The Project
by Te
October 2001

Disclaimers: If they belonged to me, I can't think of much I would've done differently
in the pilot. fans self

Spoilers: Smallville, ep. 1

Summary: Lex does some thinking.

Ratings Note: R.

Author's Note: Deb and I have been squealing about the ep for the last two hours.
This had to happen.

Feedback keeps pretty boys tied up and panting. teland793@sbcglobal.net

*

"Help me."

All things considered, Lex is surprised he didn't piss himself -- or whatever form of
internal, metaphorical, non-pissing Luthors are supposed to do -- when he heard
those words again.

Same words, same cornfield.

It's good to know he's not the same trauma-case he was then. Father would be
pleased.

Something to file away under the heading of good parenting, to be filed away and
forgotten, like, hopefully, he will continue to forget the prodigal son.

Smallville.

He'd been sent here as something between a punishment and a opportunity, a chance
to 'work his way up' in the family business. A chance to get Lex as far away from
Metropolis and everything worth doing until he'd... learned his lesson?

Probably.

But he's had his near-death experience, his de rigeur epiphany, and now...

Now he has a project.

Nothing especially challenging, he doesn't think, but a project just the same.

Soft dark hair, sweet mouth. Lean, sweat-slicked body stretched out and tied up in
some predictably horrifying bucolic tradition.

He won't be losing that image any time soon.

They had names for that sort of behaviour where he came from.

Pricey clubs, too.

But. Clark.

Lovely boy to come back to life to, lovely boy to lead around the Luthor castle, all
hunched shoulders and wide eyes. As if he was going to break something.

Small-town honor and teenage regrets. Secrets in those eyes that Lex has every
intention of learning.

Oh, Clark.

Two days later and Lex can't quite keep himself from wondering what it would've
been like if Clark hadn't been in such a hurry to get out of the cornfield.

Or, when he's being more honest with himself, what it would've been like if Clark had
been just the slightest bit more... weakened.

One doesn't get crucified every day, after all, and he'd seemed so done in on that
cross. Scarecrow with no stuffing left whatsoever.

The smell of corn and rope and the sort of honest, clean sweat that Lex had previously
believed existed only in certain more optimistic brands of pornography. Long limbs
slack as that soft mouth and Lex still remembers the taste of him.

The hint of Clark under the river water, and the urgent desire to lick his lips.

Lick Clark's mouth and the arch of his throat, catch one tiny nipple between his
fingers and twist.

Push him down and have him, right there in the rich, black loam and Lex would try,
very hard, not to be savage.

He could manage it, he thinks. There is power in the control of one's baser urges.

There is pleasure in power.

Lex swings the odd green charm on its chain. Resists the urge to press it hard against
his groin. Smiles.

Clark.

End.