Satisfaction
Title: Satisfaction
Rating: Heavy R for wicked Lex
Disclaimer: Don’t own Smallville...but if I did, things like this would happen more often. Let my ignorance of the show shine through: I have no idea what Lex’s office looks like beyond a few badly memorized episodes, nor do I know what he drinks or if he’s tried the hair solution bit before. It’s also slightly lemon-y. Go with the flow.
Author's Note: This is a total payback for Madame D, who is the coolest Clex fan in the world. If it weren't for her, I never would have seen the light.
Satisfaction
It was a beautiful day. Birds were chirping, suns were shining, corn was growing...Lex was sulking. Everything was as it should be, he reminded himself. No happiness for THIS Luthor boy. No, if his father was going to be so happy, Lex would be the exact opposite. He would be as sullen and stubborn as possible. He leaned back, resting in his leather desk chair, and stared out the window.
It was hard to sulk, though, when your thoughts kept straying to one mysterious aspect of your life. Lex pictured Clark where he should be: sitting easily on the leather sofa in the office, or leaning on the window sill, or glancing down from the library balcony above. Anywhere in this mansion was where Clark belonged, instead of out on that musty farm with parents who didn’t appreciate his wonderful talented mouth-
Whoops.
Lex turned back to sulking. Sure, it was easy to be happy with thoughts of Clark (and all his talented appendages) but the deeper he went with those fantasies, the worse off he would be. Clark was a stand-up citizen of the South. Lex was a cradle-robbing-closet-bisexual-meteorite-freak. And n’er the twain shall meet.
Despite it being early afternoon, Lex was ready to pour himself a good four fingers of straight French Bourbon when he heard a tentative knock on his office door. No doubt Theresa with the day’s schedule. “Come in,” he called as politely as he could. Losing another assistant to the ravages of Luthor temper would not benefit his day.
“Lex?”
Lex felt his heart (among other things) swell at the quiet call, and closed his eyes for a moment to brace himself before he turned around, fingers steepled, and met Clark’s shining gaze.
Oh, God. Now he needed that Bourbon. Clark was wearing his usual jean-and-work boots ensemble, which had a flattering cut in and of itself. But his K-Mart bought t-shirts had been replaced by something tight and black and long-sleeved, perfect for the coming chill of the autumn months. But the black... Lex forced himself past arousal and into concern. “Are you all right, Clark?”
The boy looked confused, and Lex already had an answer to his question. When Clark had gone crazy a few weeks ago and stormed into his office ready to abandon Smallville - and him, Lex reminded himself with a pang of hurt - black had been back in style with the youngest Kent. But this was different. Or so Lex hoped. “I mean with your clothes...the black...last time-”
“Oh,” Clark cut him off and ducked his head, moving farther into the room. Lex noticed he was carrying an oddly shaped box for the first time, and Clark set it quickly on the floor in front of Lex’s desk. “No, I mean...” he paused and shuffled his weight from one foot to the other. “You said you liked it, so I thought...” he drifted off and Lex stifled his surprise down to a raised eyebrow.
A natural action that had happened thousands of times before, but it caught Clark’s hawkish gaze. The boy dropped to a seat in front of Lex’s desk, as if with renewed purpose. “Why do you have eyebrows?”
“Excuse me?” Lex let slip a smile.
“You have eyebrows, but the rest of your body is completely hairless,” Clark said innocently, and Lex nearly choked on the image of the two of them lying prone in his four poster bed, scrounging Lex’s body for hair.
“I’m a cosmic joke,” Lex said instead, leaning forward and smiling. “No hair but eyebrows. Or maybe they’re implants. I’ll never tell.”
Clark smiled easily, his huge grin letting sunlight in Lex’s office. Lex felt like an idiot, allowing himself such ridiculously cliché thoughts. This was not love, Lex reminded himself. This was deep lust. Very, very deep, he amended, shifting awkwardly in his tailored slacks.
“So,” Lex cut into his own thoughts. “What brings you up to the mansion?”
If it was possible, Clark’s smile grew bigger, and Lex was worried it might envelope his entire face. “I brought you something.” He bent down, disappearing entirely under the rim of the desk for a moment - and spurring images of him hiding beneath Lex’s desk doing unmentionable things during the horrible meetings he had planned later in the day.
Instead, though, Clark resurfaced with his box, and placed it with great flourish on Lex’s expanse of a desk. The older man stood with a curious smile to lift the top. What could Clark Kent buy him that Lex couldn’t already have? Clark was nearly jumping out of his skin with excitement as he looked inside.
And burst out laughing.
He knew it would hurt Clark, but it was just too funny, and he had to sit down without even taking it out of the box. Lex collapsed in his chair, slightly wrapped in on himself, on hand covering his eyes as he laughed harder than he had in a long, long time. If anyone - ANYONE - other than Clark had given him this, or even suggested it, that person would be dismissed without delay from Smallville itself. But from Clark, it just thrilled Lex beyond imagination.
“Lex-” came Clark’s broken voice. “If you don’t like it...”
Lex managed to compose himself, lost that composition, and after a few more seconds of the chuckles pulled himself together. “I’m sorry, Clark, it’s not that.” He wiped a single tear of amusement off his cheek and leaned forward again, dipping both hands into the box. “Really, I love it. It’s just that...I don’t think this would look quite right.”
Out he pulled a white, Styrofoam head. Its blind eyes and contemplative features did not change, but the wig that rested on top of it shifted slightly with the motion of the removal. Lex almost burst out laughing again when he saw the wig, but managed to stamp down his amusement for the sake of his friend’s ego. He looked up at the still-miserable Clark and offered a sincere “Thank you.”
This brightened Clark slightly, but he still seemed worried. “Why can’t you...? I mean, I know it’s probably not the right shape, but you can trim them to their own style. Or is it the color? I didn’t know what color your hair was before the meteor...”
Lex stood up and went around the desk to lean on it, putting a hand on Clark’s shoulder. For purposes, he had to admit, beyond that of comfort. Sneaking touches was something Lex had become very, very good at. “Clark, when I lost my hair, I tried everything to get it back. Including wigs. The truth is,” he shifted down to sit on a footstool next to the other man. “I just don’t look very good in them.”
Clark gave him a look that showed very clearly that he found it hard to believe Lex would not look good in something, and Lex tried very hard not to be shocked. “That was a long time ago,” Clark reasoned. “Maybe things have changed. You could at least try it on.” Hope had replaced hurt, and the reasoning, bouncy Clark had returned.
Sighing, Lex went and locked his office door. Prancing around in a wig was not something he’d like his father to walk in on, even if the senior Luthor was blind. Somehow, the man always knew when he didn’t want to be interrupted. Perimeter secure, Lex strode back to his desk, and lifted the wig off the mannequin.
“If I get a rash, this is all your fault,” he told Clark with a straight face, and the teen’s features were split once more with perpetual joy. Shaking his head, Lex turned away and faced the full length mirror in the door of his open armoire.
And on went the wig.
Lex immediately hated it. “I look like a weatherman with a bad toupee,” he said, and saw Clark’s reflection rise from where it sat to come and stand over Lex’s shoulder.
With a scientific look, Clark examined the wig. “It’s too shaggy. Where are your scissors?”
“I don’t want you giving me a haircut, Clark,” Lex warned. Even if it wasn’t his own hair.
“I won’t make a mess,” Clark promised. “I’ve been giving my father haircuts since I was fourteen. I know what I’m doing.”
Lex felt an odd stab at being compared to Clark’s father. Clark noticed. Scissors retrieved after a quick rummage in Lex’s desk (and liberal use of X-ray vision) Clark patted the other man on the shoulder. “But you’re not my dad,” he added. Small comfort, but from Clark, it was important.
Before Lex could come up with something quippy to say on his pleasure of not being Jonathan Kent, Clark had him turned away from the mirror and, scissors stashed in a back pocket, proceeded to unbutton Lex’s shirt.
Lex thought he might pass out, blood rushed out of his head so fast.
Noticing Lex’s sudden silence and holding of breath, Clark looked him in the eye. “So you don’t get hair on it,” he said quietly. Their gaze held for a moment, and Lex nodded, and looked down, allowing Clark to finish. Down boy, he told his lap.
Shirt quickly discarded (and carefully folded by Clark), a chair was pulled up for Lex to plant himself in front of the mirror. Clark readjusted the wig so that it sat correctly on Lex’s head, which shoved shag down over his eyes and blinded him in a snowstorm of fake brown hair. A few moments of careful snipping went by in silence, and gradually Lex regained his eyesight. The wig still looked awful. Too long over the ears, to poofy at the crown of the head, and the part was strange.
He turned his attention away from the hairpiece when Clark shifted to stand next to him. It was then he noticed that he was eye-to-crotch with the farmer. It wasn’t the first time Lex had had the opportunity to examine Clark - he was hardly subtle in his perusal of the other man’s body, and it was encouraging that Clark either didn’t mind or was too ignorant in the ways of sexuality to even notice. Either way, his gaze was not impeded and Lex had to tear his eyes away before he made a fool of himself.
“Um...there,” Clark said, with an attempt at authority. “How’s that?”
Lex looked up and Clark looked down and they both gave little grins. “It looks like something died on my head,” Lex said, and Clark threw up his hands and snatched the wig from Lex’s skull.
“Okay. It was a bad idea. I was trying to help, though...I know how much you hate being bald...”
Lex stood, brushing off his bare chest before the synthetic hair snips could start to itch. “I’d rather be bald than wear that thing.”
“It was pretty bad, wasn’t it?”
“And how,” Lex replied, watching the snow of hair fall from him as he shook himself off. Shirtless in Clark’s company. He rarely had the pleasure. The same went for Clark, he realized with a smirk as he caught Clark’s gaze on him. Little pieces of hair clung to his chest, and he went about picking them off. “Not quite hairless now, am I?” he joked, and Clark tinted slightly before turning away.
“Now then,” Lex politely asked this same questions he always did. “How are things in the mysterious world of Clark Kent? How’s Lana?” He grabbed his shirt and wondered how long he could go without putting it on before it became obvious.
Clark had sighed, though, and plopped himself down on the sofa. Lex took a chair and waited for the boy to explain. “We’re having problems.” It was all he said, and Lex knew he’d be in for a long dose of Lana-induced-sniveling. He kept his grunt of displeasure to himself.
“She’s not speaking with me.”
Ho, this was promising. Lex tossed his shirt over the arm of the chair and settled himself in more comfortably. Clark looked up at him, at his chest, and then down again, blushing. Lex could hardly keep his mischievous grin inside. “What happened?” Lex prompted him.
Long minutes went by and Lex busied himself with studying the boy while he waited for an answer. Clark grew restless under the gaze, but finally went for his backpack and rifled out a notebook. “She found this.” He tossed it at Lex, an unusually callous effort from Clark, and Lex turned it over, studying it, looking for a defect Lana could fault.
He turned it over again, and - oh my. That was rather forward. No wonder Clark had had to throw it at him. Any other method of delivery and he probably would have lost his nerve.
The back of the notebook was covered in “CK + LL” in Clark’s spiraling, artistic hand.
“I thought you two had finally become comfortable with each other?” Lex asked, waving with the notebook. “Why would this bother her? I mean, sure, it’s all in line with your infatuation. But she’s ignored it in the past.” Lex was worried his words might sting, but Clark was already shaking his head. He reached out a hand for the notebook and Lex handed it back, wondering what the boy might be up to this time.
With an awkward shove, the notebook landed back in Clark’s backpack and he stood. “They’re not Lana’s initials.” He shouldered the backpack and had made it to the door of the office and was working the lock before Lex managed to say anything.
“What?” was all he could get out, and Clark turned around, an expression of exasperation Lex had never seen before was plastered on his face.
“They’re not Lana’s,” he stressed, but Lex didn’t even need to hear it. He was already out of his chair and pulling Clark’s backpack off his shoulder to throw in a corner somewhere.
“Say it, Clark,” Lex pressed, holding both of the boy’s shoulders. His eyes flashed brighter against the black of his shirt, looking at one offending hand that held him down as if he could flick it off like a crumb if he wanted. But he didn’t want to.
“I can’t,” he said quietly.
“Say it,” Lex whispered, invading his body space. “No secrets, remember? Not in this house.”
Faster than Lex could quite figure, he had been pressed against the door of the study, and Clark’s huge hands were pressed against his chest, two handprints of heat burning through his cool skin. And he only had milliseconds to see the terrified look in Clark’s eye before the boy brought his lips crashing down, all teeth and wet tongue and more ambition than skill.
Lex’s awkwardly jobless hands found a place at Clark’s waistband, and pulled him closer, their legs sharing space to get other parts as close as possible. Lex wondered who this was and what they had done with his passive farmboy, and if possibly he could rent out their company for parties.
This was all so very, very right.
Clark’s hands began to wander, massaging the skin he found under his soft fingertips, grasping and pushing at the same time, and trying so very desperately - or so it seemed to Lex - to climb into the older man’s body through his mouth. Lex let the hands dance where they pleased, and found the teenager’s soft touch reach one sensitive nipple while his thigh pressed against Lex’s trapped groin, and the older man let out a groan of impatience and pleasure.
Clark snapped back. “What...I...” The panicked look boiled to the top and he pulled his hands off Lex’s body, backing, nearly stumbling, away. “Oh God. I’m sorry, I didn’t -”
But then Lex was there, pulling two handfuls of heavenly black shirt toward him as they crashed into the sofa, and he was straddling Clark’s waist in a fantasy he realized he’d somehow missed. Oh, this was good. This was very good. He ground himself downward, seeking friction and mated hardness and oh, Clark was very, very big. He pulled away, his fists still wrapped in the shirt, and played a small grin on his face.
“Clark?” he prodded, nudging with one hand. The young man’s focus snapped to Lex’s eyes from their dazed tangle and looked again ashamed. “Scared?”
Clark nodded, and Lex thought it would be all he would say. But he added “humiliated,” and his voice was so grated and harsh from what had to be arousal that Lex found himself burrowing his crotch deeper toward Clark without intent.
“Don’t be,” Lex whispered. “Please?” It was as close to begging as Lex Luthor had ever come in his very short life. Their gazes still locked close, Lex wormed one warm hand up under Clark’s shirt, over his tight abdomen, to find his fluttering heart. Clark nodded carefully, his hands going back to Lex, to drift over his back and down - to Lex’s surprise - to cup his ass. The hands were deliberate, calculatingly slow, and showed none of the hesitation that was on Clark’s face. Carefully, they pulled Lex even closer to him, their arousal grinding together in a way that made Lex hate the man who invented pants and vow to kill the remainder of his family.
Lex let his head dip down, unable to support it anymore, and let his lips meet skin, finding whatever he could that the shirt didn’t cover. Behind one ear, Clark had let his own head loll backward, and Lex could feel the man’s involuntary thrusting as he struggled to contain himself. “Tell me you want this,” Lex whispered in what he considered his sultriest of tones, and he felt Clark’s moan before he heard it.
“I want this. I want you,” came the reply, and Lex wanted to stop and check his pulse, make sure he was breathing, make sure this was real. Instead, he reverted his path and found his way once more to Clark’s mouth, stopping only to pull off the shirt and smooth his hands down the musculature he found hidden underneath. Clark’s noise of approval was sharp and encouraging, and Lex found himself with an unbidden urge to please.
Rattle.
The both froze, Lex’s expression one of utter annoyance and Clark’s one of terror.
The doorknob rattled again, and through it came Lionel’s voice. “Lex, son, we’ve got business to attend to. Are you in there?” It was the same peevish tone that Lex had grown to hate: commanding yet weak in one. Lex gave one last push of his groin toward Clark’s, and watched with glee as the boy dropped his head again to the back of the sofa, stifling a groan with his own hand. This could be fun.
“Lex?” came a new voice, and Clark was somehow standing, red-faced, erection prominent through his jeans, scrabbling for his backpack. Mrs. Kent knocked on the door with what, Lex felt, was more tact than his father, and called his name again.
Ah, but the game had ended. Clearing his throat, Lex put on his most annoyed tone and said loudly toward the door, “Just a moment. I’m clearing some things up on the phone.” He stood to intercept the wildly scrabbling Clark, who was heading toward an open window, and grabbed him by the waistband, pulling Clark’s hardness flush against his own.
“Don’t go,” he whispered, toying with the top snap on the offending pair of pants.
“I have to,” Clark strangled out, and it was with obvious pleasure that Lex noticed that he was having a definite struggle to choose.
“You don’t,” Lex said.
“My mother!” Clark explained in a panic. “If she...” He looked at Lex desperately, grabbing the other man’s teasing hands to still them. “Please.”
Lex sighed, and nodded. “But not out the window. Come on.” He led Clark over to his bookshelf and pulled out the hardbound copy of “Making Faces.” A panel opened next to the bookshelf, and Clark was too terrified and grateful to even show surprise. “It leads out into the rear garden. You can get home from there,” Lex explained, stealing one more kiss before Clark was all the way through. He felt a twinge of sadness at Clark’s sheer terror.
Almost as if he could tell, Clark turned, all panic washed from his face. “Lex,” he called, even though the man was standing right there, crouched in front of him. “I’ll come back.”
Lex thrilled at that, but put on a satisfied smirk. They locked once more, lips and teeth doing a slow tango in the dankness of the crawlspace as the pounding on the door took up once more. They separated reluctantly, and Lex smiled broadly. “You’d better, Clark,” he said quietly. “I still have your shirt.”
Before Clark’s shout of realization and protest could echo into the room, Lex pulled the book to close the crawlspace door and turned toward the office. The room was in disarray. He gathered the remainders of the wig experiment in the box it had come in and stashed it, and Clark’s shirt, under his desk. Pulling on his own clothes and adjusting himself in the mirror, Lex willed down his arousal and slammed a shot of aged scotch to help.
But it was going to take some time.