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WARNING:
If you haven't read the warning on the index page, go back and read
it. If you don't, and you don't like what you find here, don't
come crying to me. |
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Title: Stalker
..__.. Clark Kent is a stalker. He didn't mean to be. There was one long Saturday afternoon spent in the Talon, watching Lex drink coffee and type on his laptop and read the paper and talk on his cellphone all at the same time, but that was okay. He couldn't bother Lex when he was so clearly working, even if it was Saturday and Lex should be having fun like normal people, and even if it was sort of Clark's job to remind him of that. But it was only one afternoon. And he liked watching Lex.He went to see Lex the next day and spent half an hour in the doorway of his office, waiting for him to look up. He could have said something. He liked watching him when he didn't know he was being watched. He looked different. Sometimes he looked harder; sometimes he looked younger; a lot of the time he looked sadder. Clark hoped it was only work that made him look sadder. He decided he wanted to see Lex when he wasn't working. That's why Clark is crouching in the garden outside Lex's mansion, surrounded by ornamental grass, wet and gone to seed, clinging to his clothes and skin, staring at the outside wall. X-Ray vision is the stalker's best friend. He can't call it anything else. Normal people don't do this, wouldn't do this even if they could. And he supposes it's nothing new for him after all that time spent watching Lana through a telescope. In a way, he's grateful. Normal people don't do this, but some people do. It's a human thing, this desire to watch. It's not some alien freak-show kink he's suddenly developed. Lex is sitting on the couch, staring right at Clark. Which is to say, right at the wall Clark is staring through. He has a glass of scotch in his hand and he sips at it. One finger is hooked over the rim, and he when he takes a drink, it gets wet and he has to suck it clean. Clark shifts uncomfortably in the wet grass. He wonders if getting off watching Lex suck his own finger counts as voyeurism, and if so, if voyeurism is worse than stalking. Stalking is illegal in Kansas. He's pretty sure voyeurism isn't. He has a wash of sympathy for the criminal mind that he quickly pushes away. He's not trying to hurt Lex, after all, so it can't be wrong. He'd never do anything to hurt Lex. He just wants to watch. Lex's finger dips purposefully into the scotch this time, swirling up the inside of the glass in a slow spiral. He licks it clean with long strokes of pink tongue. Clark has only tasted scotch once, and he thinks about the heat it generated in his mouth and how Lex's mouth must feel like that right now and what it would taste like if he could--but he can't. His jeans got too tight sometime in the last few minutes, and he has to adjust himself. The brush of his fingers over his cock, even through denim, makes him bite his lip. He rubs. He knows he'll have to wait until he gets home, but he *wants* so badly that he can't not touch. And then it's starting to hurt, so he unzips. The cool air will help, he thinks. His dick stands up hard out of his jeans, boxers pushed down around the root. Lex licks the rim of his glass, and Clark's hand is around his cock. He tries to stop touching himself. He really tries, but he *aches*, and it seems like just a stroke or two will make it easier. One stroke, two, three, and Lex is looking right at the wall, right at Clark if he only knew, and Clark's hand speeds up, and he knows he's going to come here against the stone of Lex's mansion. He chews on his bottom lip, feels his face flush in the cold damp, drops forward to his knees and shoves his jeans down farther so he can spread his legs. Wet grass trails across his bare butt and thigh, and he shivers. Pumps faster, harder. Lex tilts the glass and bares his throat as he swallows, and Clark is panting. The glass sails across the room to the fireplace, cracking to shards and sending a tiny fireball as the fumes ignite. Lex stares straight at the wall and *smirks*, knowing and wicked, mouth turned up and eyes shining with it, and Clark shoots white across the wall in front of him, hand pressed against it for balance, eyes finally closed. The rain starts to fall again. His chest heaves with breath that turns to steam in the night air. He tips his head up to let the rain fall on his face and opens his eyes. The first thing he sees is the security camera. A glance through the wall tells him Lex is no longer on the couch. The couch which, he now recalls, faces a television. One that could, perhaps, display more than 500 channels of nothing on. "Clark?" Lex is standing behind him. Clark zips up and stays facing the wall, considering speeding away, damn the consequences. Lex's hand is on his shoulder, and Lex is on one knee beside him. Clark looks at the wall. He looks at Lex out of the corner of his eye. He looks at his own hand, still curled loosely in a familiar shape. "Come inside, Clark. We need to talk." He shakes his head. If he goes inside with Lex, he'll tell him everything. He has to keep his secrets. Lex's hand tightens, fingers digging into his shoulder. "I dare you to lie to me again," Lex says softly. "Lie to me and see what happens." Clark turns his head and finds Lex watching him, wildness and pain in his eyes, and longing and hurt. Just like every time Lex has asked him for the truth. It's not a threat. It's as close as Lex will ever come to begging. He knows Lex would never hurt him. He knows he hurts Lex every time he lies to him. He doesn't dare lie to him again. |
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