scribblinlenore | WIP: You Can Call Me Al (Part Three)

Title: You Can Call Me Al
Pairing: Clark/Lex
Rating: This part R, eventually NC-17
Category: AU, Romance
Summary: Lex gets lost, and Clark claims him.
Links to Previous Parts:
Part One
Part Two

Part Three:

You Can Call Me Al
By Lenore

Part Three

Late in the afternoon, Lex appears again, leaning against the doorframe of the closet like he's come to survey the progress, only he doesn't offer an opinion or ask the predictable questions, how it's going or when exactly are you planning to clean up this mess. He just watches, his eyes on Clark's back like something physical. It's unnerving, probably would be even if Clark's body hadn't picked today to rev back to life. He focuses all his attention on his sanding, testing the smoothness with his fingers the way a NASA engineer might check the space-worthiness of thermal tiles, like lives depend on it. Clark hopes if he ignores Lex long enough he'll lose interest and wander away. If he avoids his own curiosity with enough determination, it will cease to exist.

But Lex doesn't budge. If there's to be a battle of wills in his walk-in closet, apparently he has every intention of winning it.

Finally, Clark throws down his sandpaper and looks over his shoulder. "Am I in your way?"

Lex's mouth curves into the kind of smile that's meant to unsettle. "Not at all."

"Because I can move."

"I can reach what I need from here." He braces his hand on the wall and leans, and suddenly there's skin everywhere, points of interest where they are actually touching.

Lex pulls hangers from the rod and then the warmth is suddenly gone. Clark lets out a shaky breath, and Lex pads over to the bed and lays the clothes out on it. The dressing area and bedroom are two separate spaces in theory, but there's no real division, certainly no privacy. Clark is just about to offer to leave when Lex casually skims the swimsuit down his legs and moves over to the dresser.

Clark doesn't want to stare. As a teenager, he used to think, used to hope, the day would come when he was finally sophisticated enough that bodies wouldn't be so startling, and he could consider their potential without feeling so painfully clumsy and overeager. Maybe it will happen someday. Maybe that's what his thirties will be for.

Of course, that's no help to him now. Lex pulls underwear out of a drawer and turns around, and Clark nearly drops his hammer.

Lex raises an eyebrow. "Haven't seen one before?"

Clark opens his mouth, but if there is something clever to say when you've been caught staring at your employer's cock, it eludes him.

The good news is that Lex doesn't seem to expect an answer. "I wouldn't think there's much you haven't seen," he continues on, "given your line of work."

For one dizzying moment, Clark thinks he's referring to his days as the Angel of Metropolis. He rounds up his excuses, all the usual suspects, that wasn't me and haven't you heard the term urban legend and I have no idea what you're talking about. And then it finally dawns on him. Lex probably just found out he used to be a reporter and has drawn the obvious, if faulty, conclusion about what Clark is doing on his yacht.

Lex takes a step toward him, and then that explanation goes out the window too, "Aren't you going to mention how hot I am? Tell me you like my cock? Get down on your knees? That is what you're being paid for, isn't it?" He gives Clark a hard, flat smile. "I have to hand it to you. That eavesdropping routine was inspired. Was it your idea or my father's?"

For all Clark's experiences out on the streets, up close and personal with the grittier side of life, there's so much about people that he just doesn't get. He's probably never been more confused than he is right now.

"So what was the plan anyway?" Lex's voice is silky, insinuating, as he comes even closer. "A shot of sodium pentathol after you got me into bed? Or was my father simply banking on some indiscriminate pillow talk? Figuring I'd be so desperate for a little human contact that I'd spill everything to the first person willing to listen?"

Lex tilts his head, studying him, and it gives Clark a funny feeling in his stomach, that isn't anger or indignation or any of the other logical responses to being falsely accused.

"Dear old Dad must be pretty desperate himself to hire a male hooker to seduce me." He leans in, lowers his voice, like it's just between them. "My father isn't exactly an icon of tolerance. Where'd he find you anyway? I can't imagine a town like this has much of a red light district. Maybe the local pool hall? Is that where you hang out? With your shirt off," his gaze moves deliberately over Clark's chest, "bending over the pool table, drumming up business?"

Clark doesn't move, can't answer. The whole situation is just too crazy. That's all he'll allow himself to think about it.

"What's your name?" Lex shows sharp white teeth when he asks, looking at last like the man Clark remembers from Metropolis. "I like to know who I'm being hustled by. Call it a quirk."

Clark tells him, and it comes out a nervous squawk.

"Well, Clark, there's something you should know about my father." He takes Clark's hand and puts it on his hip. "He's a man who always gets his money's worth."

Clark is transfixed. His fingers look huge, clumsy, on Lex's paper-thin skin, like they don't belong there, but that doesn't make him want to pull away, far from it. The same fuzzy thought keeps looping though his head. He's naked. I'm touching him. And he's naked.

"Go on, Clark. Dazzle me with your professional expertise."

"Shelves," he blurts out at last, for lack of anything more coherent to say.

Lex's gaze snaps to his face, as sharp and hot as something with live current running through it. After a few seconds, he lets out a dry little laugh. "No, I don't suppose you could look like that if you weren't actually the local carpenter I've just mortally embarrassed."

The possibility that Lex might pull away, that the furnace going off in his body might shut down without any promise of warmth in the future, makes Clark frantic and grabby, his fingers digging in, leaving white points of pressure on Lex's skin.

Lex stares at Clark's hand, as if this is a possibility he hadn't anticipated. When he glances back up, his eyes are considerably warmer. "So what do you suggest we do about this situation? I could offer an apology. Or--"

Clark chooses what's behind door number two, and he's not the least bit suave about it, all over Lex in an instant, sticky fingers catching on bare skin, kissing blindly, all tongue and spit and no time to breathe.

Lex is used to less wild-eyed advances, surely, but he doesn't offer any complaint. That's enough encouragement, as far as Clark is concerned. He finds a place on Lex's neck and sets out to colonize it. Lex lets his head fall back, his moan a harsh rattle, making Clark want to do other things to him, exotic things, things he doesn't even have the vocabulary for.

When he feels hands pushing at his chest, it makes no sense, and he chooses just to ignore it. But Lex is insistent and manages to extricate himself from Clark's rather zealous embrace. He takes him by the hand. "Come on."

It seems like a bad idea, the worst, until Lex spills onto the bed and pulls Clark down on top of him.

"Oh," he says, momentarily stunned.

Lex smiles up at him, and that's the end of words, even the monosyllabic variety, for the time being.

Clark has never been particularly practiced at any of this, always a little too urgent and fumbling, and now he's an utter mess. He can't decide what to do first, and he jumps from one thing to the next, kissing Lex's mouth and tracing the muscles of his belly and laying his tongue on a nipple, in a frenzy of hunger.

Lex breathes heavily against his shoulder, works his hand between their bodies, and opens Clark's jeans. When he slides his hand into Clark's underwear, Clark goes absolutely rigid, mouth open, eyes wide, his expression frozen like he's in the throes of unbearable pain. The sensation is so raw that it does almost hurt, after feeling so much nothing for so long.

It's the kind of reaction to expect from an untutored boy, not a grown man, and Clark feels an apology bubbling up inside him, because that's easier to offer than an explanation. The way Lex is watching him stops him before he can say it, following Clark's every reaction so intently, nothing harsh or mocking in his eyes, nothing like disappointment, his face soft with fascination.

He runs his fingers through Clark's hair, presses a kiss to his jaw. "I should have known you weren't one of my father's."

Clark has seen enough of the war on the home front to know this means something--something good, approving. He takes Lex's face between his hands, and kisses and kisses him.

Lex whispers, his breath hot and unsteady against Clark's ear, "I want you to fuck me. I want you to fuck me so hard I actually feel it."

Clark has to stop for a moment, fist clenched in the bedspread, breathing violently. People say things like that during sex, he knows, but there's a ringing note of desolation beneath the urgency that's jarringly familiar.

He runs his thumb lightly along Lex's cheek. He'd like to offer him something--something more than a good, hard fuck--but sympathy is awkward at best between strangers. He settles for a smile and a kiss. "You know, you are hot."

Lex laughs freely, like he wasn't expecting to, and it's a good sound. Clark likes it. He kisses him harder, starts to move down his body, exploring with his tongue, the slope of his chest, dip of his navel, jut of his hip.

When he gets where he's going, he pillows his head on Lex's thigh, gazes up at him, smiling and serious. "And I do like your cock."

Lex sinks his fingers into Clark's hair, his expression stark, relentless. "Then why don't you show me?"

It's been long enough since Clark has had the weight of a cock on his tongue that there's a renewed sense of discovery to it, the heat and bitter salt and responsiveness, Lex's shaft jerking sharply with every touch. Clark closes his eyes, intent on enjoying it.

In hindsight, it seems obvious that he shouldn't have let himself get so caught up in the moment. That there are good reasons why grownup children and their parents don't normally live in such close proximity. It is a lesson he learned too well his first summer home from college. As a teenager, he'd thought nothing of taking opportunity where he found it, in bed late at night, tucked safely behind the locked bathroom door, indulging in a little self-appreciation. But after being away for the better part of a year, just the idea of his parents overhearing the creaking of his mattress springs or wondering why he was taking so long in the shower practically paralyzed him. He started stealing out to the loft to spend some quality time with himself, figuring he'd hear it if anyone came into the barn, a sad miscalculation. Only a last-minute dive behind the couch one fateful evening when his mother came to call him to dinner saved them both from being scarred for life.

That scene comes flashing back in much too vivid detail when Lionel Luthor strides into the room and surprise sends Clark tumbling over the side of the bed. For a moment, he considers just huddling there on the floor until...well, forever, but reality sets in, and he pokes his head up to see what's happening.

He finds Lex and his father engaged in a duel of silence, Lionel glaring, rigid with displeasure, Lex reclining with perfect nonchalance, not making the least effort to conceal anything.

"Could you come back later, Dad?" he says with a taunting little smile. "I'm in the middle of something."

Lionel's hand flies back, and Clark shoots up from beside the bed.

"Hey!" He takes a step toward Lionel for emphasis.

Lex's eyes fasten on him, warm with amusement, and just a hint of surprise.

Lionel fixes him with a sneer. "Playing the hero, are we? I don't suppose you've told my son what you actually do for a living. Why you're really here."

Clark darts a glance at Lex, and he wants to say something, to deny, explain, but Lionel beats him to it.

"Meet Clark Kent, investigative journalist, most recently of the Daily Planet."

"Not anymore!" Clark says in a rush. "I'm not--"

But Lex's face is already shuttered. He gets up, pulls on a robe, his back pointedly turned to Clark.

"This wasn't like that," Clark tells him softly, even though there's no indication that Lex is even listening.

"Oh, I think we know exactly what this was, Mr. Kent." Lionel presses an intercom button. "Anthony, Ivan, you're needed in my son's stateroom."

Clark holds up a hand in defeat. "You don't have to do that. I'm going."

He starts to move toward the closet, to pack up his stuff, but Lionel steps into his path, and then the hired help comes barreling through the door.

"Get rid of this," Lionel instructs them.

They grab him under the elbows, and the infuriating thing is, he could make person-sized holes in the side of the ship with them.

"Come on, guys," he tries reasoning instead, "at least let me get my tools."

They push him unceremoniously out onto the deck. He stumbles and lands on his knees. Lionel emerges from the cabin, toolbox swinging in his hand, a frosty smile on his face.

"You were concerned about these, I believe."

"Don't! Please!"

His plea is drowned out by the splash. Clark scrambles to his feet, just in time to see his toolbox swamped by a wave. Lionel nods to the security guards, and they pitch Clark over the rail, onto the dock.

Lionel gives the order, "Cast off!"

A horn sounds, the engine roars to life, hands come scrambling on deck to reel in the line, and then the yacht starts to pull out of the slip. In the cabin's doorway stands Lex, the white robe on pale skin making him seem almost like a ghost. Clark looks for an accusation in his expression, but it's impossible to decipher. Lex watches him blankly for a moment, then disappears back inside.

Clark doesn't budge from the spot until the yacht is long gone from sight.

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From:

luthorlover.livejournal.com

My poor woobies! Argh! I love this story!!! More!

xoxo,
Monica

From:

Not a homecoming queen

WIP: You Can Call Me Al (Part Three)

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