hackthis_archive (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
hackthis_archive) wrote2004-03-27 09:47 am
hackthis_archive) wrote2004-03-27 09:47 am
Smallville – Everything in My Pocket – Clark/Lex
I said "I’ll write happiness-type shit this week."
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oxoniensis said use these and write me something.
My brain said "Lexasapimp!fic"
My other brain said, "that’s not happy-related fic!"
I responded, "That really depends on who you’re talking to."
Sadly, this is not Lex as SuperPimp!Fic. Also, I haven’t, like, slept yet, so bear with me, and Happy Birthdaythamiris!
Smallville
Everything in My Pocket
It’s only because he's looking down that he sees Lex’s hand first.
The long, pale capable fingers slip out of a dark coat pocket to appear by Clark’s elbow, and they slide through his line of sight, subtly announcing their arrival by holding out a folded bill between index and middle finger.
Not that the announcement is needed - even inside an impossibly noisy nightclub, Clark could never mistake Lex’s fingers for anyone else’s. Not considering all the places those hands have been on his body. Plus, now that he’s more attuned to the situation, Clark can smell Lex and feel the heat from his body. Lex seems to emit these pulses of warmth, and they touch Clark in places that are firmly covered over by protective layers of clothing.
An icy current of anticipation runs up Clark’s spine, and he can’t believe he didn’t sense Lex from the moment he set foot on the premises. He’s always known where Lex is before, but that was before, and that’s why he’s here now, and all these thoughts make Clark’s head hurt.
He goes back to rolling his glass against his forehead, letting the momentum transfer the condensation back and forth between the chilled glass and his damp skin while he decides whether or not to lift his head and acknowledge that Lex will always be able to find him in the end.
He’d thought – he’d thought that Lex wouldn’t find him here though, because what the hell would Clark be doing in a club by himself? Didn’t he get enough of that the last time around?
There’s a prickling sensation behind Clark’s eyes that makes him blink, and that’s what really got him here in the first place, fire and anger and who knew silk was so flammable? And Lex's fingers never pause in their slow movement. They never waver or actually make contact with Clark, instead they meet the long, dark fingers of the bartender in silent agreement.
So that explains how Lex found him.
The ice in Clark’s glass clinks as he sets it down on the counter. There are nicks all along the edge of the bar, but of course the neon lighting makes that invisible to the naked eye. Clark wonders what it would be like to have eyes that didn’t see every last aborted movement. That didn’t insist on looking everywhere and seeing everything all the time. Dark hair, blue eyes, long tan limbs on his pillow. All male. All decidedly not him. Except that Clark has no right to feel vindictive or jealous or anything else. He was the one who wanted space. He was the one who thought Lex wasn’t serious --
He’s normally much better at controlling his heat vision.
“I don’t want to share anymore,” Clark says to the bar top. “I’m not too young. You’re not too – I want us.”
The whiskey makes his voice raspy and harsh, and when Lex’s hand slips back into his coat pocket, Clark’s hand goes in after it.
Lex doesn’t say anything, but around the bad dance music and the background noises, Clark can hear the hitching of Lex’s breath as Clark focuses on getting his hand in Lex’s pocket.
The woolen overcoat distends and contorts as Clark laces their fingers together in damp, silk heat. “I’m sure this time,” he says firmly, lifting his head only after achieving his goal. “I know what I want.”
Lex’s raised eyebrow says it all.
“I know; I‘m sorry about the sheets,” Clark says, getting to his feet, but refusing to pull his hand out of Lex’s pocket. “I guess I just – I needed to realize that, too.”
“And now?”
“You can’t even get my hand out of your pocket – I think that says a lot, don’t you?”
-end-
Notes: Un’betad. Yeah, yeah, I know, but I’m going to bed now, talk to the hand.
Improv: momentum, pillow, subtle, icy.
Title taken from a song by, gasp, Minnie Driver. Yes, the actress, no, don’t pass out. She can sing people, I’ve heard it live. Remember I told you this when the album comes out. The single is available through a Trampoline Records compilation right now.
I get art when I write drunken, grass-kilt!fic! How exciting!
oxoniensis said use these and write me something. My brain said "Lexasapimp!fic"
My other brain said, "that’s not happy-related fic!"
I responded, "That really depends on who you’re talking to."
Sadly, this is not Lex as SuperPimp!Fic. Also, I haven’t, like, slept yet, so bear with me, and Happy Birthday
thamiris!Smallville
It’s only because he's looking down that he sees Lex’s hand first.
The long, pale capable fingers slip out of a dark coat pocket to appear by Clark’s elbow, and they slide through his line of sight, subtly announcing their arrival by holding out a folded bill between index and middle finger.
Not that the announcement is needed - even inside an impossibly noisy nightclub, Clark could never mistake Lex’s fingers for anyone else’s. Not considering all the places those hands have been on his body. Plus, now that he’s more attuned to the situation, Clark can smell Lex and feel the heat from his body. Lex seems to emit these pulses of warmth, and they touch Clark in places that are firmly covered over by protective layers of clothing.
An icy current of anticipation runs up Clark’s spine, and he can’t believe he didn’t sense Lex from the moment he set foot on the premises. He’s always known where Lex is before, but that was before, and that’s why he’s here now, and all these thoughts make Clark’s head hurt.
He goes back to rolling his glass against his forehead, letting the momentum transfer the condensation back and forth between the chilled glass and his damp skin while he decides whether or not to lift his head and acknowledge that Lex will always be able to find him in the end.
He’d thought – he’d thought that Lex wouldn’t find him here though, because what the hell would Clark be doing in a club by himself? Didn’t he get enough of that the last time around?
There’s a prickling sensation behind Clark’s eyes that makes him blink, and that’s what really got him here in the first place, fire and anger and who knew silk was so flammable? And Lex's fingers never pause in their slow movement. They never waver or actually make contact with Clark, instead they meet the long, dark fingers of the bartender in silent agreement.
So that explains how Lex found him.
The ice in Clark’s glass clinks as he sets it down on the counter. There are nicks all along the edge of the bar, but of course the neon lighting makes that invisible to the naked eye. Clark wonders what it would be like to have eyes that didn’t see every last aborted movement. That didn’t insist on looking everywhere and seeing everything all the time. Dark hair, blue eyes, long tan limbs on his pillow. All male. All decidedly not him. Except that Clark has no right to feel vindictive or jealous or anything else. He was the one who wanted space. He was the one who thought Lex wasn’t serious --
He’s normally much better at controlling his heat vision.
“I don’t want to share anymore,” Clark says to the bar top. “I’m not too young. You’re not too – I want us.”
The whiskey makes his voice raspy and harsh, and when Lex’s hand slips back into his coat pocket, Clark’s hand goes in after it.
Lex doesn’t say anything, but around the bad dance music and the background noises, Clark can hear the hitching of Lex’s breath as Clark focuses on getting his hand in Lex’s pocket.
The woolen overcoat distends and contorts as Clark laces their fingers together in damp, silk heat. “I’m sure this time,” he says firmly, lifting his head only after achieving his goal. “I know what I want.”
Lex’s raised eyebrow says it all.
“I know; I‘m sorry about the sheets,” Clark says, getting to his feet, but refusing to pull his hand out of Lex’s pocket. “I guess I just – I needed to realize that, too.”
“And now?”
“You can’t even get my hand out of your pocket – I think that says a lot, don’t you?”
-end-
Notes: Un’betad. Yeah, yeah, I know, but I’m going to bed now, talk to the hand.
Improv: momentum, pillow, subtle, icy.
Title taken from a song by, gasp, Minnie Driver. Yes, the actress, no, don’t pass out. She can sing people, I’ve heard it live. Remember I told you this when the album comes out. The single is available through a Trampoline Records compilation right now.
I get art when I write drunken, grass-kilt!fic! How exciting!
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*happy place*
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I hope by now you've slept some. If not, I will laugh at you on Monday.
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Lex has presence, he needs no words. What? Okay, but only a little whipped.
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I also found the idea of a jealous Clark setting Lex's sheets on fire very funny, poor lad!
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