fan fiction by Vyola
I was feeling creative but nobody in #smallville would give me an icon idea. Then Joan suggested I write live CLex. I'd never written live before so it was quite a challenge. Looking over the result, I can see some repetition (and my fondness for the word suddenly) but on the whole I like it.

Once Upon a Bridge
a fractured fairytale

Once upon a time, there was a young boy named Clark, who lived with his parents in a small farmhouse on the outskirts of town. Though when he grinned you could believe he was simply a geeky lad, his stature proclaimed that he was no minor and so some statutes might not apply. Clark was a good boy, who did his chores, delivered 100% organic produce to lonely (and occasionally merry) widows, and subsidized his friends' allowances by never catching the school bus on time.

But though his parents loved him and his friends mocked him to his face (really, it's a sign of love, they swear), Clark felt that there was something missing in his life. He was strong, he was fast, he had abs like an International Male model, but where, oh where was that special someone just for him?

One morning, awaking from yet another hot, sweaty, yet totally chaste dream of a girl who made him want to throw up, he decided that enough was enough. Forging a permission slip from his father ("Dear Principal Kwan, please excuse Clark from school today. He is starting up his own small floral business -- a town like Smallville needs two florists -- and requires the time away from class to figure out how to sabotage the competition. Thank you, Clark's dad."), Clark ran away from the high school and headed to the old folks home.

There he slipped in through a conveniently unlocked door, dodging the many doddering senior citizens who were making their escapes from a lingering decline into unattractive old age by following a well-beaten track down to a weed-filled pond.

Slipping into an unoccupied room, Clark stood in front of the mirror and asked wistfully, "Oh, mirror, where is that special someone just for me?"

The mirror snarled back, "What, no 'hello'? No 'how are you'? No 'long time, no see, Cassie'? Kids today."

Clark leveled his best wounded-puppy gaze upon the mirror. There was a hint of quivering lip. Lush eyelashes fluttered, dropped to strawberries-and-cream cheeks, then flew up to reveal earnest green eyes. Cassie the mirror groaned. "Don't try that on me! I'm hard as glass. Aw, who am I trying to fool? You want to know about your true love, you say?"

The mirror grew cloudy, then an image appeared.

"The bridge?" Clark asked, surprised.

"Hey, I call 'em as I see 'em," Cassie said. "You, the bridge, a kiss -- you'll know it when it happens."

So that's why Clark could be found every day after school, leaning on the railing, fidgeting with a small tube of lip balm to keep his lips moist and ready for the big kiss.

The first week Clark waited, nobody stopped to kiss him. Undaunted, he came back on Saturday and was rewarded when half the starting line drove by, piled into the back of Whitney Fordman's truck.

Each and every one of those big, strapping, impressively athletic boys popped out and laid a deep, practiced, yet oddly inhibited kiss right on Clark's lips. "Hmmm," thought Clark. "It's like they're all on the WB."

The last boy in line was Whitney, and his kiss was the best of all. He and Clark stared deeply into each other's eyes, then Whitney said, "I'm sorry, Clark. I've just suddenly gotten the urge to cut my hair incredibly short, join the Marines, and spend the rest of my peak sexual years in an all-male environment. See ya later." All the football players hopped back into the truck and followed Whitney down to the recruiting center, where they were destined to forge their own legend, similar to the Theban Band but let's pretend there's no incest or homosexuality in ancient Greece, okay guys?

Clark continued to wait on the bridge and the next week Chloe and Lana rode by on horseback, the stallions' manes and tails whipping in the wind, the girls' slim young thighs tightening convulsively as they moved rhythmically with the horses' gait

Chloe was a bit awkward, but Lana seemed to be well versed in the proper moves. But then, she'd been taught from an early age by her aunt, while Chloe had had to depend on her divorced father.

Dismounting, the girls greeted Clark. Before he could even say "hi" in return, Chloe had pinned him against the railing and slipped him both her tongue and the Altoid she'd been sucking on. Clark found Chloe's kiss to be curiously strong, but still not quite right.

Lana moved in for her chance, but for some reason Clark turned his head at the last minute and her lips landed on his cheek. Oddly enough, it felt like her upper lip wasn't moving.

"C'mon, Chloe. Let's go to the cemetery and talk to my dead parents," Lana said.

"Sure," Chloe answered. "It sounds like a healthy way to deal with a decade-old trauma. And besides, it's important that you dictate the course of our relationship."

The girls remounted their huge, strapping stallions, then, hands clasped, they resumed their swaying canter toward Happy Acres, the largest cemetery in Smallville and the only one to regularly check for signs of zombies emerging from the graves and crypts.

So Clark continued his lonely vigil on the bridge.

One day during the third week, Pete came by to see how Clark was doing. He seemed a bit agitated as Clark told him about the football players and Whitney, and about Chloe and Lana.

"What's the matter?" Clark asked.

"I thought we were friends, man. I thought you had everything you needed!" Pete suddenly screamed with no warning whatsoever. He whipped out a gun that he'd conveniently found in an abandoned lab one day and waved it around, completely oblivious to the phallic symbolism.

Clark easily grabbed the gun from Pete's hand and moved in for the kiss he thought his friend wanted.

"Actually, man," said the token brother, "I'd much rather get a rap on the head and risk a concussion. I'm a ladies' man, really."

So Clark whapped Pete upside the head and ran him home before Pete woke up.

Sighing heavily, Clark returned to the bridge, more discouraged than ever. Maybe the magic mirror had been wrong. Maybe he'd never find his true love by waiting on the bridge.

None of the football players had been that special someone, though Whitney.... But he'd chosen a life of rigid discipline and service and Clark had to respect that. Neither Chloe nor Lana had stirred his heart, though the thought of them romping through the cemetery together stirred ... something. And Pete -- well, the less said about (or by) Pete, the better, apparently.

A whole month of leaning on the bridge railing, and Clark had made plenty of cross-country trucker friends, but still no true love.

"This is it," he thought to himself. "If I don't find my special someone today, I'm giving up on this bridge. After all, there're 15 other bridges and overpasses in Lowell County -- I'll go loiter somewhere else."

Clark was so discouraged that he didn't even bother to pick up the bale of wire rolling in the middle of the road. The long, fruitless hours on the bridge had dulled even his abnormally heightened sense of civic responsibility. Instead, he slipped on the headphones of his mp3 player and listed to Five for Fighting's latest hit, which in defiance of all property rights he'd downloaded from the Internet the day before.

That's why he almost didn't hear the squeal of expensive tires swerving across the lanes directly toward him.

Turning at the last minute, his eyes locked with the driver's as the car -- as strange and exotic as the Charolias bull Mr. Thurgood had tried to breed with his father's prize Holstein -- hit him at 60 miles per hour.

'I'm dead', thought Clark as he flew through the air. 'Wheeeee!' thought another part of himself that had never bothered to introduce itself to him.

Hitting the water was as big a shock as the impact of the car. The chill of the river closing over him shocked him back to the realization that he was still alive -- and the driver of the car was in dire need. Determined to save the life of someone who had actually had the privilege of driving a Porsche, Clark ripped the top of the car back like he was opening a tin of imported foi gras. Grasping the driver, Clark pulled him out of the car and headed for the surface.

Laying the limp form on the river bank, Clark searched desperately for a pulse, copping a quick grope once he realized that the bald head and expensive clothes actually belonged to a young man rather than a wizened oldster of 30 or more.

He wracked his brain for the steps of CPR. It was a bit difficult, as he'd spent most of that week of Health Class as the "victim", while Miss Pearce demonstrated the proper method for the class. Clark's grasp of lifesaving techniques was therefore a bit shaky and he'd never quite understood why he'd gotten an "A" for the unit.

Suddenly, the memories fell in line and Clark lowered his head and began breathing.

Tense moments passed, then he felt it -- a shudder passed through the body beneath him, then gloved hands came up to clutch at his head and keep him glued to now-warm lips while a practiced tongue pushed into his mouth.

'Wheeeee!' went that previously unknown part of Clark and this time the rest of him cheered right along with it.

Clark would have been happy to go on kissing, but the other man clearly needed oxygen. Reluctantly, he pulled back and got his first good look at the man he'd rescued.

Startled blue-grey eyes. Tempting lips marked with an intriguing scar. Lickable pale skin. Kinky hairlessness.

'Score!' went all of Clark.

"Say, you don't feel like joining the Marines or wandering around in a cemetery or whipping out a gun and waving it in my face, do you?" Clark asked, just to be sure.

"No, can't say that I do. How old are you?" Apparently, there were things the man needed to be sure of, too.

"Old enough."

"I've got a castle. Want to see my ancestral etchings? I'm rich and decadent, by the way."

Clark was thrilled. Being nice and wholesome was a gig he'd be glad to give up if it meant being a boy-toy for a young, kinky millionaire.

Clark stood up, carefully cradling his newfound special friend. "My name's Clark. What's yours?"

"Lex Luthor, Smallville's newest resident." Lex grinned up at him. "My, they grow farm boys strong around here. Any secrets you want to confide in me before I debauch you?"

"I'm strong and fast and I talk to mirrors. And my father's gonna hate you. But let's not let that stop us. Debauch away."

And so Clark carried Lex to his castle, where the two of them proceeded to break many state and local ordinances, as well as at least a dozen federal statues. And they lived happily ever after, because that's the way these things go.

the end
6 June 2002

This just in: Joan is still squicked by the hint of Nana. Hmmmm.... Nah. That's just too evil.

garden gate
Petals & Pixels
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