Lex has never been big on pyromania, so 'lighting his fire' has always been a metaphorical experience. Which is exactly what he told the head of the Science department at Met U when he questioned Lex about that rather destructive, yet very entertaining, inferno in the chemistry building.
Lex could've mentioned the theoretical part about adding in several tubs of Kool-Aid to make the fire blue, but the damage was already done. The university needed new labs anyway, and besides, sometimes things need to change.
Sometimes smoke and fire are pleasant experiences, but Lex as a boy scout is an inspired idea at best and laughable at worst. These days, Lex likes his fires in the fireplace, and he likes his smoke to smell a bit more herbal and a bit less acrid.
Burned brownies smell like tar, and there's no reason microwave brownies should be so difficult to make. If you're supposed to take the cover off before nuking the little fuckers then they shouldn't be covered at all.
Fuck freezer burn.
Fuck trying to cook for a boy who's mother won three blue ribbons at the Lowell County Fair earlier this year.
Lex knew there was a reason he hired Mrs. Battle to cook in the first damn place. Lex also knew there was a reason he lost 10 pounds his first year at Princeton. Beer may put weight on the stomach, but if the stomach is living off delivery and ramen noodles, the beer doesn't have a chance.
His dietary choices were just another reason for Lex to move off campus in his second year, and Lex thinks that Mrs. Battle should at least be grateful that he doesn't watch Iron Chef that often.
It's not as though he tried to make something using octopus or sea cucumbers. Even Lex knows his limits in the kitchen, how badly could he fuck up chicken?
According to the smoke alarm going off right now, pretty damn badly.
Stupid machine. Now Lex remembers why he doesn't leave loaded firearms in his desk anymore. Between this, those randomized visits from his dad, and that incident with Dominic's derby when he interrupted Lex's target practice, there could be real trouble.
Correction: there's going to be real trouble if that plastic disc over the back door doesn't shut up; and why, oh why, is his kitchen this big? Why can't he find a chair to stand on to disconnect the fire detector? Why does he need a fucking floor plan to find the utensil drawer?
Okay, if there's no mallet to throw at it, there's always Plan B.
Except that Lex really should've thrown a pot that didn't already have his watered down tomato sauce in it, and now he is really going to leave early for that meeting in Center City.
If he's within a ten-mile radius when Mrs. Battle sees this, she's going to poison his Eggs Benedict. On a positive note his apron kept most of the damage from his clothes, so at least Enrique won't be giving him those 'I know you've been playing in the dirt with that Kent-boy again' looks.
If only there was a reason for Enrique to give him those looks. Damn staff knows more than he does half the time. Lex is the king of his castle, but he lives in solicitous respect of his servants for a reason.
Like the fact that his cook owns an apron that says "Martha Rules." The first time Lex saw the apron he really did think of Mrs. Kent, so he supposes it could be worse. At least the apron doesn't say "Kiss the Cook."
But maybe if it did, Lex could distract Clark from the fact that he nearly decapitated him with a pot.
"Was it something I said?"
Lex has never seen tomato sauce look that good on anybody, although it looks less appetizing splattered all over this week's artichokes. He knew there was a reason people didn't wear white in the kitchen; maybe Clark should take his shirt off before he comes in any further. To avoid any more potential damage.
Yeah, and maybe Clark will coat himself in caramel and suggest that Lex skip the main course and head straight for dessert.
No, that's not Lex's luck. His luck is for Clark to suddenly appear when he's channeling his inner redheaded brat. It's Lex's luck that it's taken him three hours to cook a 45-minute meal and thus still be in the kitchen when Clark arrives.
Lex used to enjoy delivery days. Of course, Lex also used to be able to hear.
Fucking smoke alarm. Still, if Clark has to get that close to talk because of the noise, Lex will be more than happy to go deaf.
At the very least he'll never have to hear Lana Lang's nasal whining again.
"God, Lex. It smells like burnt leaves in here, are you okay? "
"I'm fine. Just a small kitchen accident."
A small kitchen accident that Lex had to open the back door and all the windows to air out. Who knew that cooked poultry smoked like that?
"Most household accidents happen in the kitchen, Lex."
"No, that's the bathroom. 75% in fact, if I'm not mistaken." Of course at least 50% of those bathroom accidents are probably sex-related, and of those, at least 80% are probably Lex-related.
The other 25% of household accidents could be Clark-related. Especially with the way that Clark's speaking right into Lex's ear.
Clark's lips are so close to Lex's ear that Lex can feel the whisper of Clark's breath. The air from Clark's mouth is warm, really warm. Lex is actually feeling very tingly all of a sudden; if he was holding something sharp he'd probably drop it and there would probably be another notch for kitchen accident census.
"Oh, right. Well, you know, kitchens are dangerous, especially for the uninitiated. Why are you actually in yours?"
"It's a kitchen, people use it for cooking. This is mine, I'm cooking in it. Is there a problem with that?"
Lex has to turn to Clark and grin following his declaration. He's concerned that if he doesn't do something to stop Clark rasping in his ear like Deep Throat, he might do something stupid and juvenile, like coming in his pants.
"No, but I've got a problem with all the sound pollution."
"I don't see you trying to rectify the situation, either, Mr. Fireman. Are you going to throw that expensive organic produce at the detector or something?"
Now there's an idea for a new sport.
"It's definitely an idea, but considering that I barely got to play football, I don't think my aim would be that good."
"I have no doubt that you could hit any target that you aimed for, Clark."
Lex is always willing to engage in some target practice if Clark's interested. Epees optional.
"By the way, Clark, I'm sure it's a novel concept for my father, but in 2002 the hired help are allowed to make deliveries through the front door."
"Well, I figured this was easier since the back door does lead right to the kitchen. You know, the place where the food goes when you're not trying to burn the castle down."
"I didn't know you were going to be home, honestly. When I heard all the noise and smelled the smoke, I thought Sally might be in trouble."
Sally? Honestly? What's all this honestly bullshit? When did Clark suddenly feel the need to be honest all the time? Whatever happened to playing coy and being obtuse?
"So you use the back door when you want to avoid me?"
"You're getting paranoid in your old age, Lex. I figured you were probably still at the plant, you know, flogging the midnight oil."
"Burning the midnight oil, Clark. Not flogging. Especially not at four in the afternoon." Flogging is like whipping and whipping involves leather. Lex is not thinking about Clark and leather when the kitchen looks like a war zone. Really, he can prioritize.
Clark in leather. Licking tomato sauce from a whip. That's one hell of a visual aid.
"Burning, flogging, whatever. I figured that since you were working, I could just come by later."
"Later. Later like when?" Later like when Lex was getting read for bed 'later?' Later like in time for a sleepover? "Did you run this plan by your commanding officer?"
"She, he, I mean she's off at her Bridge Club."
"I see, and Il Duce?"
"Il Duce. Funny. He's, um, he's busy."
Not a particularly good recovery, but if the implication is that Clark has employed a bit of subterfuge to come hang out with crazy guy in the castle, Lex is all for it. He knew there was a reason he had tried to cook in the first place.
"Ah, thinking ahead."
"You should try it sometimes. You know, when you're not flinging pots at defenseless smoke detectors. Speaking of which, I don't suppose you actually want me to turn that off, do you?"
"I wasn't expecting you to do a belly dance to its rhythmic vibrations if that's what you were suggesting."
"I'll take that as a yes."
"Anything to stop the Harpies shrieking." Or almost anything, if it didn't have to involve Clark leaving Lex's personal space. Lex was actually perfectly content with the invasion.
However, Lex is even happier with anything that gets Clark to reach up so his shirt exposes that nice little expanse of stomach that Lex wouldn't mind eating dinner off of.
Nevertheless, quiet is a blessed thing, and Lex is going to appreciate it a lot more once his ears stop ringing. Tinnitus was not on the menu for the evening, although apparently neither is Chicken Parmigiano.
Lex should not cook. He sees that now. All those bowls and pots and plastic container things in the refrigerator are there for a reason. Lex used to reheat his food because it was easier, less fuss. It never occurred to him that there was some sort of skill required for this cooking lark. He's going to have to give Mrs. Battle a raise.
A big raise to show his appreciation.
Like the way he cooked to show Clark his appreciation, but perhaps that's not a good example.
"Lex, you cooked?"
"Don't you dare pity me, Clark Kent. Nobody pities Luthors."
"I don't pity you as a Luthor, Lex, I pity you as someone who's not nearly as big as his cook. You know, Sally is going to make you clean this mess up when she finds out."
"That's the second time you've mentioned Sally. Who is this 'Sally?'"
"Sally is your cook, Lex. You've met her right? Nice lady, silver hair, normally in a bun. Likes to hit people on the hand with her wooden spoon when they mess with her food."
Oh. Yeah. Lex has had the spoon experience. It wasn't pleasant. The only thing less pleasant was the fact that it was perfectly justified because he tried to taste the vanilla cookies before they were ready. Lex is twenty-one going on five, and Sally is the lady from the Keebler elves commercial.
If cartoons believed in corporal punishment.
"I don't know anybody named Sally, Clark. I call her by the name I hired her under, Mrs. Battle."
"Mrs. Battle was my fifth grade science teacher, Lex. Don't you think you should be more sociable with the person who cooks your food?"
"Why? She provides a service; I pay her for a service. I don't pay her for her thoughts on whether or not cloning is against the laws of nature."
"You should be nicer, Lex." Lex nice. Now there's an oxymoron.
"There's no point, Clark. Don't confuse the help with family. At least one can be fired."
"And I thought people said that the way to a man's heart is through his stomach."
Yeah, well. The way to Lex's heart is still up for debate, but the way to his cock is through his pants if Clark is interested.
"People say that, Clark, because it's the most efficient way to kill without needing a plastic tarp."
"Lex, be serious."
"I'm not worried that she's going to try and poison me, if that's what you're worried about."
It's not like she's in Lex's will, and it's not as though they're in ancient Persia and Clark is Lex's food taster. Nothing is going to change Lex's relationship with Sally, Mrs. Battle. Not even Clark, not even Lex's trashed kitchen, just as long as Lex isn't in the house tomorrow morning.
"Not when you're doing all the work yourself. What happened to the microwave, and... are those burned hamburgers in the oven?"
Hamburgers? Does Lex have a sign on the gate that says over one billion served? Actually...
"That was chicken, not hamburgers; and if you say one thing out of line you'll find out first hand what kind of brain damage blackened food can do."
"Blackened, Lex? Jesus, those are charcoal briquettes. I didn't know you liked barbeque. I could've brought you some from home. Mom just made..."
"I'm not interested in what your mother made, Clark. The idea was for you to have food your mother *didn't* make."
The idea was to celebrate an occasion that Clark probably doesn't even remember.
"Why? Don't you like my mom's cooking?"
"We're not talking about your mom, Clark, we're talking about my cook, about my cooking. You won't let me give you anything else, I should at least be able to do this. Without help."
"I could've just taken something from..."
No, Lex is not going to ask for help today. Any other day but today. No one else saved him from that riverside grave eight months ago today, he doesn't care about anyone else; this is supposed to be for Clark.
The whole idea to actually * woo* Clark through his stomach was fudge on the brownies, but Lex is not going to confess that. Not now. Not ever. Especially not when eating that stuff would probably have put them both in Smallville General.
Lex's plans never fail this spectacularly, and it's not even the look on Clark's face that shows Lex that he went too far. It's the fact that he almost badmouthed the one person who might keep Jonathan Kent from locking him in the storm cellar on the off chance that Lex ever gets invited for dinner... which is looking less and less likely.
Lex will have tea and scones with Mussolini and Martha Stewart first.
"Clark, I'm sorry. I'm just..." Lex is just fucking frustrated. It's been a long time since he had to put effort into doing anything, and cooking sober just shouldn't be this hard. It shouldn't require this much effort, not like Clark does.
"It's all right, I can't cook much either, besides what mom showed me."
"Yeah, but you have your mother, I've got a cook. It's not the same. I pay her to cook for me, not to teach me how to cook."
"That doesn't mean you can't learn how to cook."
"Clark, do I need to explain to you the concept of employer-employee relations?"
"I'm not your employee, Lex." Sadly, no. If Clark was another LuthorCorp employee perhaps he would be more susceptible to Lex's offers of shiny phallic toys and dates in platonic disguises. "I'll teach you how to cook if you want."
"I'm not looking for any handouts, Clark." Not even if it involves sex.
"I never thought you were, look, let me just find some place free of the wrath of Lex to put down these artichokes."
"The Wrath of Achilles is more like it. Try the hallway."
It'll give Lex a chance to check out Clark's ass in those jeans, which thankfully, were new back when Lex was still getting his undergraduate degree.
It's so crass to say it but Clark leaving is almost as good as Clark coming. Perhaps. Lex really wants to test the validity of that statement.
"Okay, so you were cooking dinner? For me?"
It's not the wide eyes or the smile that has Lex hooked. It's the hands. It has to be the hands. Lex is grinning like an idiot because Clark is running his hands all over the counter top. Like he's nervous, like he's fidgeting. Like he wants to do something else with his hands, like grope Lex.
Or not. Maybe Lex put the wrong thing in that poor excuse for tomato sauce. Maybe that wasn't oregano at all, but it's been ages since he kept any stash in the kitchen.
"Well, that was the plan, yes. I was trying to make Chicken Parmigiano, with brownies for dessert. I hadn't intended on you wearing part of the meal."
Lex had intended on Clark being the meal. However, the more he considers it maybe he doesn't need to eat at all. Clark is more than enough to divert his appetite elsewhere. Maybe he needs to lick that tomato spatter right off Clark's forearm.
"You didn't have to go to all that trouble, especially for me."
"Why not?" It's not like there's anybody else worth the effort. Not without arsenic being involved.
"Lex, I didn't come here for some four-course meal. I just... we could've just had sandwiches or something simple. Simple is good."
"Simple is simple. I don't do simple."
Lex does elaborate and imported and complicated, like Clark. Lex is not going to seduce Clark with grilled cheese sandwiches and 2% milk. It's a matter of principle.
"Well, I do. I like simple. You should try it sometimes, it'd probably save you a lot on appliances and dishes."
"Watch it, Wolfgang, I still have garlic bread to throw."
"I think it's really nice of you to do this, but..."
Clark wasn't going to stay. Clark wants to eat real food. If Lex had been listening he would've known that.
Lex used to think before he met Clark. He used to have plans, short term and long term. Now they've all gone down the garbage disposal and all he can see is Clark Kent.
Goddamn organic farmers.
What else is Lex supposed to do then? He can't give Clark cars or clothes or nights out or any of the stuff that works with everyone else. So far it's only been fireworks and wasted concert tickets, and Lex actually wanted to see Radiohead.
The sacrifices he makes for Clark he'd never make for anyone else, except that Clark doesn't seem to notice. Or doesn't seem to care. Or maybe it's what he expects his friends to do. Except that sometimes it's like the more Lex offers Clark the more Clark turns him down.
Maybe Clark's into sadism. Maybe he likes driving Lex crazy, it certainly produces interesting results. If Lex was a psychologist, he'd be enthralled with his own obsessiveness; but nothing seems to add up. Lex could give Clark the world, and Clark doesn't want it. He just wants to deliver produce and lust after Lana Lang and 'hang out' with Lex.
Lex doesn't want to 'hang out,' or he does and can't say it. So instead he tries to set the kitchen on fire because he knows Clark will save him. Sad but effective.
All the same, Lex's methods are tanking faster than Enron stock. He's doing something wrong.
Lex hates being wrong.
"Lex, why don't we just forget all this chicken stuff and try something easier?"
'What, like peanut butter and jelly? I'll have you know that even I can make a sandwich."
"I never said you were incompetent, Lex. I was thinking something more like the brownies. Or maybe cookies."
Incompetent and Lex? Clark might as well have said Lex was impotent. Talk about insults. Only Clark could talk to him this way.
"I'm not impotent -- I mean incompetent."
"I never said you were, Lex. Unless there's something you'd like to tell me?"
Goddamn fifteen year-olds with cocky demeanors and white teeth. Lex should just... just lick that look right off Clark's face.
"I hate to tell you this, Clark, but the brownies went up with the microwave."
"Well that certainly explains the burn marks on the wall and the brown stuff on your face."
"What brown stuff on my face? Clark, don't mess with the guy who's going to feed you."
"Feed me what, Lex? Hockey puck chicken and gooey bits of brownie?"
"Look, hold still, I just want to get that stuff off your face." Maybe if Lex is lucky Clark will lick it off his face. Not even. Lex isn't in that well with the people upstairs, and if he's calling in favors from the guy downstairs he wants it to involve more nudity.
Not just that, but Lex shouldn't be getting a hard-on from Clark wiping excess brownie mix off his cheek. Except that Clark's touching Lex's face with his fingers.
When did Lex turn into a thirteen year-old girl?
Thank god for aprons. Martha really does rule, it's a shame she's going down for eight to ten.
"Clark, exactly how do you propose to make brownies without brownies to actually make?"
"There's this thing, it's called cooking, Lex. Most people don't have microwave brownies."
"Well, what other purpose is there for a microwave?" It's not as though Lex would stick lube in there, that would defeat the entire purpose of friction. Besides last time he tried that, the tube exploded all over everything.
"Oh, c'mon, Clark. Even I can do that."
"Are you sure about that?" It's not the hands, Lex was wrong, it's the smile. The smile that would make Lex's knees go weak if that sort of thing ever happened to him, instead he just has to contend with his mouth moving of its own initiative.
All this smiling back at Clark is going to have his jaw sore for days, and not from anything nearly as satisfying as Lex would like.
"Despite current appearances to the contrary."
"If you say so."
"I do say so. Don't question the man who's wearing a Martha Stewart apron." Especially when he's already had one disaster in the kitchen and is hungry for stuff that's not on any menu in Kansas.
"Yeah, I wasn't really going to mention that, but Martha, Lex? She's kinda crazy, isn't she?"
"I've met her. I wouldn't say she's crazy as much as she's... dedicated. Besides if this cooking thing drives her half as crazy as it's made me, I'd say she's got a plausible defense."
"You're just doing it wrong."
Well, that's the first time anyone's ever said that to Lex.
"Oh really? All right then, Julia Child, show me how it's supposed to be done."
"I don't know how it's supposed to be done." Lex could rectify that. "But I'll show you how to make brownies, if you want."
"Oh, excuse me then, Betty Crocker. Lead the way." Lex is just having way too much fun, Clark Kent, pastry chef.
"Hey, don't talk badly about my brownies. They're actually really good. They're moist and chocolaty."
Moist. Chocolaty. Oh, fuck. Lex is never going to last through this training session, he might as well pull out the chocolate sauce now, fall to his knees, and beg.
"I think Sally keeps the ingredients and stuff over there by the stove." Damnit. The stove isn't by Lex, the stove is by the door. That means Clark is moving away. Damnit.
"I'm just going to, um, put the chicken back in the oven so that it doesn't do any more damage."
"You're just doing that so I can't throw it at you."
Not that Lex would ever do anything to damage Clark, not that he probably could. Impervious bastard. It could be fun to try though, in a purely scientific he'd-make-it-up-to-Clark-with-white-chocolate-and-champagne way.
"Okay, I've got everything, although I've never seen chocolate powder like this before. I guess Sally uses this imported stuff instead of the semi-sweet. All we need are some clean bowls, which should be next to the fridge. Lex, could you get some?"
"I can't believe I'm being relegated to soux chef in my own kitchen."
"Lex, I dunno what a soux chef is, but you know, sometime today would be good."
"Jesus. Yes, Mrs. Stewart."
God, Lex is not getting turned on by alpha cooking Clark, really he's not. Only bossy Clark is kind of hot. If Clark lost the clothes and got an apron, he could be the American version of The Naked Chef.
Maybe he'd let Lex lick his spoon.
Definitely something to consider.
"I'd like to think that I'm a little nicer than Martha Stewart, Lex."
"I'm debating that at the moment."
There's actually nothing to debate. Lex doesn't want to see Martha naked, Clark however...
"Very funny. You can't see me laughing because I'm not."
"Ah, I see we have an enfant terrible in the making."
"A what? I don't speak French."
"No, but I'm sure that Farmer is your second language."
French, however, would see Clark further in this lifetime. Maybe Lex should consider being magnanimous and giving Clark lessons. Privately. Under intense training conditions.
"Notice how I'm not laughing here? How old are you again?"
"Old enough to let you do the cooking."
"Right. Well, you're never going to learn anything acting like that, and if you keep it up you won't get to lick the spoon."
Licking the spoon. That's how Lex got in trouble with Mrs. Battle.
"You need to stand right here. No, not there. Here."
Here. Right here. Right in front of Clark? Nestled close enough to feel Clark breathing on his scalp, but not close enough to press back against that firm lean body? This is a sick joke.
Especially if Lex doesn't get to lick the spoon.
"Is this your way of casting aspersions on my height?" Lex is not sulking.
"What? I never said you were short."
"Sure, Kobe, sorry I haven't asked how the air is up there."
"Lex. I like you just the way you are. Bad cooking skills and all."
Aww. When did Lex become so goddamn needy?
"All right, I was just checking. So let's get back to business, Emeril."
"Look, I'm not saying your short, you're not. This is just my way of making sure that you participate in the baking process. Besides, you're the one with the apron."
Yes, but that's not Lex's fault. He had to cover up his clothes to keep himself looking appetizing; he's seen how Clark looks at him when he wears jeans. Besides, Lex will never be able to spill stuff all over Clark and get him naked if Lex is the one actually in front of the bowl.
Damnit. Time for Plan C.
"...the basics about sifting the flour and using the flat side of the knife to level out the measurements, right?"
"No, but I won't remember it later anyway, so carry on."
"Lex, c'mon, where are you going? If I'm going to show you how to do this, you have to be serious."
"And you have to put on an apron." Clark can't be The Naked Chef for the Food Network with all his clothes on or without an apron. Lex won't allow everyone to ogle his personal chef that way. Lex will probably have to get Clark an apron that says, 'Lex Lights my Fire,' or something equally insipid and declaratory.
"Here, Martha, I grant you control of the kitchen."
Lex would also grant Clark control of the bedroom and the remote control and perhaps even his new Ferrari, but not the Aston Martin. All Clark has to do is ask. All Clark has to do is just, oh, not do that mouth thing that makes Lex want to knock everything off the counter and fuck Clark using the extra virgin olive oil.
"One apron to rule us all, Clark, c'mon."
"You're such a sci-fi nerd."
"I didn't notice you complaining the third time you asked me to go with you to see Lord of the Rings."
"Well, I read on the internet that there was a car in that scene in Hobbiton and I wanted to... You're trying to distract me."
No, not really. Not with talk of Tolkein. Perhaps with talk of Dr. Ruth and 101 Uses for Crisco.
"I would never distract someone who could poison me at any moment."
"Very funny. Pass the sugar."
"Which one's that again?"
"The one that says sugar on it, Lex."
"Just making sure you're paying attention. I could've handed you arsenic or something."
"The Mad Scientist strikes again. You don't want me dead, Lex. If I died, my dad would start delivering the produce again."
Lex would never eat another vegetable for the rest of his life. The Zone Diet has to have some redeeming qualities.
"Good point. So, you actually have this stuff memorized?"
"My mom got tired of me asking every other week, and said if I wanted them I'd have to make them myself."
"Good, so you can just come here and make them every week."
"Why would I do that?"
So that Lex can have quality Clark time.
"I'll pay you."
"I'll be charitable. You can lick the bowl, but the spoon is mine."
"Okay, wait. No."
"No. If I'm cooking I get to lick whatever I want. There shouldn't be any charity involved."
Lex can understand Clark's qualms, except --
"My kitchen, my spoon."
"Are you trying to tell me that you're calling dibs on a spoon?" Well, it's a special kind of spoon, isn't it?
"Okay, we'll make a deal. If you come here and cook, you can lick whatever you want, but the spoon is mine."
"Lex, it's a spoon."
"I'll give you a truck for it?" It takes a moment to realize what he just said, but Lex has always wondered what he'd sound like when he's desperate. Now he knows.
"I told you, I can't take the truck."
"But I could just put it in storage for you until..." Until Lex plays hockey in hell. It was only a suggestion, but it's got Clark giving Lex the Jonathan Kent stare of ball-shriveling. Jesus, it's more effective than Martha Stewart with a steak knife.
So much for that erection.
"It's blocking the space where I keep my bikes."
"You have bikes?"
Oh yes, Lex has bikes. The kind he'd like to ride with Clark. Or perhaps ride Clark on. Red lacquer and leather seats. Gleaming Buells in titanium and silver.
"Not the kind you're thinking of."
"I was thinking like Catamount."
"Catamount? Do they make tricycles?" It actually sounded like Clark said 'catamite' for a second there.
"No, they... Lex, stop teasing me. What kind of bikes are you talking about?"
"The kind that go very very fast and answer to the name of Ducati."
"Holy shit, you have a motorcycle, Lex?"
Shit. Shit? Clark just cursed. Clark just spilled chocolate powder all over Lex. Okay, Plan Q.
"Not a motorcycle, Clark, motorcycles, plural. I didn't know you were such an aficionado."
"I'm not, I just. Um. Wow." Yeah, okay. Wow. Being covered in chocolate powder got Lex a 'shit' and owning a Ducati got him a 'wow.' Perhaps if he covered himself in melted chocolate and rode his new 998R in the kitchen, Clark might say 'fuck.'
"Have you ever ridden a motorcycle before, Clark?"
Lex can just see Clark in all that leather now. Black calfskin riding Clark's thighs and gripping that gorgeous ass.
So much for thoughts of Jonathan Kent and Martha Stewart keeping Lex down.
"God, Lex, I'm sorry about your shirt." His shirt? Oh, yeah the Yale shirt that now says 'ale' and is covered in a powder that tastes a lot like chocolate milk.
Yeah, Lex knows this shirt, it's the one that Clark seems to be pawing at. Or rubbing at.
"I think you're actually rubbing the chocolate into the shirt, you know."
"Oh, I'm sorry. I'll stop."
"No. I mean, don't worry about it. I've got plenty of shirts. Besides, you never answered my question about the bike."
"What, um, question?"
"Would you like to ride my bike?"
"Oh, look, you've got powder all over your arms and your neck and your..."
His what? Why is Clark avoiding the motorcycle question? It wasn't that heavy on the innuendo, at least from Lex's perspective. So why is Clark looking at Lex like he's moist and chocolaty goodness, and why is Clark doing that invasion of the Lex space again?
"You've got powder on your face."
"I could get that for you."
"Are you going to say something besides 'yeah' anytime soon?"
"Yeah. Do you want to lick the spoon?"
"I'd rather lick something else."
So would Lex. Lex would really like to lick and suck Clark's 'something else,' and not have the kitchen counter being pressed against the small of his back at the same time. But the smell of Clark and diluted tomato sauce and apple shampoo is more than enough incentive for Lex to be adaptable.
Lex swears he used to have personal space issues before he met Clark.
It's the drugs. It has to be. That cocoa powder has coke in it or the oregano was really hash. There's no other way for this to actually be happening to Lex, except that... there's something warm and wet on his neck and Clark's hair is tickling his cheek.
"Clark. Clark, are you licking me?"
"That was the idea, am I doing it wrong?"
"Good because, you know, you taste better than a spoon."
Lex can talk, his voice is only hitching because Clark is licking him right, right there.
"There's powder on my neck?"
"Right..." Lick. "Behind your ear."
"Oh, well as long as you're being thorough. You know, if you really have a spoon fixation, I've got an alternative you can try out."
"Really?" Lick. "Does it taste better than you covered in chocolate powder?"
Lick. There's a lot of licking happening, but only on Lex's exposed parts, and then only above his shirt collar. The rest of Lex's body would like to lodge a formal protest, but it seems that his vocal cords are otherwise occupied trying to control anything that could be construed as a whimper.
"I'd like to - to think so, but feel free to add as much chocolate as you need."
Wow. Clark really did mean lots, there's powder all over the floor. There's Lex being pulled down on the floor.
Who knew that powder provided traction that good? At least Lex didn't land on his ass, no, just on the chocolate covered farmboy.
"Clark, there are other rooms around here besides the kitchen, you know."
Lick. "Already messy."
Lex's can't be too sure because he's busy licking Clark's neck, and his ear and as much exposed skin as he can find, but he's reasonably sure that Clark's shirt was white at some point.
Maybe he should just take it off and check.
Wow. The only thing better than being licked by Clark covered in chocolate powder is being licked by a shirtless Clark covered in chocolate powder.
Chocolate powder? It's the best idea ever. "What's a good idea, Clark?"
"Taking your shirt off."
"Before we do anymore damage, right, Clark?"
"Yeah." Lick. "We don't want to get it dirty." Right. Because Lex's shirt's not already trashed after the chocolate powder, the cooking, and the countless nights he's spent in labs blowing up things for the sheer fun of it.
"Just you, Lex."
That wasn't Lex whimpering, and he's not being seduced by a teenager with a tin of Droste's chocolate powder.
Perhaps denial isn't the way to go this time around.
Perhaps if Lex just rubs his powder-covered hands over various parts of Clark's anatomy, he can coax something out of Clark to cover his own noise. All in the name of preservation of course.
Right, grope the teenage delivery boy for self-preservation.
What's he going to say when they ask about those chocolate handprints on Clark's ass?
"More powder, Clark?"
"I was actually wondering if you had any chocolate sauce?"
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