This Thing Ate My Brain...
5/23/05 07:20 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
roxyHere it is, bastard story--my answer to ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
svmadelyn's "Cuff ‘Em, Vamp ‘Em, or Just Make ‘Em Come Already" Kink and Cliché Multi-Fandom Challenge. though in no way would you be able to tell, my prompt was riding crop. And I started to write something in which the riding crop was front and cwenter--something I liked even but it didn't go anywhere. And this...this is the middle of something. Something that more than likely will never be written, but tsk. There you have it. Lawks, lawks, what pain this caused me.
Author/Artist Name: Roxy
E-mail: Roxy5.comcast.net
Website:n/a
Title:Per Aspera
Fandom:SV
Prompt used: riding crop
Per Aspera
“Clark! Clark, where are you, you lazy boy!”
He hears the cook calling for him, and squeezes himself farther back into the little alcove he’s found. He closes his eyes, and imagines he’s invisible; it makes him smile for a moment. He opens his eyes again, and sighs deeply. Always work and never a moment but what he can steal to call his own.
Clark slips out of his little alcove quickly and runs swiftly back to the kitchen, grabs a broom and studiously and laboriously begins sweeping the stairs to the courtyard. He works the bristles across the cobbles, seemingly deeply absorbed in this simple task when the cook appears around the corner, huffing and puffing. The portly man stops and wipes his forehead; his cheeks are flushed bright red with the exertion of walking around the grounds searching for Clark. His expression at first is angry, but spying Clark, it settles into a look of exasperation, tempered with fondness.
“Praise God, there you are,” he mutters and then says loudly and clearly. “You must peel potatoes, do you hear”, and mimes a knife peeling. Clark nods slowly and looks at the cook with solemn green eyes, twisting the broom handle in his big hands and smiling vaguely.
Move along then Clark, the cook says and irritation wars with sympathy. Poor simple child. He watches him move away, his brown robe sweeping against the back of his leg, leaving his ankles uncovered. It makes him look so vulnerable, those exposed ankles, and the cook feels his heart go out to the defenseless boy, and makes a promise to keep an eye on the boy. Make sure Clark is safe. He’s simply too pretty and innocent to be left alone. He shakes his head and thanks God he isn’t a young man anymore. He doubts that if he were he’d be able to resist-- those eyes, so full of innocence, so guileless…those lips, so full, so rosy.
Cook shakes himself again. no fool like an old fool, he chastises himself. .
Clark works long and hard in the smoky fire lit kitchen, like he always does. The brick floors need to be cleaned daily and that job is his, he washes and peels turnips and daydreams he sets the fields aflame; he truly hates turnips… he hauls water from the cisterns, buckets and buckets day after day—and sweeps, he sweeps every where. He listens as he sweeps and he observes the life of those around him, because a wiser man then he stated no one sees the man with a broom and Clark’s proved him right over and over.
“Wake up, boy! You’re asleep on your feet again,” Cook chastises him gently and hands him a straw brush and a bucket of water and has him clean the floors under the prep tables. All of it is simply tedious to Clark—a normal boy would have blisters and calluses and any amount of scrapes and cuts, but not Clark. His skin’s tough as a buckler and his wind never fails him—he can carry a yoke with full buckets up a stair as if it were filled with feathers rather than water. He smiles at the stone floor under his busily scrubbing hand, carefully not too fast and not too slow. No one knows his secrets; no one knows what he can do. Sometimes he imagines that he is a prince in disguise, and someday, his true family will come for him. He laughs softly—and on that day pigs will fly!.
Evening prayers allow him to indulge in his favorite pleasure.
Watching Brother Lex.
He watches Brother Lex from under his lashes, so that none know what it is that rivets him so. He’s content to let them think the simpleton is overcome by religious fervor.
Brother Lex recites the evening prayer, and his voice is one among many, but not for Clark. It’s clear as the bells to him. His voice is smooth as fur on a kitten’s back, Clark thinks. In his mind he wraps that voice around him--so warm…and it makes him warm. When he hears Brother Lex speak that warmth run over his skin and fills his heart. He can’t take his eyes from the way candlelight plays over the smooth scalp, no tonsure for Brother Lex, his head is beautifully smooth, clean, and gleams like polished marble. He watches and dreams that Brother Lex turns to him, smiles in that private quiet way he has and asks him to sit near him, how he wishes that Lex notice he is alive, and how steadfastly his heart beats for him. But no one looks at him, not unless it’s with pity in their eyes. So beautiful, pity that he’s damaged.
Clark knows he has to hide what he is, but it hurts—sometimes it hurts beyond bearing, the times when Lex walks past him, without looking, or maybe worse, those times he stops and pats his shoulder like he’s a puppy…if only….
After mass he zips through the fruit trees lining the road that leads to the farm. In the night, the world looks magical to him; everything glows with a shimmering halo. He used to think it was like that for everyone, but he’s watched the brothers in the night, sees their fear of the dark and their desperate need for light, they are intruders in this time—he decides that this bright and sparkling world of the night is his alone and it makes him happy.
He likes to sit by himself and think of Lex. It makes him deeply relaxed when he does, like waking up after a deep sleep filled with good dreams. He tries to recall the exact shade of his eyes—he knows that they are blue, sometimes touched with gray and sometimes, almost a violet tinge. He enjoys watching his pupils shrink and expand as he prays, the faint flush of pink that paints his cheeks during service. If he looks hard enough he can watch his heart beat, count all his precious bones through the coarse wool habit—
Lying back on the thick grass he stares heavenward to watch the stars bloom on the black velvet of the night. He opens himself, lets his ears pick up whatever sound they want to—his heart speeds up when the sound of Lex’s voice reaches him-his voice and the voice of another’s. He sits up quickly and slips back through the trees until he’s standing in the shadows of the stables. In the open on the gravel courtyard stands Brother Lex, moonlight making him look even more like the statues on the ground, his pale skin shining like opals. The other sits astride a fine horse, his clothing and furs marking him as wealthy---one of the men from the guesthouse, a noble.
Clark’s hearing suddenly loses its sharpness and he hisses in frustration. He struggles with lack of control over his Hearing ability, it is new and wild yet—he doesn’t have the control over it that he has over his strength, or speed, though slowly he is gaining it—it found him Lex after all.
He can see tell from the two men’s posture that it’s a heated discussion---an argument. Suddenly Lex yanks hard at the reigns and the horse rears, Lex staggers forward, gravel flies and Clark can suddenly clearly hear it spatter against the ground and strike Lex’s robes as the horse’s hooves paw at the air and thrash at the loose beige pebbles when its hooves dash downwards again. He can hear it neigh, and he hears the noble curse.
Clark takes a step forward before he can stop himself. Lex! concentrates intently and sees the noble lean over in the stirrups and strike Lex once across the face with a riding crop. Clark can see him whip his head back and his hands fly to his face. Clark snarls and takes another step forward before he manages to control his raging emotions. Lex! He can see blood on his mouth shining black against the white of his skin—and then a tangy, sweet metallic scent reaches him—he smells it. He groans, not sure why---fear, dismay, he has no explanation for this feeling that wrenches him.
Brother Lex reaches out and grabs the crop in his hand, Clark waits breathless for him to yank it out of the man’s hand or to shout curses or react somehow and then he acts in a way that startles and confuses him…Lex holds the crop against his face, rubs it over the curve of his cheek and kisses it before releasing it—all so quickly that Clark almost doubts what he saw. When Brother Lex’s tongue sweeps over the black smear on his lip Clark feels a stab of –something-- hot and sharp, low in his gut.
He hears the harsh whistle of their breath and a deep and smoky voice speaks and chills race down his spine. The effect on Lex is obvious and to Clark, maddening.
“Play with me tonight.” Clark rages inside. What does that mean, what is happening?
Lex inclines his head and Clark hears him whisper an agonized, “Yes.” A single word but it seems to Clark so much was in that one word and his heart hurts for him. Suddenly he is walking swiftly towards him and before Clark can hide, he’s running into him, staggering with the force of the collision. Clark gasps and closes his eyes for a minute…it feels…
“Oh!” Lex looks startled—frightened from impacting with the solid wall of Clark. His face clears as he realizes it’s only Clark, mild, inoffensive, simple Clark and for a moment Clark resents—no—*hates*-- the way people perceive him. Something of how he felt must have shown, Lex looks at him for a long moment, searching his face intently.
“Clark, are you all right,” he asks and his hand touches Clarks arm—it makes him shiver and he almost speaks to Lex before control returns and he hastens to appear as dull as he normally does. He looks down and blushes deeply when he sees Lex’s warm elegant fingers are still clasped around his arm and a minute shiver runs through him when he feels those fingers move on his bare skin—they feel like velvet, the thrill of being touched softly is almost too much for Clark. Again the strange feeling that had filled him when he smelled Lex’s blood, when he saw him lick at the ragged cut on his lip sweeps thorough him, this time with the force of a raging flood. He feels helpless against it. It batters the shell of his body. For a moment he’s dizzy—the blood roars in his ears, waves of heat sweep over him and he burns.
Lex sways toward him and drops his hold, stammers a bit, “—a—are you—aren’t you supposed to be in bed now? Go home Clark, be a good boy.” He pats his arm and smiles sadly, moves past him quickly; the hem of his habit caressing Clarks legs, tangling a moment against Clark’s.
He stands frozen, gazing after Lex until the darkness swallows him. He was going away from the dormitories, instead he heads toward the guesthouse.
Clark retreats to his place of comfort; he heads to the chapel. It is where he likes to be when no one else is about. He feels comfortable, safe there, in the stone building. The floors are nearly glossy, worn smooth with generations of footsteps; the block walls he knows are cool and damp to the touch. Clark feels a little too warm all the time and here in the dank gloom of the chapel he feels less so. He closes his eyes gratefully and lets his body relax as he slumps on the bench. He breathes deeply and evenly, willing his mind to clear, to not think of who was in the guesthouse…not think of disappointments—after all, what expectations could he have?
He breathes in the smell of damp stone overlaid with the odor of incense and burning wax, the smell of wet earth and pine and slowly calms, he’s safe here in the dark.
A single candle on the alter stutters in a stray breeze, lighting the crucifix that Clark trains his eyes on.
A noise behind him brings him instantly alert. There should be no one in the church at this time—the hour for the next prayer has yet to come …he identifies the sound as bare feet against stone, sinks deeper into the shadows and looks about. A darker shadow against the black shifts, alters and becomes a bent figure in a robe.
Brother Lex. Clark stiffens, alert now—what was he doing?
He walks to the inside of the alter rail and drops to his knees, his back straight as a rod and his hands pressed together in prayer, looking like a knight before battle. He looks up at the life size carved figure of on the cross that hangs above the stone—for long minutes he stays that way and then drops his head to his chest. Clark begins to smell odors that he recognizes and some make him blush and under it all, blood… a strange new feeling sweeps through him, the stabbing wave of heat in his groin seems to solidify, and he feels a tightening of flesh he’d never experience before.
In the shadows of the alter, Lex is prostrate on the stones, legs straight and arms spread wide mimicking the twisted form hanging on the wall. In the flickering candle light the carved wood takes on life, writhes in agony and cries tears of blood.
Brother Lex rises to his knees again, pulls the robe off his shoulders. Clark sucks in his lip and bites, hard---trying to keep silent.
Lex-- his back exposed to him…stands naked, and the light of the candle dances over his pale skin, throwing shadows over him, deep shadows between his shoulder blades, the small of his back, the cleft of his ass, Clark breathes heavier and heavier and he nearly gasps in horror as he feels his prick hardening—something that’s never happened to him before now.
Lex bends and from the folds of his robe pulls a slim object that Clark sees is the riding crop.
Lex whispers, the words bouncing from the walls, whispers piled on whispers as the tone becomes more and more urgent and is almost a scream--the first whistling stroke and crack make Clark jump and moan.
A thin red stripe appears on Lex’s back, and the iron scent of blood fills Clark’s nose. Lex falls to his knees, back arched and his teeth glitter between parted lips, his eyes screw shut with the pain…and he strikes again, each stripe brings fresh the scent of blood…
Clark feels the hardening flesh rise beneath his robe—his hands shake as he tries to press it down, the scrape of wool over his prick makes him want to press harder still.
Lex cries out and he’s resumed whispering, the crack of the thin length of leather ripping through his skin makes Clark shudder, he slides to the floor and can’t stop himself, has to pull the robe up his thighs until he exposes the stiff and leaking prick, straining to stand erect. His flesh is so hard and he’s frightened, and something warm and wet and thick as blood wells up from his prick’s slit and runs down, his own smell combined with the scent of Lex, the heavy smell of his sweat sweetened with the musk of what Clark understands now is the scent of arousal makes him moan.
Lex stands and turns his dripping back to the alter and lashes himself again—Clark can see his prick dark and gleaming in the sputtering candle light, the dancing light makes the clear fluid spinning out from the tip to drip and lace his thigh sparkle like water in the sun. Clark thinks how beautiful…Lex is beautiful and he longs to touch him, his tongue quivers in his mouth and he suddenly wants desperately to taste him, run his tongue along his length and collect the drops from the tip, he shudders—he wants that so very much…Lex’s heart is pounding and Clark hears him as if he were right bedside him.
Lex stiffens and cries out, his voice echoing in the arched chamber. He drops forward on to his hands and his back bows—Clark can smell and hear him come, he can hear the faint spattering sounds of his release hitting the stones, and his own prick leaps and jerks at the sight of Lex trapped in the grip of orgasm. Clark flings his head back and struggles not to cry out loud, he pulses and spills into his cupped hands.
He stares dazed at the pearly fluid in his hands—he dips his head and hesitantly touches the tip of his tongue to it and as he does so a surge of heat washes over him, his eyes drift shut and he licks it up rapidly, listens to Lex shuddering and moaning on the stone floor.
Suddenly realization of what he’s done, where he is hits him with the force of a slap. Clark leaps quietly to his feet and backs out of the little chapel still reluctant to leave Lex, who is wiping the floor with his robe, pulling it over his head. Clark sees, before he leaves, Lex kiss the riding crop again.
The face of the nobleman springs to his mind and he bows his head, turns to run and fights not to go to the guesthouse and tear that man limb from limb.
A moment longer and he would have heard Lex whisper his name and beg for his help but Clark was already in the kitchen and his place by the hearth there.
5/23/2005
svmadelyn's "Cuff ‘Em, Vamp ‘Em, or Just Make ‘Em Come Already" Kink and Cliché Multi-Fandom Challenge. though in no way would you be able to tell, my prompt was riding crop. And I started to write something in which the riding crop was front and cwenter--something I liked even but it didn't go anywhere. And this...this is the middle of something. Something that more than likely will never be written, but tsk. There you have it. Lawks, lawks, what pain this caused me.Author/Artist Name: Roxy
E-mail: Roxy5.comcast.net
Website:n/a
Title:Per Aspera
Fandom:SV
Prompt used: riding crop
Per Aspera
“Clark! Clark, where are you, you lazy boy!”
He hears the cook calling for him, and squeezes himself farther back into the little alcove he’s found. He closes his eyes, and imagines he’s invisible; it makes him smile for a moment. He opens his eyes again, and sighs deeply. Always work and never a moment but what he can steal to call his own.
Clark slips out of his little alcove quickly and runs swiftly back to the kitchen, grabs a broom and studiously and laboriously begins sweeping the stairs to the courtyard. He works the bristles across the cobbles, seemingly deeply absorbed in this simple task when the cook appears around the corner, huffing and puffing. The portly man stops and wipes his forehead; his cheeks are flushed bright red with the exertion of walking around the grounds searching for Clark. His expression at first is angry, but spying Clark, it settles into a look of exasperation, tempered with fondness.
“Praise God, there you are,” he mutters and then says loudly and clearly. “You must peel potatoes, do you hear”, and mimes a knife peeling. Clark nods slowly and looks at the cook with solemn green eyes, twisting the broom handle in his big hands and smiling vaguely.
Move along then Clark, the cook says and irritation wars with sympathy. Poor simple child. He watches him move away, his brown robe sweeping against the back of his leg, leaving his ankles uncovered. It makes him look so vulnerable, those exposed ankles, and the cook feels his heart go out to the defenseless boy, and makes a promise to keep an eye on the boy. Make sure Clark is safe. He’s simply too pretty and innocent to be left alone. He shakes his head and thanks God he isn’t a young man anymore. He doubts that if he were he’d be able to resist-- those eyes, so full of innocence, so guileless…those lips, so full, so rosy.
Cook shakes himself again. no fool like an old fool, he chastises himself. .
Clark works long and hard in the smoky fire lit kitchen, like he always does. The brick floors need to be cleaned daily and that job is his, he washes and peels turnips and daydreams he sets the fields aflame; he truly hates turnips… he hauls water from the cisterns, buckets and buckets day after day—and sweeps, he sweeps every where. He listens as he sweeps and he observes the life of those around him, because a wiser man then he stated no one sees the man with a broom and Clark’s proved him right over and over.
“Wake up, boy! You’re asleep on your feet again,” Cook chastises him gently and hands him a straw brush and a bucket of water and has him clean the floors under the prep tables. All of it is simply tedious to Clark—a normal boy would have blisters and calluses and any amount of scrapes and cuts, but not Clark. His skin’s tough as a buckler and his wind never fails him—he can carry a yoke with full buckets up a stair as if it were filled with feathers rather than water. He smiles at the stone floor under his busily scrubbing hand, carefully not too fast and not too slow. No one knows his secrets; no one knows what he can do. Sometimes he imagines that he is a prince in disguise, and someday, his true family will come for him. He laughs softly—and on that day pigs will fly!.
Evening prayers allow him to indulge in his favorite pleasure.
Watching Brother Lex.
He watches Brother Lex from under his lashes, so that none know what it is that rivets him so. He’s content to let them think the simpleton is overcome by religious fervor.
Brother Lex recites the evening prayer, and his voice is one among many, but not for Clark. It’s clear as the bells to him. His voice is smooth as fur on a kitten’s back, Clark thinks. In his mind he wraps that voice around him--so warm…and it makes him warm. When he hears Brother Lex speak that warmth run over his skin and fills his heart. He can’t take his eyes from the way candlelight plays over the smooth scalp, no tonsure for Brother Lex, his head is beautifully smooth, clean, and gleams like polished marble. He watches and dreams that Brother Lex turns to him, smiles in that private quiet way he has and asks him to sit near him, how he wishes that Lex notice he is alive, and how steadfastly his heart beats for him. But no one looks at him, not unless it’s with pity in their eyes. So beautiful, pity that he’s damaged.
Clark knows he has to hide what he is, but it hurts—sometimes it hurts beyond bearing, the times when Lex walks past him, without looking, or maybe worse, those times he stops and pats his shoulder like he’s a puppy…if only….
After mass he zips through the fruit trees lining the road that leads to the farm. In the night, the world looks magical to him; everything glows with a shimmering halo. He used to think it was like that for everyone, but he’s watched the brothers in the night, sees their fear of the dark and their desperate need for light, they are intruders in this time—he decides that this bright and sparkling world of the night is his alone and it makes him happy.
He likes to sit by himself and think of Lex. It makes him deeply relaxed when he does, like waking up after a deep sleep filled with good dreams. He tries to recall the exact shade of his eyes—he knows that they are blue, sometimes touched with gray and sometimes, almost a violet tinge. He enjoys watching his pupils shrink and expand as he prays, the faint flush of pink that paints his cheeks during service. If he looks hard enough he can watch his heart beat, count all his precious bones through the coarse wool habit—
Lying back on the thick grass he stares heavenward to watch the stars bloom on the black velvet of the night. He opens himself, lets his ears pick up whatever sound they want to—his heart speeds up when the sound of Lex’s voice reaches him-his voice and the voice of another’s. He sits up quickly and slips back through the trees until he’s standing in the shadows of the stables. In the open on the gravel courtyard stands Brother Lex, moonlight making him look even more like the statues on the ground, his pale skin shining like opals. The other sits astride a fine horse, his clothing and furs marking him as wealthy---one of the men from the guesthouse, a noble.
Clark’s hearing suddenly loses its sharpness and he hisses in frustration. He struggles with lack of control over his Hearing ability, it is new and wild yet—he doesn’t have the control over it that he has over his strength, or speed, though slowly he is gaining it—it found him Lex after all.
He can see tell from the two men’s posture that it’s a heated discussion---an argument. Suddenly Lex yanks hard at the reigns and the horse rears, Lex staggers forward, gravel flies and Clark can suddenly clearly hear it spatter against the ground and strike Lex’s robes as the horse’s hooves paw at the air and thrash at the loose beige pebbles when its hooves dash downwards again. He can hear it neigh, and he hears the noble curse.
Clark takes a step forward before he can stop himself. Lex! concentrates intently and sees the noble lean over in the stirrups and strike Lex once across the face with a riding crop. Clark can see him whip his head back and his hands fly to his face. Clark snarls and takes another step forward before he manages to control his raging emotions. Lex! He can see blood on his mouth shining black against the white of his skin—and then a tangy, sweet metallic scent reaches him—he smells it. He groans, not sure why---fear, dismay, he has no explanation for this feeling that wrenches him.
Brother Lex reaches out and grabs the crop in his hand, Clark waits breathless for him to yank it out of the man’s hand or to shout curses or react somehow and then he acts in a way that startles and confuses him…Lex holds the crop against his face, rubs it over the curve of his cheek and kisses it before releasing it—all so quickly that Clark almost doubts what he saw. When Brother Lex’s tongue sweeps over the black smear on his lip Clark feels a stab of –something-- hot and sharp, low in his gut.
He hears the harsh whistle of their breath and a deep and smoky voice speaks and chills race down his spine. The effect on Lex is obvious and to Clark, maddening.
“Play with me tonight.” Clark rages inside. What does that mean, what is happening?
Lex inclines his head and Clark hears him whisper an agonized, “Yes.” A single word but it seems to Clark so much was in that one word and his heart hurts for him. Suddenly he is walking swiftly towards him and before Clark can hide, he’s running into him, staggering with the force of the collision. Clark gasps and closes his eyes for a minute…it feels…
“Oh!” Lex looks startled—frightened from impacting with the solid wall of Clark. His face clears as he realizes it’s only Clark, mild, inoffensive, simple Clark and for a moment Clark resents—no—*hates*-- the way people perceive him. Something of how he felt must have shown, Lex looks at him for a long moment, searching his face intently.
“Clark, are you all right,” he asks and his hand touches Clarks arm—it makes him shiver and he almost speaks to Lex before control returns and he hastens to appear as dull as he normally does. He looks down and blushes deeply when he sees Lex’s warm elegant fingers are still clasped around his arm and a minute shiver runs through him when he feels those fingers move on his bare skin—they feel like velvet, the thrill of being touched softly is almost too much for Clark. Again the strange feeling that had filled him when he smelled Lex’s blood, when he saw him lick at the ragged cut on his lip sweeps thorough him, this time with the force of a raging flood. He feels helpless against it. It batters the shell of his body. For a moment he’s dizzy—the blood roars in his ears, waves of heat sweep over him and he burns.
Lex sways toward him and drops his hold, stammers a bit, “—a—are you—aren’t you supposed to be in bed now? Go home Clark, be a good boy.” He pats his arm and smiles sadly, moves past him quickly; the hem of his habit caressing Clarks legs, tangling a moment against Clark’s.
He stands frozen, gazing after Lex until the darkness swallows him. He was going away from the dormitories, instead he heads toward the guesthouse.
Clark retreats to his place of comfort; he heads to the chapel. It is where he likes to be when no one else is about. He feels comfortable, safe there, in the stone building. The floors are nearly glossy, worn smooth with generations of footsteps; the block walls he knows are cool and damp to the touch. Clark feels a little too warm all the time and here in the dank gloom of the chapel he feels less so. He closes his eyes gratefully and lets his body relax as he slumps on the bench. He breathes deeply and evenly, willing his mind to clear, to not think of who was in the guesthouse…not think of disappointments—after all, what expectations could he have?
He breathes in the smell of damp stone overlaid with the odor of incense and burning wax, the smell of wet earth and pine and slowly calms, he’s safe here in the dark.
A single candle on the alter stutters in a stray breeze, lighting the crucifix that Clark trains his eyes on.
A noise behind him brings him instantly alert. There should be no one in the church at this time—the hour for the next prayer has yet to come …he identifies the sound as bare feet against stone, sinks deeper into the shadows and looks about. A darker shadow against the black shifts, alters and becomes a bent figure in a robe.
Brother Lex. Clark stiffens, alert now—what was he doing?
He walks to the inside of the alter rail and drops to his knees, his back straight as a rod and his hands pressed together in prayer, looking like a knight before battle. He looks up at the life size carved figure of on the cross that hangs above the stone—for long minutes he stays that way and then drops his head to his chest. Clark begins to smell odors that he recognizes and some make him blush and under it all, blood… a strange new feeling sweeps through him, the stabbing wave of heat in his groin seems to solidify, and he feels a tightening of flesh he’d never experience before.
In the shadows of the alter, Lex is prostrate on the stones, legs straight and arms spread wide mimicking the twisted form hanging on the wall. In the flickering candle light the carved wood takes on life, writhes in agony and cries tears of blood.
Brother Lex rises to his knees again, pulls the robe off his shoulders. Clark sucks in his lip and bites, hard---trying to keep silent.
Lex-- his back exposed to him…stands naked, and the light of the candle dances over his pale skin, throwing shadows over him, deep shadows between his shoulder blades, the small of his back, the cleft of his ass, Clark breathes heavier and heavier and he nearly gasps in horror as he feels his prick hardening—something that’s never happened to him before now.
Lex bends and from the folds of his robe pulls a slim object that Clark sees is the riding crop.
Lex whispers, the words bouncing from the walls, whispers piled on whispers as the tone becomes more and more urgent and is almost a scream--the first whistling stroke and crack make Clark jump and moan.
A thin red stripe appears on Lex’s back, and the iron scent of blood fills Clark’s nose. Lex falls to his knees, back arched and his teeth glitter between parted lips, his eyes screw shut with the pain…and he strikes again, each stripe brings fresh the scent of blood…
Clark feels the hardening flesh rise beneath his robe—his hands shake as he tries to press it down, the scrape of wool over his prick makes him want to press harder still.
Lex cries out and he’s resumed whispering, the crack of the thin length of leather ripping through his skin makes Clark shudder, he slides to the floor and can’t stop himself, has to pull the robe up his thighs until he exposes the stiff and leaking prick, straining to stand erect. His flesh is so hard and he’s frightened, and something warm and wet and thick as blood wells up from his prick’s slit and runs down, his own smell combined with the scent of Lex, the heavy smell of his sweat sweetened with the musk of what Clark understands now is the scent of arousal makes him moan.
Lex stands and turns his dripping back to the alter and lashes himself again—Clark can see his prick dark and gleaming in the sputtering candle light, the dancing light makes the clear fluid spinning out from the tip to drip and lace his thigh sparkle like water in the sun. Clark thinks how beautiful…Lex is beautiful and he longs to touch him, his tongue quivers in his mouth and he suddenly wants desperately to taste him, run his tongue along his length and collect the drops from the tip, he shudders—he wants that so very much…Lex’s heart is pounding and Clark hears him as if he were right bedside him.
Lex stiffens and cries out, his voice echoing in the arched chamber. He drops forward on to his hands and his back bows—Clark can smell and hear him come, he can hear the faint spattering sounds of his release hitting the stones, and his own prick leaps and jerks at the sight of Lex trapped in the grip of orgasm. Clark flings his head back and struggles not to cry out loud, he pulses and spills into his cupped hands.
He stares dazed at the pearly fluid in his hands—he dips his head and hesitantly touches the tip of his tongue to it and as he does so a surge of heat washes over him, his eyes drift shut and he licks it up rapidly, listens to Lex shuddering and moaning on the stone floor.
Suddenly realization of what he’s done, where he is hits him with the force of a slap. Clark leaps quietly to his feet and backs out of the little chapel still reluctant to leave Lex, who is wiping the floor with his robe, pulling it over his head. Clark sees, before he leaves, Lex kiss the riding crop again.
The face of the nobleman springs to his mind and he bows his head, turns to run and fights not to go to the guesthouse and tear that man limb from limb.
A moment longer and he would have heard Lex whisper his name and beg for his help but Clark was already in the kitchen and his place by the hearth there.
5/23/2005
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5/24/05 12:05 am (UTC)Very nice!
(no subject)
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5/24/05 01:08 am (UTC)I *love* this universe. And it was so dirty wrong.
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5/24/05 01:51 am (UTC)(no subject)
5/24/05 01:30 am (UTC)Monks? Am disturbed/aroused. Does this make me a pervert?
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5/24/05 01:50 am (UTC)(no subject)
5/24/05 03:17 am (UTC)I rarely beg for fics to be continued because I know that writers have other things going on but this is soooo good and I love the idea of Clark masking himself to the point that everyone thinks of him as a simpleton and Lex....
Please, take your time but...damn! A riding crop!
You are awesome!
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5/25/05 07:36 am (UTC)Heeee! You make me smile so much! *hug* Thank you--I'm glad you like this!
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5/24/05 09:21 am (UTC)I love the characters you've developed here. You're so good at taking an AU situation, and fitting the boys into it.
I'll definitely be among the faithful audience if you decide to continue this one day.
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5/24/05 07:25 pm (UTC)Whaa.. That's...
I like that.
Twisty and a little dark and....nice nice.
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5/25/05 07:39 am (UTC)(no subject)
5/24/05 10:39 pm (UTC)Bad Roxy!
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5/25/05 07:39 am (UTC)(no subject)
5/25/05 01:22 pm (UTC)So brilliant! Write sequel please?????? Because Lex and Clark here! Clark is so deviously hot (especially because he pretends to be a simpleton) and Lex. Lex is Sex! Even when he is meant to be celibate.
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5/25/05 01:53 pm (UTC)I will try to write a sequel, it does kind of feel like more! *grins*
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5/26/05 05:30 am (UTC)DON'T
STOP.
PLEASE!
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5/26/05 02:52 pm (UTC)Aaaaaiiiieeeehh!
5/27/05 02:39 am (UTC)You can't just leave it there! Your readers' souls cry out for Clark and Lex to save each other! There must be love! And happiness! And...and more nakedness, and much cuddling, and hot sex!
Pleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleaseplease!!!
Re: Aaaaaiiiieeeehh!
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5/28/05 09:51 am (UTC)See, everybody thinks "Oh, that Roxy is such a sweet lady!" and then... they read your fic. And after they manage to reconnect their jaws to their faces... it occurs to them that you are the dirtiest sweet lady in the world.
*grins* And boy, do I love you for it.
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5/28/05 02:26 pm (UTC)(no subject)
5/28/05 05:39 pm (UTC)Thanks for such loveliness.
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9/11/05 07:19 pm (UTC)I'm fascinated by this Clark who has managed to figure things out on his own. Who has been able to create his guise of simpleton and still maintain his sense of self and to figure out his powers. He has to be one sharp cookie.
And that he's already obsessed with Lex. Guh!
Please do continue if you can!! Poor simple Clark really needs to hear Lex whispergroanmoan his name. Or maybe that's me that needs Clark to hear that... ;D
Fabulous, sweets!
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9/11/05 09:52 pm (UTC)Yes, I'm going with the idea that Clark is supposed to be super smart, something we hardly ever do, lol! I have this whole back-story I've been working on in my head, just haven't written it down yet, and honestly? I have *no* idea how to go forward. hah!
Anyhooo--I'm so happy to see you here! *smoooch!*