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Title:Mariposa
Fandom: SV
Pairing: n/a—yet.
Rating: 1
Summary: This is the land of AU-ness. Long live AU’s!
The Previous Parts are contemplating entering a nunnery…as soon as they can jimmy the locks….
Ninth Grade
Clark sighed. For what felt like the hundredth time, Dad was talking to him about football. Clark wished he were deaf—blind—something. He chewed on his cereal and wished the crunching flakes would make him go deaf…
“Clark, football can be fun. I played when I was a boy. I thought maybe…”
His dad looked hopeful, and Clark sighed inside. “Dad, I’m sorry, but…football just isn’t something I’m interested in. Besides, you know how clumsy I am.”
His dad stared into his plate, and nodded. “Yeah,” he sighed. “Okay, Clark, I guess…it’s just not for you.” He chewed on a piece of toast and Clark let out a silent breath of relief. He was absolutely not interested in organized sports. He wasn’t interested in organized anything. He had his friend, he had his hobby—he was content. He glanced at the clock and groaned. “Dad…”
“Clark. Clark—when will you develop a sense of time? All right. Put the plates away, and I’ll drive the truck around.”
“Thanks, Dad, thanks a million!”
Buddy came waddling out as fast as his legs would carry him. “Dad, Buddy wants to come along—don’t you boy, don’t you? Who’s a wuzzle face, who’s a wuzzle--” Clark grinned weakly at his dad, who was standing in the doorway, laughing at him. “Yeah, well, Buddy likes being called a…”
“Wuzzle face?” Dad snorted, “Get in the truck, Clark.”
They drove along in silence for awhile, and Clark was almost drifting into a doze when his dad asked him, “How’s Pete? We haven’t seen him for a long while. We miss him.”
‘Fuck’, Clark thought. “Well, Pete’s pretty busy Dad, he has a lot to do…” Clark threw out the first thought that crossed his mind, “He’s on the football team,” and immediately wished he could have nailed his mouth shut. What an idiot. His dad’s eyes lit up. “See? Pete’s on the team—you should really try out too--”
“Dad, Pete and I just aren’t as close as we used to be, okay?” He felt his cheeks heating up, and marveled in a horror struck way that he still wanted to die of embarrassment when he thought back to the long ago night. He understood that Pete didn’t want to be friends anymore—it still broke his heart, but he understood.
He got out of the truck in front of the school, looked around quickly before kissing Buddy’s nose and waving his dad away. He hoped he could get inside before running into anyone—like Pete.
Of course his luck ran true to course. Chloe spotted him—and she was with Pete. They’d maintained a friendship, he and Chloe—and Pete for some reason never told her—or so it seemed--about what had happened. Chloe knew that they weren’t the friends they used to be—but she kept trying. That was Chloe all over. A bulldog in heels.
“Hi Clark,” Pete said unenthusiastically when Chloe dragged him over to Clark, and kept walking. Chloe dropped back a second to hug him and caught up with Pete, so that Clark trailed the two of them to the school.
Clark trudged behind the, keeping his eyes on the ground, and a little wave of something odd washed over him…he looked up and saw Lana Lang, and her boyfriend, Whitney Fordman. They strolled past, talking and laughing together, and Clark couldn’t help but stare. They were The Couple, the ones everyone wished they were. Clark was mesmerized by Lana. She was perfect. Her hair shone like onyx, her eyes sparkled, her lips were red and perfect, absolutely perfect. Her figure was—it curved in all the right places, just enough, small breasts but nice…he had a brief flash of Whitney cupping perfect breasts and blushed, stumbled a bit. It made him pay attention to Chloe and Pete again. He caught the tail end of Pete’s conversation with Chloe.
“…a Homecoming tradition. Every year before the big game, the football players select a freshman, take him off to Reilly Field, strip him down to his boxers and paint an "S" on his chest, and then they string him up like a scarecrow.”
Chloe looked at him, eyes round with astonishment. “Jeez, that sounds like years of therapy waiting to happen. I mean, how incredibly barbaric is that?” she shook her head, and Pete grimaced.
“Yeah, well, why do you think I’m on the team? Figure they’re not going to string up one of their own.” He smiled ruefully, and cast eyes at Clark. “They tend to do it to the weirdos, the geeks, y’know.”
Clark sighed inside. He got it. He heard the warning in Pete’s voice. He figured he should at least be grateful Pete cared that much. He must have, he’d never told a soul that he’d tried to—to—bother him…oh well. If those jocks planned to string him up, he pretty much didn’t have a choice. He might be big, but crap. He wasn’t stronger than those assholes. All he could hope to do was keep his head down and not draw too much attention…
Lana stepped in front of him, and suddenly, he felt the familiar, horribly familiar roll in his stomach, the scritch-scratch at the back of his eyes that usually signaled an attack. He could see a shimmer around the girl; if he squinted he could make out a barely visible halo of color. He knew what it meant. Blasting headache time…crap. He stumbled again and his books flew, and he landed painfully on his knees.
Lana made a tiny distressed sound, and hurried to help Clark. She passed an embarrassed Clark a book, turning it over to glance at the cover. “Nietzche, hunh? Kind of dark for a guy like you, don’t you think?” she smiled, and her nose wrinkled, and Clark could feel his own wanting to.
“I guess,” he gasped a little when she came closer, and the green stone in her necklace caught the sun, seemed to amplify the halo effect. That was weird—he usually only saw the halo thing around people, animals, moving things…not that that it meant anything. It was just a side effect of migraines… “Everybody has a dark side.”
He rubbed the bridge of his nose, and grabbed up the rest of his books, flipping them to the grass again. Of course. He felt the sting of his knees. Great. His books land on the grass and he has to fall on the sidewalk. His jeans felt sticky on his knees, and he groaned. Bleeding. Wonderful.
She didn’t seem to notice he was in pain, she was looking a little past his shoulder, and she chuckled. “Yeah, I guess so. So what are you? Man or superman?”
“I haven't figured it out yet.” Clark watched her eyes, watched them widen a bit in pleasure and then, Whitney was standing next to her, a possessive hand on her shoulder and a hard look in his eyes.
“Lana, I was waiting for you. What’s the hold up?”
“I was being a good Samaritan. She smiled at him, and at Clark, and then Whitney was turning her head with a gentle grip on her chin, tilting it, kissing her, and Clark watched the pink flush rise on her cheeks. He dropped his head, and hoped his blush wasn’t as dark as it felt. God. Between the wave of heat and the pain in the back of his skull…he began to slowly stack his books.
Whitney and Lana began to move past him, he heard Whitney ask Lana to look over his homework for him, and as they passed, he cast a look at Clark. “You okay, dude? You look like you’re about to puke…”
“I—I’m—fine. Thanks.”
“Yeah,” he said, and the look that traveled over Clark was cold and calculating, and Clark felt a chunk of ice grow in his chest. Oh…shit. This was going to be one long day at school. He was pretty sure Whitney had seen him staring at Lana…..
TBC
Title:Mariposa
Fandom: SV
Pairing: n/a—yet.
Rating: 1
Summary: This is the land of AU-ness. Long live AU’s!
The Previous Parts are contemplating entering a nunnery…as soon as they can jimmy the locks….
Ninth Grade
Clark sighed. For what felt like the hundredth time, Dad was talking to him about football. Clark wished he were deaf—blind—something. He chewed on his cereal and wished the crunching flakes would make him go deaf…
“Clark, football can be fun. I played when I was a boy. I thought maybe…”
His dad looked hopeful, and Clark sighed inside. “Dad, I’m sorry, but…football just isn’t something I’m interested in. Besides, you know how clumsy I am.”
His dad stared into his plate, and nodded. “Yeah,” he sighed. “Okay, Clark, I guess…it’s just not for you.” He chewed on a piece of toast and Clark let out a silent breath of relief. He was absolutely not interested in organized sports. He wasn’t interested in organized anything. He had his friend, he had his hobby—he was content. He glanced at the clock and groaned. “Dad…”
“Clark. Clark—when will you develop a sense of time? All right. Put the plates away, and I’ll drive the truck around.”
“Thanks, Dad, thanks a million!”
Buddy came waddling out as fast as his legs would carry him. “Dad, Buddy wants to come along—don’t you boy, don’t you? Who’s a wuzzle face, who’s a wuzzle--” Clark grinned weakly at his dad, who was standing in the doorway, laughing at him. “Yeah, well, Buddy likes being called a…”
“Wuzzle face?” Dad snorted, “Get in the truck, Clark.”
They drove along in silence for awhile, and Clark was almost drifting into a doze when his dad asked him, “How’s Pete? We haven’t seen him for a long while. We miss him.”
‘Fuck’, Clark thought. “Well, Pete’s pretty busy Dad, he has a lot to do…” Clark threw out the first thought that crossed his mind, “He’s on the football team,” and immediately wished he could have nailed his mouth shut. What an idiot. His dad’s eyes lit up. “See? Pete’s on the team—you should really try out too--”
“Dad, Pete and I just aren’t as close as we used to be, okay?” He felt his cheeks heating up, and marveled in a horror struck way that he still wanted to die of embarrassment when he thought back to the long ago night. He understood that Pete didn’t want to be friends anymore—it still broke his heart, but he understood.
He got out of the truck in front of the school, looked around quickly before kissing Buddy’s nose and waving his dad away. He hoped he could get inside before running into anyone—like Pete.
Of course his luck ran true to course. Chloe spotted him—and she was with Pete. They’d maintained a friendship, he and Chloe—and Pete for some reason never told her—or so it seemed--about what had happened. Chloe knew that they weren’t the friends they used to be—but she kept trying. That was Chloe all over. A bulldog in heels.
“Hi Clark,” Pete said unenthusiastically when Chloe dragged him over to Clark, and kept walking. Chloe dropped back a second to hug him and caught up with Pete, so that Clark trailed the two of them to the school.
Clark trudged behind the, keeping his eyes on the ground, and a little wave of something odd washed over him…he looked up and saw Lana Lang, and her boyfriend, Whitney Fordman. They strolled past, talking and laughing together, and Clark couldn’t help but stare. They were The Couple, the ones everyone wished they were. Clark was mesmerized by Lana. She was perfect. Her hair shone like onyx, her eyes sparkled, her lips were red and perfect, absolutely perfect. Her figure was—it curved in all the right places, just enough, small breasts but nice…he had a brief flash of Whitney cupping perfect breasts and blushed, stumbled a bit. It made him pay attention to Chloe and Pete again. He caught the tail end of Pete’s conversation with Chloe.
“…a Homecoming tradition. Every year before the big game, the football players select a freshman, take him off to Reilly Field, strip him down to his boxers and paint an "S" on his chest, and then they string him up like a scarecrow.”
Chloe looked at him, eyes round with astonishment. “Jeez, that sounds like years of therapy waiting to happen. I mean, how incredibly barbaric is that?” she shook her head, and Pete grimaced.
“Yeah, well, why do you think I’m on the team? Figure they’re not going to string up one of their own.” He smiled ruefully, and cast eyes at Clark. “They tend to do it to the weirdos, the geeks, y’know.”
Clark sighed inside. He got it. He heard the warning in Pete’s voice. He figured he should at least be grateful Pete cared that much. He must have, he’d never told a soul that he’d tried to—to—bother him…oh well. If those jocks planned to string him up, he pretty much didn’t have a choice. He might be big, but crap. He wasn’t stronger than those assholes. All he could hope to do was keep his head down and not draw too much attention…
Lana stepped in front of him, and suddenly, he felt the familiar, horribly familiar roll in his stomach, the scritch-scratch at the back of his eyes that usually signaled an attack. He could see a shimmer around the girl; if he squinted he could make out a barely visible halo of color. He knew what it meant. Blasting headache time…crap. He stumbled again and his books flew, and he landed painfully on his knees.
Lana made a tiny distressed sound, and hurried to help Clark. She passed an embarrassed Clark a book, turning it over to glance at the cover. “Nietzche, hunh? Kind of dark for a guy like you, don’t you think?” she smiled, and her nose wrinkled, and Clark could feel his own wanting to.
“I guess,” he gasped a little when she came closer, and the green stone in her necklace caught the sun, seemed to amplify the halo effect. That was weird—he usually only saw the halo thing around people, animals, moving things…not that that it meant anything. It was just a side effect of migraines… “Everybody has a dark side.”
He rubbed the bridge of his nose, and grabbed up the rest of his books, flipping them to the grass again. Of course. He felt the sting of his knees. Great. His books land on the grass and he has to fall on the sidewalk. His jeans felt sticky on his knees, and he groaned. Bleeding. Wonderful.
She didn’t seem to notice he was in pain, she was looking a little past his shoulder, and she chuckled. “Yeah, I guess so. So what are you? Man or superman?”
“I haven't figured it out yet.” Clark watched her eyes, watched them widen a bit in pleasure and then, Whitney was standing next to her, a possessive hand on her shoulder and a hard look in his eyes.
“Lana, I was waiting for you. What’s the hold up?”
“I was being a good Samaritan. She smiled at him, and at Clark, and then Whitney was turning her head with a gentle grip on her chin, tilting it, kissing her, and Clark watched the pink flush rise on her cheeks. He dropped his head, and hoped his blush wasn’t as dark as it felt. God. Between the wave of heat and the pain in the back of his skull…he began to slowly stack his books.
Whitney and Lana began to move past him, he heard Whitney ask Lana to look over his homework for him, and as they passed, he cast a look at Clark. “You okay, dude? You look like you’re about to puke…”
“I—I’m—fine. Thanks.”
“Yeah,” he said, and the look that traveled over Clark was cold and calculating, and Clark felt a chunk of ice grow in his chest. Oh…shit. This was going to be one long day at school. He was pretty sure Whitney had seen him staring at Lana…..
TBC
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![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
11/2/06 03:09 pm (UTC)*chortle* I love your brain.
(no subject)
11/2/06 04:23 pm (UTC)