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roxyTitle: In The Closet....
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
roxymissrose
Pairings/Characters: Clark/Lex
Rating: nc-17
Word Count: 1810
Summary: fetishes, onanism and theft, oh my!
The door to his bedroom was closed—locked. He wanted to be alone. The day had been difficult, nothing going quite his way. It was the sort of day that ground away at one, no one particular moment stood out as a failure, it was a succession of small losses, topped off with a phone call from his father and that always, always was the icing on the cake. He particularly enjoyed the litany of his failures as a son.
The doors to his closet stood wide, he didn’t bother turning on the light because he knew what he wanted and where it was…he dropped his suit jacket across the back of the chair and loosened his tie. He paced slowly, taking out his cufflinks and dropping them on a tray on the counter…they'd be put away by evening if he wished it. He unbuckled and slid his belt free of the loops, the leather soundlessly slipping free and coiling in his hand, soft as butter. He dropped it on the counter next to the cufflinks. He sat and pulled his shoes off, one after the other, and drew the silk blend socks off his feet. He grimaced at the sight of his bare feet. He hated his feet—they always looked so thin, pale—feminine. He didn’t like when his partners spent too much time over his feet. He hated being fetishized in any way. Without thought, without wanting to, he drew a hand over his head—quickly dropped his hand when he caught himself. Fetish…he laughed out loud at that. He had a nerve, he supposed, when this was all about fetish….
His pants dropped to the floor and he stepped out of them, opened the buttons to his shirt and anticipation was making him a little hard. He felt….excited, embarrassed by his excitement. Took his shirt off and let it fall without thinking because here was what he'd looked forward to in his sick, pathetic way all day.
He unlocked that drawer he'd had built, a thin, wide drawer, meant to hold just two items, a shirt, and a pair of jeans, a little too big and a little too long for him and made of a cheap material that new, would have sanded his skin away, he was sure, but was soft as the sheets on his bed. He closed his eyes and sighed, pressed his palm against the bulge straining against the silk of his boxers…bed. The jeans had been washed and washed until they were worn thin in places and felt like the touch of a smooth hand on his body. The shirt was plain, plaid, flannel, and featured in a thousand fantasies. There was a small rip under one arm, a hole worn in the tail, and at the bottom of one pocket was an ink stain that he could have had laundered and removed but before he changed a thing about that shirt he'd die first, and in fact, he washed these items himself—had even taught himself to run the washing machine in order to have no one but himself touch them.
He slid the shirt on now, held the jeans to his face and imagined he smelled that peculiar scent, citrus, sweet, dry grass…summer…that's what Clark smelled like. He hoarded every instant they'd ever touched, they were ever close enough that he could smell him…he tucked his thumbs in the waistband of the boxers and hissed as they dragged against him. He stepped out of them, and wiped his hand against the smear of wet on his thigh…eyes closed he waited before stepping into the jeans. Clark.
Clark.
Clark…he rubbed his chest, pressed the flannel against his skin, ground the buttons against himself and imagined them pressed into him by a broad chest, imagined them bruising him, he grabbed at his dick pressing hard against the loose fabric and rode his own hand, grunting slightly with the effort, pictured doing that to Clark and watching his angelic face twist with the need to come, he'd bite his lip and try not to cry out, and push, rub, grind against him, beg him to fuck him, taste him just make him please god, please make me come Clark let me, god—he was pressed against the mirror, his cheek against the cool glass, sweat sticking to him and come starting to run down his leg…he was panting, trying to still his racing heart. Thinking. Wondering if he could have Clark's smell recreated. A cologne…anything was possible.
He was Lex Luthor. He'd make it possible.
~~~~~~~~
It wasn't a real fetish he told himself. It was…role playing. Of a sort. He sat on top of the washer and thought, if it was a fetish, than he'd be compelled to…he sighed. Right. He'd crossed the line long ago with everything that had to do with Clark Kent. It was what it was…if only he didn't feel quite so…pathetic. And slightly guilty.
What if Clark knew what he was doing? His breath hitched imaging Clark watching him, licking his lips and rubbing himself, watching Lex jerk off—god. What was it about Clark that turned him into a horny fifteen year-old? He hopped off the machine and pulled his robe around himself, belting it tight. A perverted horny fifteen year old. Clark Kent wasn't sitting in his closet jerking off over Lex's clothes, and wishing he could smell him. Lex leaned against the gently vibrating machine…Clark's closet was too small for him and his clothes, Lex was sure. He probably lay on that god-awful tiny queen of his, his big feet barely missing the end…God, should the thought of Clark's feet make him stiff? He sighed and pressed back against the machine and thought wistfully that it was a shame it didn’t vibrate just a little harder….
~~~~~~~~
Clark gasped, shuddered and came with a whimper, trembling from head to toe with the need to hold in a scream. He slowly let tight muscles relax and eased his ass back to the bed. Wow…he wiped up most of the mess and eased his boxers back up. With a satisfied sigh, he pulled the sweater over his head, balled it up in his hands and inhaled deeply, his nose searching out little scent molecules hiding in the fibers, the natural fibers dyed with natural vegetable dyes…it was sexy but also, kind of funny. He doubted that Lex gave a damn about natural organic whatever—it was expensive and felt like sin and he was sure that was what really counted to Lex. He snickered quietly. Lex was so funny—and so hot.
He glanced at his closed bedroom door and pressed the sweater against his face again and breathed. There was a lingering scent in the fabric, hay and wood—the barn—but also the smell of Lex, kind of musky, faintly sweet with a hint of dark chocolate and some kind of powder that he used for deodorant…Clark would feel worse about knowing that about Lex but he kind of felt like he had a right to know these things. He saved him after all, and watched over him, so that kind of gave him a right to that, and…to the sweater…sort of.
Clark folded the sweater carefully in half, and then in quarters, patted it gently and tucked it under his pillow. Well, maybe not a right, not really. But Lex had left it that day he spent with them. He'd worn it trying to muck out the rental stalls. He'd been so proud of him and truth to tell, kind of turned on watching him work, sweat work it's way down his temple, his neck, his back. Clark shivered. Wished he could have been a drop of sweat rolling towards Lex's ass. Yeah.
Clark flopped back against the mattress. He'd given up trying to figure out why everything Lex did was hot. He was obsessed. So be it. Was that wrong? Surely other guys did…hid…he groaned. Jerked off wearing their best friend's clothes, sure. He pulled the neat little packet of sweater out and rubbed it lightly against his mouth. 'You know what,' he thought. 'I don’t give a damn.' He breathed warm air into the sweater, and it released a bit more of Lex's scent. He thought, 'I guess this is what they'd call a fetish?' He got up and wrapped the small square of fabric in a piece of white tissue and shoved it into the shoebox he kept just for that and put it in the back of his closet.
Back in bed, he wondered if Lex was taking care of the shirt and pants he thought Clark didn’t know about. Was Lex smelling his shirt, the one he'd forgotten one day after school? Left it balled up on the couch after watching a movie with him and was halfway home before he remembered. It still made him a little hard remembering how Lex had looked wearing his shirt…rubbing his nose over the sleeve…x-ray vision could be fun.
The pants, he'd purposely left with Lex, telling him he'd pick them up another time…swimming in his pool had been fun, but not as much fun as watching Lex slip his pants on, waistband hanging low enough that it proved once and for all, he was hairless all over and he really was built. All over. Clark smiled. The only place he hadn't looked was his bedroom. He was hoping that someday, he'd be invited. He ran his hand over his cock; it pushed up against his palm and he wrapped his hand around it, squeezing through flannel, picturing Lex doing the same over worn denim. He really wanted to be invited there. He wanted to be the one stroking Lex, feeling his cock push against the denim, feeling his breath get sharp, fast…Clark was panting, hard again. He slipped his hand inside the warm flannel, picturing Lex leaning against his desk, hand down his pants and jerking himself off, maybe whispering his name, fucking his fist faster, harder until he came all over inside the jeans, throwing his head back and yelling out…
"Ah! Lex…"
Clark looked at the handful of come thoughtfully, licked tentatively at the mess in his hand. "Hmmm." He licked broader stripes over the hot thick fluid. "I could do that." he murmured. He wiped his belly with a few tissues, and wiped his wet hand. 'And it's not bad,' he thought and shivered, imagining it was Lex instead of himself. He was going to let Lex know he knew. Someone had to take the first step. He didn’t mind. The next time he was there, he'd let Lex know. Or maybe if Lex was here. Or the next time they met at the Talon…soon. The next time he had a chance, he was taking it.
~~~
3-31-2008
continued in Something I Need To Tell You
Author:
roxymissrosePairings/Characters: Clark/Lex
Rating: nc-17
Word Count: 1810
Summary: fetishes, onanism and theft, oh my!
The door to his bedroom was closed—locked. He wanted to be alone. The day had been difficult, nothing going quite his way. It was the sort of day that ground away at one, no one particular moment stood out as a failure, it was a succession of small losses, topped off with a phone call from his father and that always, always was the icing on the cake. He particularly enjoyed the litany of his failures as a son.
The doors to his closet stood wide, he didn’t bother turning on the light because he knew what he wanted and where it was…he dropped his suit jacket across the back of the chair and loosened his tie. He paced slowly, taking out his cufflinks and dropping them on a tray on the counter…they'd be put away by evening if he wished it. He unbuckled and slid his belt free of the loops, the leather soundlessly slipping free and coiling in his hand, soft as butter. He dropped it on the counter next to the cufflinks. He sat and pulled his shoes off, one after the other, and drew the silk blend socks off his feet. He grimaced at the sight of his bare feet. He hated his feet—they always looked so thin, pale—feminine. He didn’t like when his partners spent too much time over his feet. He hated being fetishized in any way. Without thought, without wanting to, he drew a hand over his head—quickly dropped his hand when he caught himself. Fetish…he laughed out loud at that. He had a nerve, he supposed, when this was all about fetish….
His pants dropped to the floor and he stepped out of them, opened the buttons to his shirt and anticipation was making him a little hard. He felt….excited, embarrassed by his excitement. Took his shirt off and let it fall without thinking because here was what he'd looked forward to in his sick, pathetic way all day.
He unlocked that drawer he'd had built, a thin, wide drawer, meant to hold just two items, a shirt, and a pair of jeans, a little too big and a little too long for him and made of a cheap material that new, would have sanded his skin away, he was sure, but was soft as the sheets on his bed. He closed his eyes and sighed, pressed his palm against the bulge straining against the silk of his boxers…bed. The jeans had been washed and washed until they were worn thin in places and felt like the touch of a smooth hand on his body. The shirt was plain, plaid, flannel, and featured in a thousand fantasies. There was a small rip under one arm, a hole worn in the tail, and at the bottom of one pocket was an ink stain that he could have had laundered and removed but before he changed a thing about that shirt he'd die first, and in fact, he washed these items himself—had even taught himself to run the washing machine in order to have no one but himself touch them.
He slid the shirt on now, held the jeans to his face and imagined he smelled that peculiar scent, citrus, sweet, dry grass…summer…that's what Clark smelled like. He hoarded every instant they'd ever touched, they were ever close enough that he could smell him…he tucked his thumbs in the waistband of the boxers and hissed as they dragged against him. He stepped out of them, and wiped his hand against the smear of wet on his thigh…eyes closed he waited before stepping into the jeans. Clark.
Clark.
Clark…he rubbed his chest, pressed the flannel against his skin, ground the buttons against himself and imagined them pressed into him by a broad chest, imagined them bruising him, he grabbed at his dick pressing hard against the loose fabric and rode his own hand, grunting slightly with the effort, pictured doing that to Clark and watching his angelic face twist with the need to come, he'd bite his lip and try not to cry out, and push, rub, grind against him, beg him to fuck him, taste him just make him please god, please make me come Clark let me, god—he was pressed against the mirror, his cheek against the cool glass, sweat sticking to him and come starting to run down his leg…he was panting, trying to still his racing heart. Thinking. Wondering if he could have Clark's smell recreated. A cologne…anything was possible.
He was Lex Luthor. He'd make it possible.
It wasn't a real fetish he told himself. It was…role playing. Of a sort. He sat on top of the washer and thought, if it was a fetish, than he'd be compelled to…he sighed. Right. He'd crossed the line long ago with everything that had to do with Clark Kent. It was what it was…if only he didn't feel quite so…pathetic. And slightly guilty.
What if Clark knew what he was doing? His breath hitched imaging Clark watching him, licking his lips and rubbing himself, watching Lex jerk off—god. What was it about Clark that turned him into a horny fifteen year-old? He hopped off the machine and pulled his robe around himself, belting it tight. A perverted horny fifteen year old. Clark Kent wasn't sitting in his closet jerking off over Lex's clothes, and wishing he could smell him. Lex leaned against the gently vibrating machine…Clark's closet was too small for him and his clothes, Lex was sure. He probably lay on that god-awful tiny queen of his, his big feet barely missing the end…God, should the thought of Clark's feet make him stiff? He sighed and pressed back against the machine and thought wistfully that it was a shame it didn’t vibrate just a little harder….
Clark gasped, shuddered and came with a whimper, trembling from head to toe with the need to hold in a scream. He slowly let tight muscles relax and eased his ass back to the bed. Wow…he wiped up most of the mess and eased his boxers back up. With a satisfied sigh, he pulled the sweater over his head, balled it up in his hands and inhaled deeply, his nose searching out little scent molecules hiding in the fibers, the natural fibers dyed with natural vegetable dyes…it was sexy but also, kind of funny. He doubted that Lex gave a damn about natural organic whatever—it was expensive and felt like sin and he was sure that was what really counted to Lex. He snickered quietly. Lex was so funny—and so hot.
He glanced at his closed bedroom door and pressed the sweater against his face again and breathed. There was a lingering scent in the fabric, hay and wood—the barn—but also the smell of Lex, kind of musky, faintly sweet with a hint of dark chocolate and some kind of powder that he used for deodorant…Clark would feel worse about knowing that about Lex but he kind of felt like he had a right to know these things. He saved him after all, and watched over him, so that kind of gave him a right to that, and…to the sweater…sort of.
Clark folded the sweater carefully in half, and then in quarters, patted it gently and tucked it under his pillow. Well, maybe not a right, not really. But Lex had left it that day he spent with them. He'd worn it trying to muck out the rental stalls. He'd been so proud of him and truth to tell, kind of turned on watching him work, sweat work it's way down his temple, his neck, his back. Clark shivered. Wished he could have been a drop of sweat rolling towards Lex's ass. Yeah.
Clark flopped back against the mattress. He'd given up trying to figure out why everything Lex did was hot. He was obsessed. So be it. Was that wrong? Surely other guys did…hid…he groaned. Jerked off wearing their best friend's clothes, sure. He pulled the neat little packet of sweater out and rubbed it lightly against his mouth. 'You know what,' he thought. 'I don’t give a damn.' He breathed warm air into the sweater, and it released a bit more of Lex's scent. He thought, 'I guess this is what they'd call a fetish?' He got up and wrapped the small square of fabric in a piece of white tissue and shoved it into the shoebox he kept just for that and put it in the back of his closet.
Back in bed, he wondered if Lex was taking care of the shirt and pants he thought Clark didn’t know about. Was Lex smelling his shirt, the one he'd forgotten one day after school? Left it balled up on the couch after watching a movie with him and was halfway home before he remembered. It still made him a little hard remembering how Lex had looked wearing his shirt…rubbing his nose over the sleeve…x-ray vision could be fun.
The pants, he'd purposely left with Lex, telling him he'd pick them up another time…swimming in his pool had been fun, but not as much fun as watching Lex slip his pants on, waistband hanging low enough that it proved once and for all, he was hairless all over and he really was built. All over. Clark smiled. The only place he hadn't looked was his bedroom. He was hoping that someday, he'd be invited. He ran his hand over his cock; it pushed up against his palm and he wrapped his hand around it, squeezing through flannel, picturing Lex doing the same over worn denim. He really wanted to be invited there. He wanted to be the one stroking Lex, feeling his cock push against the denim, feeling his breath get sharp, fast…Clark was panting, hard again. He slipped his hand inside the warm flannel, picturing Lex leaning against his desk, hand down his pants and jerking himself off, maybe whispering his name, fucking his fist faster, harder until he came all over inside the jeans, throwing his head back and yelling out…
"Ah! Lex…"
Clark looked at the handful of come thoughtfully, licked tentatively at the mess in his hand. "Hmmm." He licked broader stripes over the hot thick fluid. "I could do that." he murmured. He wiped his belly with a few tissues, and wiped his wet hand. 'And it's not bad,' he thought and shivered, imagining it was Lex instead of himself. He was going to let Lex know he knew. Someone had to take the first step. He didn’t mind. The next time he was there, he'd let Lex know. Or maybe if Lex was here. Or the next time they met at the Talon…soon. The next time he had a chance, he was taking it.
~~~
3-31-2008
continued in Something I Need To Tell You