Rating: NC-17
Summary: What Clark doesn't want.
Author Notes: Beta by (please don't laugh) the Beta Fairy. Yeah, I'm serious.
Beth, Pearl-o, and Jack are responsible for the entire, porn, porn, we need porn, yadda yadda yadda. Jaack, this means you have to post YOURS now. *grins*
by jenn
Lex does sex like performance art. All straight lines and perfect posture, like a photographer is in the wings, waiting to immortalize the moment. Knees solid beneath him, head that perfect tilt, one manicured hand wrapped tight around Clark's hip, the other stroking lazily, making Clark twitch, words freezing on his tongue.
Maybe it's a past that includes a few too many long nights in the kinds of places Clark's only seen on television or in the movies, or maybe it has something to do with the way Lex defines relationships. But. Right now? Clark doesn't care.
Against a wall, under the desk, in a chair, on the couch, shit, in the loft with his dad working downstairs -- and it still amazes him to this day he could maintain an erection with "We're Off to See the Wizard" ringing in his ears while Lex's mouth wrapped tight around his cock. He's never watched The Wizard of Oz since and not gotten hard just hearing that song. Now, though, now....
He's against the counter, his fingers digging into gray cool metal and he's staring at the ceiling. The kitchen door's open and anyone could come by and glance inside, see them: Clark Kent with his pants around his ankles, mouth open, breathing in air that's too thin and too thick at the same time; Lex Luthor, immaculate suit and polished grace, on his knees in front of him.
It had started off as a delivery, for God's sake, and Lex leaning into the sink with a bottle of water. And he'd put the crate down and shoved his hands in his pockets and stared at the floor, because he wanted to watch Lex's mouth wrapped around dark blue glass too much. And -- they'd talked, right? Something about the weather, or about the crops, or God, maybe just about the way Lex's new staff were never around when he made deliveries these days. And maybe that was when Lex had put the bottle down and looked at him, and Clark felt the bump of the counter sharp and solid into his hip with the first involutary step backward.
And he'd said, no, we can't do this, Lex. Lex hadn't even touched him.
Not yet, anyway. Just the long, calm stare, like he was thinking thoughts that had nothing to do with Clark at all. The way he tilted his head and the slow, even smile, like a decision had been made. A smile with everything in it -- want, here, now, fuck consequences and fuck thought and fuck you, too, Clark. Any way you want it.
Then the slow, even trace of a single finger over the buttons of his shirt, a ghost of a touch that he shouldn't have been able to feel on the skin beneath. A breath against his ear, and Clark had expected words, but there was only the slow, patient insinuation of a tongue into his ear, pushing inside like Lex's cock had into his body. Steady pressure, warmth and want, and Lex so close; he could touch if he wanted to but he couldn't make himself move.
That's how his jeans got unfastened in quick, lazy strokes, his boxers pulled down, his cock hard and aching in the cool kitchen air and Lex -- God, Lex, on his knees, hand touching him then mouth, and he's moving into it now, hips following the guiding hand, and he wants...God, he wants...
"Please, Lex--"
Wants not to beg, not to plead, not to know that all it takes is Lex's tongue to break him, make him spill out things that he should never say, like, anything, and want you, and please don't stop, and yes, yes, yes. Things he knows will come back to haunt him, things that belong in the dark, never in an afternoon kitchen with an open door only feet away.
Long, callused fingers stroke his balls, cupping, pulling, ratcheting everything sharper and needier, and God, he doesn't care--not about the door or his dad or his secrets or the way he shatters every time Lex does this, looks at him, touches him. Just *this* --orgasms like a punch in the gut, and it's so good it hurts, twisting him open, leaving him panting, breathless, shaking, the echoes still twitching under his skin like a junkie's when Lex pulls away.
Easy effort to be dressed before he draws the next breath, tucked into blameless jeansand Lex is leaning against the opposite counter, water bottle in hand, washing the taste of Clark from his mouth with too-expensive water, and Clark wonders if he'll ever mean it when he says no.