by Nifra Idril
Title: No Quarter
Author: Nifra Idril
Summary: Lionel looks at him, and Jonathan knows there's nothing like mercy in the curve of Lionel's lips.
Disclaimer: Smallville isn't mine. If it was, I'm sure I'd probably write about something else in my free time.
Thanks: Lyra, my amazing beta.
It wasn't a question he'd ever meant to ask, and Jonathan bit his tongue so hard it bled afterward, but it slipped out before he could stop himself.
Lionel had smiled widely. "Because every time you look at me you'll know. And I'll know you know."
And he does. Jonathan Kent is the moral barometer for Smallville, Kansas and he knows what it feels like to have Lionel Luthor's lips wrapped around his cock.
And maybe it wasn't the way he remembers it, not exactly. Maybe his head didn't fall back against the wall quite as hard as he thought it did. Maybe his hands weren't shaking when they came to rest on the curling brown hair.
What he does remember with excruciating detail is the way Lionel had teased the zipper down with his teeth, looking up from under his lashes. The long hot swipe of tongue over his skin, the soft scrape of teeth. Hands on his ass, cupping his balls, sucking, and then licking at his cock again. Slow, even licks - like a cat cleaning itself. Like fire.
His eyes had been closed. Maybe he'd feel better if he was thinking about a girl when it happened, but he was thinking about the stubble under his fingers. The way it rasped.
Lionel swallowed him whole, deep-throating like a goddamned pro. That's when his head may have fallen backwards with enough force to give him slight concussion, when his hands might or might not have trembled when they reached out to cup the solid curve of Lionel's skull. Blunt, strong fingers stroking his ass, teasing his cleft.
Jonathan fucked Lionel's mouth, and yelled out loud when Lionel's finger pushed its way into his ass. He came hard, and slumped back against the dirty wall. Lionel lapped at him as he softened, cleaning off Jonathan's cock completely.
Opened his jeans, smiled at Jonathan, and licked his lips. Jonathan leaned forward, feeling like he should do something, but Lionel pushed him back. Stuck two fingers in Jonathan's mouth, and commanded that he suck.
And here's the thing that's the most damning; he did. He sucked those two fingers so hard that he must have left bruises on them somewhere. Sucked until Lionel pulled them out of his mouth.
Watched with heavy lidded eyes as Lionel took the wet fingers, and teased them over his own erection. Started to breath hard as Lionel jacked himself ruthlessly, stripping away at his cock and moaning like a whore.
Lionel's eyes traced over Jonathan's body, down his chest, to his half-hard cock. It hurt, but he was almost ready again. Could be ready in a couple seconds if Lionel kept looking at him like that. God. Lionel.
Kept jacking himself hard and fast as he reached over and grabbed Jonathan's hand. Licked a stripe up it.
"Do it," Lionel told him. "I want to see you do it."
And he did. Fucked his hand, fucked the tight, wet little pussy his fist made, and watched Lionel working himself. His eyes fell closed, and all he could hear was Lionel grunting, the slap of skin on skin, his own moans.
Felt the hot spatter of Lionel's come on his thighs and moaned louder. Jacked himself faster.
Sharp teeth bit his nipple. Small, hot, wicked tongue up his chest, and around his ear. Thrusting into his ear.
And Jonathan shuddered, coming and coming and coming until he thought his heart would stop. Must have fallen asleep.
Opened his eyes, and Lionel was already dressed, looking down at him. Smirking and holding out a fifty dollar bill. "You'll need a new pair of pants, Kent. Here."
Jonathan had closed his eyes, turned his head away, and waited until he heard the door to the bathroom shutting to vomit.
It would have been easy to say that he did it because he'd been drunk.
He had been. Magnificently drunk. But he'd sucked Lionel's fingers, and that, more than anything else he'd done that night, was a choice he made. And he'd done it because he wanted to.
That night, at that moment, Jonathan Kent had wanted to make Lionel Luthor so hot that he'd beg for it. It hadn't been his idea to start off with, but by God, anything a Luthor could start a Kent could finish.
He puked for two hours straight, and maybe it was the alcohol, but he's never quite believed that was entirely why. It was the look in Lionel's eyes, the crisp fold of the fifty he'd held out.
Like Jonathan was now bought and paid for, at a value of fifty dollars. The idea still makes him feel a little shaky, even after all these years. Even with Martha's kiss warm on his cheek, the curve of her waist under his hand.
He's a good man.
He's made himself into a very good man. His father would be proud. Martha is, and Clark is, too. Jonathan has shown them that he knows right (the long slow slide of Martha's legs up his legs, her eyes, her voice when she says she loves him) from wrong (cold tile under his thighs, Lionel's tongue on his skin, the backhanded smirk, the curt dismissal like he's dirty). He's proved he knows the difference.
Proved that he's worth a hell of a lot more than fifty dollars. Proved that he's not that confused, drunken boy curled around the cool, porcelain base of a toilet in a bathroom of a restaurant he didn't remember going to.
So he stands tall as he can in the cool of evening, and watches Martha pacing, throwing the ugly stone of the plant worried looks, like she'll be able to see Clark in there, see if he's okay. He knows Lionel's standing behind him, can feel Lionel's presence like Clark feels the meteor rocks.
It's like he's lost his bearings, and it makes him sick. Like something that should be fixed inside of him is beginning to come loose. That night, maybe he lost a little bit of what would have made him more like his father. More like Clark.
Maybe it was innocence. Maybe it was naivet. Maybe it was trust. Either way, it's gone now, and Lionel is standing behind him, and Jonathan feels dizzy. He needs Martha, needs to feel her simple hands pressed against his. Needs her to need him, so that he doesn't have to think about the taste of Lionel's hands.
Would have closed his eyes, except he can hear the door to the plant beginning to open. Clark and Lex stumble out into the night. Lex is watching Clark, cold eyes warming as they run over Clark's body.
"Doesn't fall far from the tree, does he?" Lionel murmurs against Jonathan's ear. He shudders, swallows hard, and walks over to Martha.
Takes Martha's hand, and reminds himself that good men don't hit people. Hugs Clark tight, and looks over at the Luthors. Lionel catches his eyes.
And he knows, and he knows Lionel knows. He's watching, and waiting, and Jonathan doesn't know for what, but there's nothing like mercy in the twist of Lionel's lips.
Jonathan closes his eyes, tries to push back the darkness with Clark's smile and Martha's hands on his skin, but when he opens his eyes, Lionel's still watching.
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