scribblinlenore | The last icon storylet. Finally!

Okay, this is the tenth and final icon-inspired story. Thanks to everyone who played along. I had so much fun doing this!

For

fizzabith:

Under no circumstances would Lex admit to being obsessive. At most, he considered himself a curious researcher, an aficionado of all things Clark, a dedicated collector of Clark-facts and Clark-memorabilia, including the occasional left-behind flannel shirt with its delicate bouquet of Tide and teenaged boy, that Lex went to great lengths to describe in his journal, trying to get the details exactly right--in the interest of science and posterity, of course.

But this…this was an opportunity unlike any he'd had before. When Lucas had turned him out of the house--his own house and Lucas would pay for that, needless to say--it had seemed only natural to turn to Clark. He knew the Kents would take him in, for a little while at least, and that was all he needed, a place where he could regroup before launching a devastating counter-offensive. A few days of enjoying Mrs. Kent's home-baked pies and trying to stay on Mr. Kent's good side, and then he'd be on his way back to the real world and the serious business of being a Luthor.

The first evening, when everyone was ready to go to bed, he'd staked his claim to the couch, but Clark wouldn't hear of it. "You take my room. I'll sleep down here."

"I'll take the couch, Clark. I don't want to be any bother."

Clark flashed his best argument-ending grin. "You're the guest, and I insist. And that's that."

"I really don't mind--"

"Don't make me sick Mom on you." Another heart-stopping smile, and that, indeed, had been that.

Now here Lex was, ensconced in Clark's room, tucked up in Clark's bed, even wearing a too-big pair of Clark's sweatpants and one of his cast-off T-shirts. It was not an opportunity to waste, and he carefully noted the details of Clark's natural habitat, the pile of textbooks on the desk, cup of pencils the color of school buses, clippings of Clark's Touch articles pinned to a bulletin board, the wholesome accoutrement of the most wholesome teenaged life Lex could possibly imagine.

Surrounded by so much Clarkness, it was almost possible to pretend he actually was Clark. The notion drew an enthusiastic response from his cock, and that opened up a whole new line of inquiry. Exactly what did Clark think about when he lay here in this bed jerking off?

Lex's memories of his own jaded youth gave him little to work with. For him and all the rest of the kids he grew up with, sex was just something you did, like vacationing in Aspen or wearing the latest designer fashions, not anything to get worked up about. But Clark…well, Clark wasn't like that. Clark would have stumbled into sexual awareness with a telltale blush and a sticky sense of wonder. Lex closed his eyes and tried to picture it, tried to feel it, the blood-rushing excitement at the softness of a girl's body, the roundness of her breasts, the dizzying tease of her scent, warm and sweet, when she let you get close.

Lex fumbled with the waistband of the sweatpants. The touch of his own fingers on his cock arced through him with startling power, heat settling low in his belly, rising in his cheeks. He used his right hand to make the strokes less certain, and by the time he came, he was trembling uncontrollably. He fell asleep smiling, thinking that if he were truly lucky maybe his dreams would be as blameless as Clark's.

The next day, he did chores in the morning, trying to win favor with Mr. Kent, and then spent the afternoon in true Luthor fashion plotting against his father and brother. By nine o'clock that evening, he was practically keeling over from exhaustion. When Clark gently suggested he turn in, he'd nodded without argument, even though he hadn't gone to bed that early since the third grade.

He fell into a dead sleep as soon as he got into bed, but woke up a few hours later, feeling cold. He routinely spent the GDP of a small country heating the castle and still never really managed to feel warm. The Kents, of necessity, were far more frugal when it came to setting the thermostat. He slipped out of bed and hesitated at the door. Mrs. Kent had shown him where he could find extra blankets if he needed them, but he didn't want to wake everyone else up rooting around in the linen closet. He decided to check Clark's dresser instead, certain he'd find something else in there that he could put on.

It was in the bottom dresser drawer, beneath a stack of carefully folded dress shirts Clark had probably never worn, that Lex found a long-lost cashmere sweater of his own. He wracked his memory and finally remembered the last time he'd seen it, a day he'd come to visit Clark and found him up in the hayloft. The afternoon had grown warmer, and he'd thrown the sweater off, must have left it behind when he'd gone home. And here it was, secreted away in one of Clark's drawers, as if Clark were something of a collector, as well.

This discovery presented an entirely different set of possibilities for what Clark thought about during his nighttime forays into self-love, and Lex abandoned his search for a sweatshirt in favor of going back to bed. Imagining Clark imagining him might have been a new achievement in narcissism, but it also made him come harder than he could remember in a long, long time. Afterwards, he sighed with satisfaction--it had been so much better than thinking about Clark thinking about girls--and settled back under the covers. He didn't have another thought about being cold the rest of the night.

In the morning, he hit the barn before any of the Kents were stirring. The pre-dawn hours had always been surprisingly hectic in his life, filled with emergencies down at the plant, overseas conference calls, reports he had to wade through before early morning meetings at the office. Here, everything was peaceful. He could pitch hay and tote heavy bales and get an erotic charge out of pretending he was Clark, without anyone disturbing him.

He was already halfway through his chores when Clark made his appearance.

"You don't have to do that, you know," he said, frowning, clearly not pleased his father had put Lex to work. "You're our guest."

"I want to prove to your father that I can do my fair share."

"Lex, that's really not necessary."

He stopped for a breather, leaning on the pitchfork. "But it is, Clark. It is."

"You're not even dressed for this kind of work."

Lex looked down at his already half-ruined sweater and slacks and shrugged.

"Here," Clark said, skimming out of his top layer of flannel. "At least, put this on over your clothes to keep some of the dirt off them."

Dreams and life were in too much confluence, and Lex balked. "No, Clark, I can't-- I don't need--"

"Oh, come on. If you insist on mucking out the barn, at least you don't have to completely ruin your clothes."

Clark could be damned persistent when he wanted to be, and Lex soon found himself swaddled in plaid.

"There." Clark grinned. "It's almost like you're me."

The soft caress of flannel and his stickiest fantasy coming to life and Clark right there, and there was never any hope he wasn't going to get hard. He could only hope that Clark wouldn't notice.

"Well, I 'd better get back to work," he said weakly, hoping Clark would get the message and head back to the house.

But Clark just stared, his eyes going wide, as he apparently put two and two together.

Lex felt the sudden flare of heat in his cheeks, as if he actually were turning into Clark. "It's not-- I wouldn't--" he stuttered pathetically, as if he hadn't talked his way out of far more incriminating situations in his life.

Clark turned abruptly on his heel and left, and Lex stared down at the floor, a clench in his chest. "Shit!" He had exactly one friend in the world, and he'd just managed to screw that up.

So it was startling, to say the least, when Clark came back only a few minutes later, not flanked by his father waving a shotgun, but dressed in the slacks he wore only on special occasions and Lex's purloined sweater, fresh from its hiding place in the dresser. It was snug on him, and that served to emphasize the broadness of his chest, the rippling strength of his arms. Lex hoped, rather futilely, that his mouth wasn't hanging open.

"How's my favorite farmboy?" Clark asked.

And Lex could only stare.

"I was just on my way to Metropolis for some very important meetings, but I thought I'd stop by here first--" Clark moved closer, very close in fact, too close if he were any one else. "--and say hello." His voice dropped into the gravelly range and his eyes moved over Lex's body as inquisitively as hands. Lex had to wonder if this was the way he sounded to Clark, if this was how Clark felt when Lex looked at him like that.

"What do you want?" It came out surprisingly halting and Clark-like, when what he'd really meant to demand was "do you have any idea what you're playing at?"

Clark leaned in, and his breath was hot against Lex's ear. "What do you think I want?" He ran a finger boldly down the fly of Lex's pants.

"God!" Lex moaned, his cock leaping to attention at just that little bit of pressure, as if he really were a virginal teenaged boy not used to being touched.

His reaction unleashed something in Clark, because suddenly he was wrapped around Lex, aggressively kissing, hands fisted in Lex's borrowed flannel.

All the reasonable considerations that should have made Lex put a stop to it--the danger of discovery and the ingratitude of repaying the Kents' hospitality by pawing at their teenaged son and the possibility that someone had replaced the real Clark with a horny, role-playing stand-in--melted away at the feverish touch of lips against his skin. Clark pushed him down into the hay, and Lex had to wonder if hell was at that very moment freezing over because all his impossible farmboy-in-the-barn fantasies were coming true.

Clark tumbled into the hay next to him and rolled on top of him. All the observations Lex had made, the notes he'd taken, and he'd never guessed that Clark felt anything like this, never had even the slightest inkling. But then it didn't really matter, because Clark did feel it and Lex soon got lost in the heat and the frenzy, the weight of Clark's body on his, the way his fingers dug in under Lex's clothes seeking skin, the insistent press of Clark's erection against his thigh.

There were things that Clark could have said to him, things that Lex himself had imagined saying to Clark in any number of masturbatory daydreams--Has anybody ever sucked your cock before? or I want to be the first one inside you--and Lex would have come right then, just from that. But Clark seemed to have abandoned the pretense of role-reversal, groping greedily at Lex just like the teenager he was, and that, ultimately, was an even greater test of Lex's self-control.

It was only when Clark pulled down his zipper and he felt the rush of cool air on his bare skin that Lex regained any sense of reason.

"Clark. No. Your father--"

"Shhh." Clark pressed a finger to his lips. "You have no idea how many times I've looked at you and thought about this and wanted it. And I'm not going to stop now." Clark kissed a path down Lex's belly, and then there really was nothing left to say and no breath remaining in Lex's lungs anyway, even if he had wanted to speak.

Clark was eager and clumsy giving head, the way only the truly inexperienced could be, and that tilted the world back onto its rightful axis, reassuring Lex that this was in fact Clark and not some cock-hungry clone cooked up in one of his father's labs. He clutched at Clark's cashmere-covered shoulders and babbled dirty nonsense and fought back the urge to shove his cock wildly into Clark's throat.

He'd fantasized about coming in Clark's gift-bow mouth--fantasized about it a lot--but imagining it was one thing and finally getting to do it quite another. Clark's eyes went large when Lex climaxed, the expression in them gravely serious as he concentrated on swallowing, and Lex would never forget that look, not if he lived forever.

"Was it okay?" Clark asked afterwards, almost nervously, and Lex couldn't have that. Couldn't have Clark questioning. Doubting.

He flipped them both over and lay heavily on Clark, pressing him back into the hay, making him moan. He needed to be everywhere at once, wanted to give Clark everything he had--hands, mouth, body--pulling at clothing, licking at a nipple, tracing the line of hair, slowly, so slowly, down to Clark's cock. He'd thought so much about doing this, envisioned it in minute detail. But there was picturing a thing and then there was doing it, and at this rate, Clark was going to make Lex give up on his imagination altogether, because the real thing was so, so much better in every respect.

Clark thrashed beneath Lex's ministrations, and begged until he was practically sobbing, and shook like he was going to fly apart when he finally came.

"So much better than okay," Lex whispered in Clark's ear afterwards, holding and petting and kissing him until he finally stopped trembling.

They lay there as long as they dared, reluctant to let go of each other, but Clark's father would come out to the barn eventually and nothing killed the afterglow quite like homicide. They got to their feet and straightened their clothes, and Lex carefully brushed the hay from Clark's hair.

"I wondered what it would take for this to finally happen," Clark said.

Lex made a wry face. "And I thought I was being so cagey about my feelings for you."

Clark kissed him and smiled. "About most things, you're downright Machiavellian. But after a good half dozen of my shirts disappeared, I kind of caught on, you know?"

Lex felt decidedly sheepish. "I suppose you would, wouldn't you?"

"Do you think I can have my Addias sneakers back, though? I kind of need them for gym."

Lex cleared his throat, refusing to blush. "Of course. I don't suppose you know what happened to my Princeton T-shirt, do you? I used to like to wear it when I box."

And then it was Clark's turn for embarrassment. "Um. Well-- Yeah. I'll get it for you."

"No, no, that's okay. You can keep it if you want."

"I do," Clark said too quickly and then turned red in earnest. "I mean-- I'd like to keep it. If that's okay."

Lex smiled. "As long as you're using it for a purpose I'd approve of." Clark blushed even harder, and Lex laughed. "I'm taking that as a yes."

"I guess we're both kind of insanely obsessed, huh?" Clark said.

Lex gathered Clark's face in his hands and kissed him with all the fervor of an aficionado who has finally come out of the closet. "I prefer the term 'crazy in love'."

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Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

From:

garryowen.livejournal.com

WOOF!!

The homicide line kills me!! Love it.

Hee hee. And I love that Clark has Lex's shirts in his drawer. What a great idea that Clark would be just as obsessed as Lex. Fabulous, dahling!

From:

Not a homecoming queen

The last icon storylet. Finally!

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