, alone. Left to Lex, if he could make it so, he'd love to hold Clark's hand, look him in the eye and know that Clark was his…well, his boyfriend. God, he'd slit his own throat before he called Clark that to his face. He could only imagine the peals of laughter that would bring.
The man who confused him so much was currently sitting comfortably at Lex's desk, settled there like it was his own. "Lex! There you are."
"I—what?" Lex was nudged off balance by Clark's big smile, the sparkle in his eyes. "Clark, I've been looking for you—"
"And here I am." He smiled even wider and Lex was torn between strangling him and fucking him…then again, no reason why he couldn't do both….
"Lex," Clark said, a scolding in the way he drawled Lex's name out. "Tsk." He shook his head.
"What? I'm just looking at you."
"You're mixing sex and violence again. What's up?"
"It's almost Christmas."
"You know, I noticed that, believe it or not." Clark smirked. "There's more pine in here than in the forest. And that tree in the great room…it's really quite…something. Very…bright." and went on in a softer voice, "so much glitter died for that tree…."
Lex chose to ignore the heavy dash of sarcasm underlying Clark's words. "I had hoped that you'd like it. I thought that…it's probably been a while since you had a proper Christmas."
"Oh, Love. Did you think that I didn't celebrate? I did. Usually with my clients but…."
Lex firmly refused to blush and—and simper at that casual 'Love'. Clark uttered it so easily, but with such fondness. Of course, Lex knew it was just a thing with Clark. He'd heard him talking to Eric on the phone and it didn't make him jealous that 'Darling', and 'Love' and 'Precious' flew back and forth between the two and seriously, he wasn't jealous in the least bit. "I'm not sure I'm up to hearing about you and your clients." Especially Eric, but Lex honestly wasn't jealous. Eric was just…tedious. Lex took a breath, and then actually looked at Clark.
Lex cursed himself for a terrible, childish, self-absorbed fool. There was no missing the bleak, blank look in Clark's eyes, brief as it was. And then he graced Lex with a kind, sweet smile, as if Lex hadn't figuratively slapped him in the face.
"I just wanted you to know you shouldn't feel sorry for me," Clark said. "I had Christmas. It wasn't bad. It really wasn't. And it wasn't about the clients."
Clark led Lex to bed, and told him how he spent Christmas bringing boxes of food and bags of clothing to the shelters, of walking the streets handing out care packs and checking up on friends, helping make dinner for dozens and….
Clark talked until Lex fell asleep with his lips curved into a small, satisfied smile and it made his heart thud out of rhythm with how much he loved the man. How much he wanted to stay with Lex the rest of his life. Willing not to tell him that, willing not to tell the truth about Christmas because he wanted Lex to be…happy.
The first Christmas that Clark actually *remembered* that it was Christmas he spent with Eric, who pulled him off the corner and took him back to his studio. Still nearly strangers, Clark perched on a chair and listened to Eric spin stories of his latest brush with the stupidity of the art world, and particularly would-be patrons. Eric snapped picture after picture of Clark in his working clothes, eyes wide but brushed with tired, violet shadows, and his mouth still a little swollen from the night's work….
After athletic and for Eric, vanilla sex, Eric reminded Clark that it was Christmas. He looked so sad when Clark expressed some mild surprise that it was…
"Christmas?" Clark wondered. How in the world was he supposed to care about that? Or celebrate it. Clark tried to dissuade Eric, but Eric, in his typical way, steamrollered Clark with a carefree laugh. He dressed him head to toe, in deep brown, smooth and sinful as chocolate. He took him to a restaurant that was way above Clark's means, would always be above his means. They made their way through crowds of elegant people, all of them more graceful, richer, and more certain of their place in the world than Clark could ever be. He sat at the burgundy swathed table, gazed at crystal and bronze everywhere, reflecting the flames of dozens and dozens of creamy white candles. The smell and the feel and the sound—he was an elephant among gazelles. He was hurt; so absurdly hurt that Eric would ridicule him this way.
The waiter brought their menus, and laid Clark's in front of him as if Clark was someone special, when Clark glanced up and caught the man's eye, the waiter smiled and Clark blushed. He was sure the man was laughing at a whore dressed up like a doll, playing Eric's game. He stared at his hands, stared at the point his knuckles turned white, the creases they made in the thick paper of the menu and wanted so much to leave. Would leave but he hadn’t been paid yet. He had to get paid….
"Clark," Eric said, his voice a soft warm whisper. "Do what I do, hold your head up, and smile. Just smile. This is a lesson."
Clark snorted. Of course it was a lesson. Clark wasn't an idiot. Since the tornado, his life had been nothing but lessons. He knew what this lesson was—you can look like someone, you can go somewhere important people go but in the end, he was what he'd always been—nothing. No one.
Eric tapped his hand and frowned. Clark fought to put a bright, empty smile on his face. He nodded. "Yes, Eric. Lessons." He reached out for his crystal glass of water and took a sip, almost choked trying to force it down his tight throat.
Eric's fingers slid between Clark's and Clark startled at the seemingly intimate touch in public. "Not the kind of lesson you seem to think…Clark, you're better than anyone here, a more decent person than…" Eric shrugged. "Anyway, I'm going to put a little polish on the gem that you are. Starting by treating you to the best meal ever, and I'm going to explain to you why it is the best meal. Understand?"
Clark fixed his eyes on Eric's and just…looked. Stared deep into him, and saw nothing but that slightly distant fondness he'd come to associate with the man. After a bit, he nodded. "Yes, I understand, Eric. You have a teacher fetish and I'm supposed to satisfy your itch." Shaking inside, he opened the linen napkin across his lap and risked a glance at Eric. Eric burst into laughter, shook out his own napkin as he grinned at Clark. Clark felt a bubble of relief release the knot in his chest.
"Ah, see, learning already, darling," Eric smirked.
"'Well," Clark shrugged. "You are the maestro, I'm simply the student."
"Maestro--oh my dear, how flattering. But I'm hardly that, darling, hardly that."
That Christmas was one of Clark's favorites. His first holiday meal with Eric. The only time he didn't turn down a client at a holiday was when Eric was busy. Thankfully, it was a rare occurrence, but he remembered a year he agreed to spending a Christmas eve with Claude…the first dinner he'd had with Claude, the first time he'd actually *been* with him, this client Eric claimed would be good for him….
"Clark." Claude stood, held his hand out and Clark walked across the narrow dark room towards Claude. The room was silver and white, but it was difficult to see in the gloom. He came to a stop in front of Claude but didn't take his hand and Claude gracefully turned the movement into a sweeping gesture, indicating which seat Clark should take.
"Sit, please," Claude spoke the words with more than a hint of command. "Tell me, have you ever celebrated Christmas before? I'll explain if you don't understand something."
Clark dropped his eyes and waited out the breath-taking roll of fury that swept over him, the assumptions that Claude had made him hate the man. It felt like he'd insulted Clark's parents, that he made light of their memory. Claude of course went on as if Clark had agreed with him.
It wasn't that bad. The food was good, conversation was minimal. At the end of the meal, Claude pushed Clark to his knees. Clark reached for Claude's pants but Claude held him off. He asked Clark if there was anything he wouldn't do and Clark didn't hesitate before saying no. It'd been the truth for quite some time.
Claude asked, "What if I wanted you to bleed?"
Clark said, "Than you can make me bleed. Just…this necklace goes in my mouth and stays there. No exception." He pulled the chain holding the little lead box free of his collar and let it drop against his chest.
Claude's eyebrows rose. "All right," he said, after a slight pause. "I see no reason why you shouldn't…" he circled Clark, running light touches over him, his shoulders, his neck."Take the shirt off, no—take all of it off. I want to see what you're like under all that poly-blend."
Clark took a quick breath, and began to unbutton his shirt. It meant nothing; this guy was just one of hundreds of faceless johns. No, clients, that's what Eric wanted him to call these arrogant, over-privileged jerks that paid for him to do these… things. The men that Eric introduced him to, who paid for anonymity, discretion, or maybe the thrill of owning another human being for however long they cared to….
"Perfect. Eric was right." Clark felt something slim and cold moving over his shoulders, along the side of his neck. He moved to slip the necklace in his mouth and Claude brought his fist down on Clark's back.
"Did I give you permission to move?"
Clark hissed, angry as when he'd been younger and kneeling for the cops in the alley…"Then you need to tell me when it starts and ends. Me stripping off doesn't mean a thing." Clark raised his head and glared at Claude and Claude laughed.
"All right. Fair enough. The minute that thing is in your mouth. That's the sign. But you don't stop until I say so."
"What if—it's too much?"
"Ah, then you're not who I want. But I think that won’t be a problem for us, Clark."
Clark shook his head. "No." and lipped the little box into his mouth, slipped it open and pain danced down his spine, and he felt Claude's hot breath expel shakily across his neck, hot, damp hitches, tiny muttered words muffled to Clark's hearing, now that the stone cast its pall on him. Hot, searing streaks worked down his shoulders, the tops of his arms. Claude steadily muttering something, something….the streaks of pain faded and Claude moved, Clark caught a metallic clatter as whatever Claude used on him dropped to the floor. A warm weight moved over the stinging skin of his back—thick heat, velvet warm flesh, blood hot fluid dribbled and cooled against his skin and he realized Claude was following the streaks he'd cut with his dick, rubbing precome into the blood…he shuddered. It shouldn't arouse him like this, it was wrong and sick and his dick was throbbing between his legs. All the heat concentrated in one place, Claude pressed the head of his dick between Clark's shoulders and came. "Go ahead," he gasped, demanded, "Now." A few short strokes were all it took, and Clark was coming over Claude's shiny, spotless floor.
After his appointment ended, Clark wandered the damp streets, confused, a little frightened, and wondering what had happened there, why…?
He called Eric that evening and told him he'd decided to take Claude on as a client.
"Your decision, darling boy, not mine at all. He's…hmm. He's…"
"Different?" Clark laughed.
"Yes. I have a feeling that Claude's good for you—for now," Eric stressed. "Just don't…Oh Clark. Just. Don't."
"Maestro, love, I'll be careful, I promise you." Clark murmured into the phone, watching the dark through his bedroom window, lying flat on his unmarked back. "You know I won't let things get out of hand."
Bruce…the memory of the one and only time he'd celebrated the holiday with Bruce still had the ability to unsettle him, just like theman himself had. After Bruce, things changed. The way Clark thought about himself changed, and what he thought he needed changed….
Clark sat at one end of a long, long table. The room was dark, heavy paneled wood and dark wallpaper and dark trim. The table was set with white dishes trimmed in gold, and the glasses were all a deep wine red. There were pine boughs and holly branches and tall white candles scattered the football field length of the table. Clark was alone at his end of the table, another place setting sat far away at the other end.
There was a click, and a wedge of light brightened the gloom as the door behind Clark opened. Quick sharp footsteps came, muffled as they hit the Persian rugs scattered here and there on the hardwood floor.
Clark recognized the small, dapper man with a neatly trimmed, old-fashioned mustache who came into view, he was the courier who'd brought the costume change to Clark his first date with Bruce. He had a pitcher filled with something ivory colored and creamy in his hands. He set it down next to Clark. His expression trembled on the edge of contempt and pity and Clark leaned back in his chair and smiled. "Dude, where's Brucie at?" he asked and contempt settled firmly on the man's features.
"I'm sure Master Bruce will join you once he's completed matters that are much more pressing than your…visit."
"Wow…you're really obnoxious seeing that Bruce is paying you, too. What're you, his butler, right? He's paying you to stick around, same as me. Only I don’t have to clean up after him," Clark sneered. He felt a bit of surprise when, instead of getting angry, the little guy seemed to threaten to break into a smile. He swept a small elegant finger over his mustache and stifled a cough that Clark thought sounded suspiciously like a chuckle. "Whatever, tell Bruce I'll see him around, I've got other appointments." Which was a lie, Eric was out of the country and this Christmas Eve, his other clients all remembered that they had family or other obligations…he'd never admit it to anyone alive, but he was a little disappointed that he'd been stood up by Bruce.
"Actually, Master Bruce asked me to ask you, if you wouldn't mind waiting a bit longer, though he fully understands if you do not."
"He does, does he? Well okay, Butler Guy, I guess I can wait just a little bit longer—"
"Alfred. I've shortened 'Butler Guy' to Alfred," the dry little man said.
Clark was stunned. The butler had a sense of humor. And seemed to be a little less disgusted by Clark. "Hunh. Well then," Clark muttered as the man walked back out through the double doors. Christmas music began to play shortly after and Clark smiled to himself, seemed that Alfred really did want to play nice, now.
Time moved slowly, and Clark waited, his mind wandering as he occasionally checked his watch. He went over his appointments for the week, mentally sorted out his bills, made a grocery list…wondered how Eric was doing with his latest showing. And waited. Not that he minded over-much waiting on Bruce, still there were rules. He'd give Bruce a minute more, and then leave. He poured himself a glass of eggnog and sipped, made a face. That was darling. Nonalcoholic, though probably Bruce would offer him half a glass of wine later, or tip a thimbleful of rum into his eggnog. He snickered. Bruce was years too late, but Clark couldn't help but find it—relaxing. It was nice to play the boy he'd never really had the chance to be.
Bruce came in before Clark finished his glass and even though he'd ordered Clark from the menu, so to speak, and paid for the entire night, he looked delightfully surprised to see him at the table. Alfred swept in not long after Bruce and went to pour something bubbly and golden in Bruce's glass, far away at the opposite end of the table. Bruce stopped Alfred, grabbed his plate and silver and trotted down to sit with Clark. Bent over and kissed Clark, a lingering, suck of Clark's lower lip between Bruce's, a swift warm sweep of tongue into Clark's mouth, over his teeth and in his mouth and a small, sweet, faint pop when he let Clark go. "Hey, Clark, Merry Christmas."
"Mm, you too, Bruce." Clark felt a faint wave of heat sweep through him. Bruce did affect him in ways that none of his other clients except Eric did. Bruce was…sweet, for a border-line pedophile with terrible social skills and an amazing inability to interact with humans unless he was acting the part of Bruce Wayne. Clark liked him very much.
Alfred silently and efficiently served their meal and left them alone, shutting the doors behind himself. They ate and talked and laughed, and Bruce bent over more than once to kiss Clark, his cheeks flushed with wine, good food and arousal. It was a good look on him. His hair slowly lost its mousse stranglehold; a few long wisps fell across Bruce's forehead. A bead of sweat at his hairline dampened the curls and made its slow, slow way down Bruce's temple. Clark saw, reached out to wipe it away with his thumb. Bruce caught his hand and kissed the inside of his wrist. He whispered, harsh, rough, "You have no idea how much I want to fuck you, Clark. I want to blow you, climb under this table and suck you off, have you come on my face…"
Clark grabbed Bruce's chin and roughly jerked it aside, nipped at his earlobe and murmured, "Yeah, sounds good, but not here—I just got your butler to like me a little bit."
Bruce leaned back into his chair, stared at Clark, and burst into laughter.
Clark startled. He didn't recall Bruce ever laughing so loud, his whole body engaged. Bruce jumped up from the table and went to the door. He yanked it open and shouted out, "I'm locking the dining room door, Alfred."
Clark heard a faint, "Very good sir. Good night to you and your companion."
Bruce closed the door and leaned against it. "He likes you."
Clark laughed into his napkin. "Okay, if you say so…what now?"
Bruce grinned, a wide, white, maniac grin, and popped his suspenders off his shoulders, ripped off his tie and dropped it. His shirt buttons went flying and the wounded shirt fluttered to the ground. His eyes were locked on Clark. He snapped his fingers. "Strip off." He yanked at his zipper and kicked off his shoes, peeled black silk socks from his feet and shoved them out of the way, kicked his pants under a chair. All the while he was moving, stepping on fallen clothing carelessly, eating Clark up with his eyes.
Clark didn't hesitate, he did what Bruce wanted because the client wanted it…and truth to tell it was hot as hell. Bruce, surprising the hell out of him. Where was the shy, reticent guy he'd gone to the movies with, spent the day at the beach with, suffered along with through boring business dinners and self-serving charity functions? This guy, this guy was a little…scary. And fucking hot as hell….
Before he could think or move or breathe, Bruce slammed Clark flat onto the table, sent him sprawling in a cloud of old lace and linen, sent glasses toppling and spilling sweet red wine. Serving dishes were overturned, sliding off to the floor and Clark was pretty sure that was chestnut stuffing his elbow was sliding through….
Bruce growled and pulled Clark's legs wide. He smacked the butter dish open and slapped his palm down on the pats of butter made to look like little flowers, smearing them into blobs against his skin. Bruce curled his greased fingers around Clark's dick and drew them upwards, slowly, down again, torturously slow. Clark hissed, stomach muscles jumped and clenched. "Ah, shit, Bruce."
"Damn, so pretty Clark, fat and long…I love your dick, your fucking mouth."
"Bruce—?" Clark was startled—Clark was stunned. Who was this guy and what had he done with Bruce?
Bruce growled, "Ever been fucked? I'm gonna fuck you on the table, I'm gonna make you come all over this—this heirloom linen and let the housekeeper try and figure out how spunk got all over the holiday linens…make you come all over yourself and then suck my dick, get me hard and do it all over again." He stopped and grinned at Clark, ran his tongue over Clark's stomach, pressed his face into the crease of his hip. Looked up at Clark and asked, "Ever done that before?" in the same tone of voice he'd ask for Clark to pass the salt.
"Jesus—" Clark shuddered from head to toe. Bruce was running amok with his script and that made it even hotter. Clark imagined himself as the kid Bruce loved, the one who'd never done anything more than maybe a few handjobs, given head once or twice, in the back of his daddy's car. Furtive and quick and never like this. He groaned out loud, "No, never," voice trembling, muscles jumping, right on script. Bruce hummed in approval when Clark spurt out precome, thick and leaking all over Bruce's hand.
"So wet; I like that," Bruce said and licked his hand, palm and fingers. "Tastes good." He bent over and drilled his tongue into Clark's slit. "Love the taste of you." He pulled Clark down to the edge of the table and draped his legs over his arms. "You good Clark—? What do you need, because I'm going to fuck you blind and you are going to love it."
Clark arched as much as Bruce's hold would let him, and wished like hell he could coordinate his brains and hands to open his fists and jerk himself off. All he could do was watch Bruce fuck him, watch his own dick dribbling over tension-tight stomach muscles. Clark's grip on Bruce's expensive tablecloth tightened and distantly he heard a long, low rip. "Shit. Go, do it," he moaned. "Fuck me."
"Like you have a choice," Bruce laughed, thick and dark, not like Bruce at all. His eyes were dark, pupils swallowing all the blue. "Beg me, bitch. Beg me to fuck you 'til you scream—" He shoved inside all at once and Clark felt it all the way up his spine.
"God damn it—"
"Shut up and take it. Take it," Bruce punched in, pulled Clark's legs higher until he was nearly resting his weight on his shoulders. Clark felt it, every stroke in, his whole world centered on where Bruce was. Bruce felt big and hot and when he wasn't deep in him Clark felt empty and when he pushed in Clark felt too full and he ached. Every stroke sent hot thrills cascading through him, his hole ached and thrummed and he almost came when Bruce shoved a finger in alongside his dick, stroking Clark's walls, stroking himself inside Clark.
"Come, come on, you can come like this. Clark—" Bruce hooked his finger inside and pulled and Clark screamed—pushed down, tried to push away, confused and so fucked up by wanting Bruce to stop and hoping he would never, ever stop.
Bruce dropped Clark's legs, grabbed his waist, fingers slipping in sweat, raking Clark's skin. He drove in deeper and hit a place inside Clark that made him feel like Bruce plugged a live wire into his nerves, like he uncorked Clark's brain and filled it with sparks. Everything faded but the feel of Bruce screwing in and out of him, he felt Bruce getting harder, it felt good, him grinding into Clark and doing what he wanted. Clark floated on the edge, sew-sawing back and forth, hanging there while waves of ecstasy crashed into him but never quite enough, almost there—it felt amazing and horrible and the best he'd ever experienced and then Bruce touched him finally—wrapped his hand around the head and rubbed his thumb under the crown, hard—and broke Clark into a million pieces.
Distantly he heard Bruce cursing, spewing outrageous filth that if Clark hadn't been in the middle of a life threatening orgasm, might possibly have offended him. But at the moment, with Bruce's come filling him, Bruce's hand milking him, and Bruce's teeth grinding in the crook of his neck, Clark didn't mind one little bit.
Crashing sounds snapped him back to reality— he wondered briefly, without much real concern, if Alfred had broken through the door but then Bruce muttered, "Oh shit, I'm so screwed," into Clark's ear and he realized that they'd shoved a lot of heirloom china and glassware to the ground. Antique linen was wrapped around Clark's legs, stained, shredded, steeped in wine and other fluids.
Bruce leaned over him, grinning indolently, his whole attitude one of satisfied arrogance. Clark gaped blearily up at him, hole still clenching around Bruce's dick. Clark was completely bewildered as well as totally fucked out. Bruce just kept smirking; he thrust in and out a few lazy times before suddenly jerking to a stop. His mouth dropped open on a horrified gasp and the Bruce Clark knew was back. Shock, fear, flooded his eyes and he pulled out and staggered back. He held his hands up, like he wanted to ward himself from the sight of Clark—naked, spread open on the mess of the dinner table.
"Oh god, I'm so sorry, so sorry, Clark please forgive me, I'm—sorry—"
"No Bruce, god that was—fuck, the best I've ever had. That was fucking amazing, I can't…"
Bruce slumped into a chair and pulled a section of ruined linen into his lap. He bowed his head. "God, what I did—I know you're not—but I was thinking—god. I'm…I. I wish I could take that back. I hurt you. I didn't want to, please believe me. Sometimes it just—I just get this, god, this rage I can't control."
Clark slithered off the table and grabbed Bruce's shirt off the floor, draped it around himself. "Listen, not to make light of what you're feeling but…would it help at all if I said…I liked it? Bruce. You know I'm not what your script says, not really. This is my job, you know," he said softly. He cupped Bruce's cheek and coaxed his head up. "And you call me, okay? Whenever you feel like that. I can take it."
Bruce looked at him, his eyes pained but…hopeful. "You really don’t mind? I didn’t hurt you?"
"No, fuck no. it was…fantastic. A little rough, a little wild—but normal. I promise."
Bruce almost collapsed in relief. "Oh god, really? Because it was amazing for me too, it felt good not to hold back…."
Clark wondered who'd taught Bruce that what he wanted was wrong. Or maybe he'd done it to himself…Bruce was just too concerned with being a 'good guy' to ever completely let go. Unless he found someone who didn't mind giving in completely. Clark hoped that he would someday, of all his clients, Bruce was the one he hoped would someday no longer need him.
Clark slid to the edge of the table and hopped down. "So, how are we making it to your bedroom and what do we do about this mess?"
"Well…I'm the boss and I sign the paychecks so, we do nothing about this mess. And it's my house so I do whatever I want in it and that includes walking buck-naked down the hall covered with butter and…and… bean casserole."
Clark stared, mouth open and eyes stunned wide—and laughed until he cried. "Wow…I'm not sure I can handle this Bruce," he gasped.
Bruce smiled wide and flushed a dark red. "Yeah, well, don't get too used to him," he said, swept wet bangs off his forehead. He held out his hand to Clark. "Shower?"
"Yes, god yes. I'm sticky on top of sticky." Clark stopped Bruce, pulled him close and kissed him, slow, deep, ended it with tiny pecks across Bruce's cheeks, his nose. "Remember, whenever you need me."
Bruce gave Clark a wry smile. "Whenever you're free."
Clark studied Bruce for a moment, his eyes, his sad, little smile…"Yes, of course, whenever I'm free."
Clark watched Lex sleep. In the morning, they'd open presents because he knew Lex. Lex would buy gifts. Nothing ostentatious or very expensive…he would have looked for something that had meaning for Clark. His heart warmed, thinking of his Lex searching for just the right gift for him. He loved that about Lex, that he thought his money couldn't buy Clark. It was sweet of him.
Clark wanted to give Lex something special too, of course. Ignoring Eric when he'd wanted to give it to Clark for free, he'd bought a small print of one of the first pictures Eric had taken of him. A close-up of Clark's shoulder, adorned with needles in a spiral pattern. It meant something to Clark and he hoped Lex would understand.
In the morning they'd have coffee and pastry and he'd make Lex eat a whole piece and then kiss him in front of the tree. They'd go to the Smallville Memorial which was all he had of his parents and watch the sun rise before returning home and exchanging gifts. He'd know that he was loved.
Life could get no better than this, Clark thought.
1-2-2013
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I'd like to do much more of this from Lex's point of view but I'm afraid it'll end up sounding and feeling like the other hooker fic. Though the challenge would be to make it different, right?
Thank you so much for reading this! :)
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Clark and Eric's relationship was a bit of something special, wasn't it? Love how we see the beginnings of Eric teaching Clark how to have the confidence he needed for what he did.
Claude... *shudders* STILL creeps me the fuck out! This being their first meeting, really set the pace, didn't it?
WOWZA! That's a little different Bruce we see there! At least he had Clark there for him till he didn't need Clark any more.
Lex... oh, you adorable, screwed up, sexy thing you! I laughed at Clark tsk'ing him for thinking about sex and violence together! LOL I just love how messed up and happy these two are together. *G* It takes them a while, but they do eventually figure it out.
I really like the idea of Lex shopping for a present specifically that would be special and mean something for Clark. :)
*goes to happy dance now* *snugglehuggles* ♥
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Thanks so much for commenting--I love Eric's relationship with Clark. It's so twisted but works so well for both of them. :)
Claude's a freak and I think we're done with him. ;)
Bruce...went a little wild, yeah, lol! I definitely have to go back to them. As for Lex and Clark, I love the way they are here. I think so much is going on between the two of them. I think that Lex is so good for Clark, much, much more than Clark realizes.
You made me so happy by reading this--it's good to know my SV isn't completely gone! ♥
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I loved the part of Clark and Bruce ... So hot and sexy!!!
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Your icon...oh my! ♥
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Thank you *so* much! :)
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(Anonymous) 2013-01-05 08:36 pm (UTC)(link)no subject
I had the taste for more Clark and Lex, especially the Clark and Lex from the previous story. There really is something so right about them, yes!
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I have so much fun writing Eric! And I like writing this Lex. I might come back to these guys again, maybe even do a little Bruce and Clark because I like the way Clark thinks about Bruce. :)
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