by Corbeau Noir
He’s lying in a field of yellow buttermilk flowers. There is a yellow sun overhead and a sky so blue it’s nearly white. A skylark calls somewhere in the distance and is silent. He lies still among the flowers and hears only the rushing of the wind in his ears. Then he feels it, the earth shudders under his body, a heavy lurch of dirt and rock. He’s struggling to his feet, desperate to see it, to face it, but he’s not quick enough, strong enough, the agonized groans of the earth make him slow and stupid, and the ground rushes up to meet him. He’s blind, sprawled face down with an invisible hand pressing his body down into the dirt, but he can feel the heated air above him searing his exposed back, can hear the skin blistering, can smell the flesh roasting, and the dank dark soil of a fallow Kansas cornfield muffles his horrified keening scream.
Lex runs his hand down Clark’s perfectly hairless and pore-less back. The skin there glistens slightly, slick and shiny, like stretched plastic wrap. Lex’s hands are proprietary and press against Clark’s back when he kisses him, when he stops Clark’s mouth with his own and muffles the scream that shudders up from Clark's throat.