Author's Notes: Inspired by the intro to Jenn's Get Clark Laid Now! Challenge, despite not really fitting the bill. Also inspired by the fact that I live in a university rez, and you can smell the frustration on the guys doing the Lent Challenge. Mega-humongous nuggles to Dawn, who saw the Clex that could be.

Day One - Friday

It was all Pete's fault.

Clark was sitting up in the loft, minding his own business -- and, well, minding Lana's and Chloe's business too, through the telescope. They had some kind of music on and were bouncing around, singing and wearing nothing but big pink towels.

Clark liked Friday afternoons. He only wished the towels weren't quite so big and fluffy.

It was into this happy tableau that Pete barged, announcing himself with extra clomping of his boots on the stairs. Even though he knew Clark could hear him coming up the driveway, he still clomped. Clark was pretty sure it was a Short Guy Thing, but he'd never say a word.

"Clark, my brother," Pete announced in his Baptist Minister voice, "I have a Dare."

Clark whirled around, all ears. Forget girls in towels. A new dare was infinitely more exciting.

They'd been doing the game since -- well, since forever. Totally juvenile, obsessive-compulsive one-upmanship, it'd been their favorite hobby for years. After a while, though, they got bored. They acquired standards. Only something really big tempted them now, and it sounded like Pete had a doozy.

"I got the idea from my cousin Joey - you know, the first-year engineer living in rez at Met U?" Clark nodded. "Well, the guys there all make a bet in March. Actually, not March - Lent."

" . . . They give something up?"

"Bingo. Hands off, for the whole blessed season."

"Hands off what?"

Pete smirked. "You're the one whose parents moved you into the barn, what do you think?"

Whoosh of red. Clark squirmed, protesting, "Hey, I have to stay relaxed. It's not my fault I break stuff when I'm stressed!"

"Um, yeah, it kind of is, Destructo-boy."

"Man. Destructo-man. We went over this in fourth grade."

"Whatever. Anyway, I bet that Joey couldn't make it. Then he bet that me and my friends sure couldn't, either."

Indignance. "You bet for me? I don't think I like that, Pete."

"If we make it for two weeks, Joey burns us copies of any six software programs, games, or DVDs we like. The `geers have everything."

That stopped him cold. Free discs. Suikoden III. The Fellowship of the Ring. Holy shit, Adobe fucking Photoshop, and he tried to imagine the look on Chloe's face if he brought her that for a peace offering.

All he had to do was not jack off for two weeks. He could do that. Easy.

Easy like blowing the candles right off the cake at his tenth birthday, clenching his fists in his hair because they wanted so bad to touch something, anything, and everything broke but him when he was excited.

Oh, damn.

"What if we don't make it?"

"That's the best part. Five minutes after we made the deal, I told Joey about the Agent Scully specials going on at all Source Adult Video outlets this month. He turned the air on MY end of the phone blue with curses."

Clark gave Pete the megawatt smile. "You'll make a fine lawyer someday."

"Hell, I was thinking next I could take on the Luthors."

Clark thought about that for about one-bajillionth of a second. " . . . No."

"Someday, maybe?"

Humor the hopeful human. "Sure, someday, yeah."

Pete scowled. "Don't condescend to me, Mr. `It was just adrenalin'. That was the lamest thing ever."

"Lame? Want me to bring up the time you tried to grow dreadlocks?"

"Why, you . . .

Day Four - Monday

It wasn't so bad. Of course, there was lots of stuff to distract himself with at the farm. He'd done so many chores he almost felt tired out. His dad was giving him wierd looks, but that was okay.

He had a feeling things would get a little harder at school, where there was Lana looking pretty in a tight pink sweater and playing with a strand of her hair. They were alone in the library, and she was nibbling on her lip as she told him about the accounting homework for math class.

"So, say the Talon makes $435.96 in one day, then I have to deduct . . . Clark? Clark, where are you going?"

Day Five - Tuesday

Layouts. Layouts were boring. The Torch was always behind schedule; there was lots to do here. And typing kept his fingers busy.

And best of all, Chloe was still mad at him. Charging around issuing demands, bitching at him about this paragraph or that byline. No, she wasn't sexy at all, running a hand through her hair, looking at him with those big, expressive eyes so full of something, and . . .

Photoshop, Clark. Free. Think unsexy thoughts . . . unsexy had the word sex in it . . .

The semicolon key was dust. Shit.

Shit. Manure. Cows. Clark began to relax.

Shoveling manure. Lex shoveling manure, happy and busy and smelling like Clark's house where he'd slept the night before, slender back bending and straightening like some kind of really hot tree . . .

Clark was in hell. A non-masturbatory hell where trees were part of sex similes.

And the space bar was more of a space than a bar. Shit!

"What did you say?" And Chloe was right in front of him, looking pissed and her arms were crossed under her breasts. Shit shit shit.

"Uh, I -"

"Forget it. Go home, Clark. Jesus, you're a space cadet today."

He was out the door before she noticed the keyboard, thank God.

Day Six - Wednesday

"Pete, tell me you can't do this anymore."

Pete was kind of squirmy and twitchy, but his eyes weren't bugging out like Clark knew his were.

"I'm doing okay, man. Punching bags are a good thing."

"The one time I punched one, my fist got stuck in it and I ripped it off the ceiling trying to get free."

"That's how the one in the gym got shredded last year? I thought it was a meteor-rock dog or something." Pete looked at him with a mix of pity and awe. "Man, you can't touch anything, can you?"

"Well, my face and stuff, but that looks wierd in public, you know?"

"Yeah, it does." Pete looked pointedly at Clark's head, where one hand was twirling through his hair too fast to see. Clark stopped with a curse, started to bang his fist on the table, stopped himself, and cursed louder.

Pete laughed.

Clark glared and tried not to think about lasers. "Your cousin just better come through with these discs."

"Oh, he will. His parents don't know about his nipple rings."

Clark didn't move for about ten seconds, then, "That . . . was exponentially more than I ever wanted to know about Joey."

"It was for me, too, but at least I can guarantee his cooperation. If you think you can keep going, that is. We're not even halfway done; it's still worth it if you want to bail."

That stung. Pete offering him an out. "No way. I can handle myself."

"No, Clark, the entire point of the dare is that you're not allowed to handle yourself. "

Clark buried his face in his hands. Trapped between hanging with a sarcastic Pete and being alone with a neglected Little Clark. Hell. Just . . . hell.

Day Eight - Friday

Clark showered virtuously. He'd made it past the halfway point. So what if his skin wanted to crawl off his skeleton? His pride was intact.

Mom gave him more than the usual quota of worried looks at breakfast. "Honey, are you feeling alright?"

Hmm. How to go about explaining to your mother that you're suffering from masturbation deficiency?

Oh God. Never going near that thought again. Ever. Not to defuse thoughts of Lana or Chloe, not even to defuse thoughts of Lex.

He managed a smile. "Just kinda jumpy. I dunno why."

Mom smiled back and handed him his lunch money. "Well, after school, you twitch your way by the hospital. Doctor Bryce has the results of my latest blood tests."

"More tests?" Ingraining Clark with a paranoia of doctors had made his parents leery of them as well. Why would they be seeing one now? Unless - Christ, "Is there something wrong with the baby?"

"No! No, don't worry. It's just -- older women need to be monitored more closely. Everything's fine, Clark." She gave him a fierce, warm mother-hug, and Clark relaxed minutely.

"I love you, baby. Now go to school." She took a deep sniff of his hair, and let him go. "You did shower this morning, didn't you?"

"Mom!" Mortification could wipe the floor with concern any day of the week. "Of course!"

"Fine, fine. Just asking. See you this afternoon." She was already turning away, and . . . fidgeting. "I'm going to go . . . find . . . your father."

Huh. That was odd. Clark wandered out the door, bemusement briefly distracting him from the seething horniness he was almost getting used to at this point. God bless relaxed-fit farmer jeans.

His hearing picked up some wierd crashes and thumps back at the house, but they didn't really register on the Clarkian brain screen, which was busily displaying the porn festival he was going to go on when the two weeks were over.

School was . . . also wierd. He and Pete sat beside each other in shared misery, as always, but for some reason Chloe and Lana wanted to pull all their desks together, lean in close and tell whispered jokes, like Clark was another girl or something, instead of their idiot guy friend who happened to be at least partially in the doghouse with both of them.

And the other girls were glaring at them. All the girls, and a couple of the guys.

This happened in English, and in Biology, and at lunch. Then he had study period in the library, and Pete went off to History, and Chloe and Lana settled on either side of him like a pair of muggers. A pair of muggers who were . . . rubbing his shoulders. And his neck. Oh, that was nice - wait! What the fuck -- little fingers dug into a spot beside his vertebra and his sharp query dissolved into a "guh."

"You're so tense," Lana murmured, doing that velvet thing with her voice, right against his ear, and then she licked it. Rock hard now, all over, and yes, Clark's fingers were squashing his textbook, but they went halfway through it when Chloe's hand stole under his shirt and flattened over his abs. And what if somebody saw them?

He must've said that last out loud, because Chloe giggled. "Silly, this is the corner table behind the old encyclopedias. The dust is older than us."

They had a point there, and why, oh why hadn't Clark paid attention to where they'd been dragging him? Oh right, because he was a stupid horndog!

Then Chloe slid out of her chair and under the table. Turned to face him, stuck her head under his t-shirt, and - sniffed him?

Hey, Lana was smelling his hair at the same time. He was on the verge of figuring out what was going on when Chloe moved from sniffing to licking and started to work at his zipper. Lana apparently liked his whimper, because she grabbed his face and kissed him with great enthusiasm. Imperative that he bury his hand in her hair, the other one already clutching Chloe's shoulder like a lifeline.

And no, Clark's brain wasn't going to do any figuring out of anything for awhile, or maybe ever again. Lana was inside his mouth and she tasted like fruit and mint gum and a little like flowery, powdery perfume, and Chloe was stroking his cock and humming and licking and breathing her warm breath all over him, and he hadn't touched himself in eight fucking days. He came with a scream Lana swallowed, and over the rushing in his ears he thought he heard Chloe mutter "fire in the hole" quite calmly, and the sound of something hitting the underside of the table.

Never moving again. No way, no how. He was going to die right here, alien birthparents and great destiny be damned, happy pile of alien mush with two girls . . . still sniffing him? And making really hot little moans, but nobody'd ever wanted to smell him that badly before, so what was this new obsession with Eau de Kent?

His long-neglected cock was ready for action again, but the connection had already been made. Mom! She'd thought he smelled funny this morning. And now he remembered the crashing and the thumping coming from his house as he'd left. He bet she'd "found his father", all right. (Shudder.)

Back to the present, where Lana was licking his neck and Chloe was introducing herself to his chest hairs. Getting up was not fun, what with the shaking legs and the clumsy hands and the unhappy cooing sounds his childhood friends were making, but he managed it.

Hightailed it to Math like the coward he was, but superhearing caught Lana saying, "hey, Chloo-eee . . . I know this great broom closet Whitney used to take me to . . .", which distracted him just enough to bump into Steve.

The blue-haired lab tech looked him up and down, licking his lips and already unbuttoning his Hawaiian shirt, asking, "how do you feel about water balloons?"

"Eep!" Running now. Steve sighed behind him. "Maybe later," Clark heard him mutter. Then he was at the door of his classroom, and it hit him that Miss Weigl was kind of young, and single. He really, really couldn't afford to miss this class, though. He had too many absences already, what with everything that had happened in the last few weeks.

As it turned out, Miss Weigl's passion for dividends was just strong enough for her to keep the class moving. She spent a lot of time calling on Clark for answers, though. And fondling her whiteboard marker in a fashion that would've disturbed more people than just Clark, except that they were all staring at him.

Him. Invisible Boy had suddenly become the Magic Clark o' Love.

This was all Pete's fault.

Clark slammed the classroom door behind him. Okay, in retrospect, while staying behind at his teacher's request had allowed him to evade his classmates, it had also left him alone with a woman who spent a lot of time wielding meter sticks. He'd had to cheat and speed up a little to get out without having one snap suspiciously on his person. Not that he was at all sure anyone would remember what they did under the influence of alien pheromones, but it was better not to take the chance.

"Clark!" Pete looked utterly miserable.

"Get back! Don't touch me, Pete, I'm warning you; I've just about had it today."

"Dude, I know what you mean. This is just getting harder and harder. I walked past the east broom closet, and I'm pretty sure I heard two girls having sex in there." Pete looked down at where his hands were clenching and unclenching spasmodically. "Six days. I can do this."

Clark narrowed his eyes. "You're . . . not going to try and jump me?"

Pete rolled his eyes. "No, horny as I am, you still don't look anything like Chloe. Sorry to disappoint you." His gaze got dreamy. "Mmm, Chloe . . . Shit! Clark, what am I going to do?"

Clark shrugged and tried to look like he cared. His mind was racing. Extreme sexual frustration must block the effect. He supposed that sort of made sense, imagining clouds of hormones facing off, the thinner ones caving to the Clarkian Arousal Cloud of Doom.

Oh no. He had to get his mom's tests from the hospital.

He was very carefully not thinking about deliveries.

God, was his ass really SO cute that everyone had to pinch it / slap it / compliment it? And those were the people that weren't staring fixedly at his lips in a near-catatonic fashion. He understood now why so many curvy girls wore baggy athletic wear. He wanted a scarf. And maybe a muumuu.

At least most of the people in the hospital didn't appear to get much jerk-off time. He'd only had to deal with a few nurses who appeared to be cross-dressing, and of course Dr. Bryce. But then, she'd been dating Lex, so it wasn't all that surprising that she'd made a very powerful argument for Clark allowing her to Play Doctor. He'd made it out, though, and had his mom's tests in hand. Go him!

That still left deliveries. He'd tried, briefly, to find his Dad and beg off for the day. "Tried" meaning coming within about two miles of the house and hearing things that had made him gulp hard, square his shoulders, and speed in and out for the boxes, humming as loud as he dared.

Screw the truck, screw chatting with customers. Clark was the Vegetable Fairy. Unseen, unheard. Unfortunately a few people had actually been around. Hence the present traumatized state of his face and ass. He'd discovered the fun fact that if he blushed too many times in a row he could actually pop capillaries in his face, leaving his cheeks a semi-permanent rosy red. Yay!

So here he was, outside the Luthor castle with one last box, trying to think.

He couldn't get in and out of the castle fast enough not to be seen, and it was too much to hope for that Lex was feeling repressed. Lex and repression just didn't go together. That's not how things worked. The sky was blue and Clark was dorky and Lex was The Sexy.

Of course, today everyone seemed to think he was The Sexy. But what if people remembered what they did under the influence of - well, him? What if some of them decided to be angry instead of embarrased? What if - God - what if Lex finally did the predictable thing and stopped trusting him altogether?

He thought about Lex's turning first to Clark when he was kicked out, thought about the older man's knowing glances and forgiveness of his lies.He imagined Lex glaring at him, eyes glittering and throat working like he was holding down words that were living, fighting animals. Hurt, betrayed again, for the last time. He thought about losing his friend, and he thought he might just die right there. He couldn't do it. He couldn't carry that on top of everything else, not right now. It was . . . just too much.

He felt suddenly exhausted. He hadn't done anything but make a stupid, alpha-male bet with a buddy, and now the obstacle of a delivery of vegetables threatened to destroy one of the few good things left in his life. Being him sucked sometimes. No, scratch that; being him sucked a lot of the time. He guessed this was what it felt like to be at the end of his rope.

Maybe all his problems would go away if he just sat on the box for awhile and had a good cry.

"Clark?"

No, that wouldn't work either. Because he was Clark Kent, and judging by the way they dogged him, problems at least had always believed him to be The Sexy. Witness Lex, appearing behind him in all his jogging-suited glory, out of breath and sweating, and any day but today Clark would have had absolutely NO problem with this. But.

"Clark, what's wrong?"

Clark had never heard himself laugh so hollowly before. "Plenty." He didn't bother to lift his head.

Lex dropped into a squat in front of him, balanced lightly on the balls of his feet. "Anything I can do to help?" There was nothing clouding his expression, no sniffing, no touching, no wide-eyed goggling at Clark's mouth. Just honest concern, and that almost painfully bright focus integral to the thing that was Lex.

Like any other day.

Clark wasn't too far gone to realize it was pretty bad when Lex Luthor constituted your chaste rock of stability. The irony would have had him in stitches if the past few weeks had been even slightly less shitty. Really. Stitches.

Lex gave him a few more seconds of that measuring look, then appeared to come to a decision.

"Come on." He yanked Clark up off the box. "There's only one cure for an expression like yours."

"And what's that?"

"To get -"

" - Compleeeeetely shit-faced!" Clark yodeled at the ceiling several hours later. His X-ray vision was phasing in and out, giving him a trippy, if blurred, view of several shifting floors at once. It was good he wasn't called upon to stand up, because it wouldn't even be dicey - it just wouldn't happen.

His hands and feet were tingling. After several tries he managed to smack his face, and he couldn't feel it at all, which was so cool he tried it a few more times. His brain felt wrapped in an especially soft, warm, fluffy blanket. He felt . . . cheerful, in an anesthetized sort of way.

Apparently his species could metabolise alcohol after all. It just took a lot more of it to get the same effects. Which was awesome to know before college. One more thing Lex had done for Clark. God, Lex was so good to him. So cool . . . so sexy . . . and this was a Very Bad Thing to be thinking about outside of the loft. Very bad.

"I must say, Clark, I'm impressed. You're sure this is your first binge?" Lex's voice was smooth as ever, but the effect was somewhat ruined by the way he was peering cross-eyed into the neck of the empty scotch bottle. He tried to look at Clark through it like a spyglass. A blurry, hugely magnified gray-blue eye blinked fishily at him. And the hell of it was, he was still the sexiest thing on legs.

SO bad, and Clark was just going to keep thinking it. "To hell with consequences," the whiskey advised him, "the man is hot! Look all you want." Good idea, whiskey.

Clark decided that life was a funny thing.

Four hours ago he'd been hiding out with a box of vegetables, at his wit's traumatised end. Three hours ago he'd been cheerfully plastered on a castle floor, enjoying the chance to look Lex Luthor up and down undetected. Two hours ago he'd been brutally defeated at a series of video games, and watched Lex's array of victory dances around the upstairs den with boozy bemusement.

And now he was on all fours, breathing in short barks while Lex tried his utmost to go all the way through Clark's body and into the floor. Clark watched the sweat dripping onto the backs of his hands and tried to concentrate on not pushing his arms through that same floor by accident. It was a really nice parquet floor, probably worth more than his Dad's tractor - and then Lex shifted a little and hit his prostate dead on. His arms gave out with a groan and he ended up cracking the nice floor with his head. Fuck. He'd have to cover that up later with the rug -- oh, Jesus and Mary and Joseph, this new head-down angle was a Very Good Idea Indeed.

A sobbing gasp tore its way out of his chest that elicited a jerk from Lex, who leaned down and licked a long stripe up Clark's back. Which made dozens of tiny nerves in his sides jump and twist, curling his spine. The already-familiar keening started to build in his throat, and then Lex, coming, bit his shoulder blade and it was all over for one Clark Kent. And the floor.

Sweaty collapse was comfortable for about ten seconds. "Uh, Lex?"

"Uh."

"You know what'd be really nice right now?"

"Uh-uh."

"A shower."

"Uh-huh."

"But to get there involves moving."

"Huh."

Maybe a different tack was called for. "Hey, Lex, wanna blow me in the shower?"

Apparently humans could superspeed with the right incentive.

Much later, curled in darkness in a really huge bed, Lex whispered, "I doubt your parents will think it took you this long to deliver some produce."

"They're . . . not expecting me back tonight." Clark nuzzled the top of Lex's head, when something occured to him. "Oh, no. I left your vegetables outside!"

"Leave them."

"But it's still frosting at night. They'll be wrecked."

"Only if they were all for eating . . ."

Day Eleven - Monday

Pete had no idea how idea how Clark dealt with guilt like this on a regular basis. He'd make a wonderful Catholic. Just two days left him feeling sick and hollow inside, like he'd been starved and then kicked in the ribs. He approached the school, terrified of the prospect of facing Clark with his news.

His feet carried him on autopilot to the empty seat Clark had saved him in homeroom.

Okay, Ross, out with it. The sooner the better. Deep breath, "Clark, there's something I need to tell you."

Clark looked vaguely in his general direction. "Sure, Pete, anything." The poor guy looked really out of it; Pete felt another rush of guilt.

"I went over to your place Friday afternoon, so we could pick out the discs we were going to demand from Joey. Anyway, you weren't around, and I took a peek through your telescope while I was waiting, and I saw . . . Chloe and-and Lana, and they were . . . uh . . ." He swallowed convulsively, and blurted out, "Clark, I lost us the bet. I saw them, and I just had to, you know? Please say you know." He looked anxiously at his best friend. "Clark?'

Clark was staring off into space, hand brushing absently over his mouth. There was something weird about his smile.

"Clark! Are you hearing me, man?"

Clark looked near Pete again. "Yeah, I heard you. You jerked off. It's okay." Even his voice sounded weird, extremely serene. Clark the Zen Master.

"Yeah, but I know how tough it was on you, and it was all for nothing!"

Clark's smile this time was definitely beatific. "I wouldn't say that."

Pete felt his stomach begin to sink even lower as Clark continued, "In fact, I think I'll see if I can manage the rest of Lent - just to see what happens . . ."

Pete moaned a little. He'd broken Clark's brain. His loyal, long-suffering friend had lost his mind to their foolish game.

Pete felt terrible. This was all his fault.

- The End. Happy Easter, everyone!