Author: Eleanor K.
Summary: Clark likes to watch.
Disclaimer: Not mine, never will be.
Notes: This was done for a Livejournal meme where people pick one
of your icons and you write a ficlet based on it. Here's the icon
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
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
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
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.
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
"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
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.