As Good Belongs to Me

by Pearl-o and Jack

Acknowledgments: Thanks to Isilya and Jenn for audiencing and enabling, to Jessica for her invaluable assistance in the rough spots, and to Koi for a masterful beta.

Feedback: Welcomed via e-mail to Pearl-o, who will graciously pass it along without irritating Jack's e-mail allergy; or via comments on Jack's LiveJournal.

Other Notes: So to hell.

Lex has only been gone a few minutes, but Clark has already run through the entertainment value of his study. Cleared desk, boring books -- nothing to keep him busy while he waits.

Waiting sucks.

The pool table it is.

He turns when he hears movement from the hallway. Lionel. Ah, perhaps it won't be so tedious keeping himself busy until Lex comes back, after all. Clark bends back into position and snaps the cue into the ball, giving it just a little extra punch so the break is louder than it needs to be. Lionel starts, then stills, listening.

"Lex? Is that you?"

"Lionel, go back to your room." First actual meeting and he's going right to first name basis, and why not? Clark can do whatever he wants. Just because Lex is scared of this scrawny old blind guy doesn't mean Clark has to be. "Better yet, pack your bags and get the hell out."

The old bastard starts to draw up indignantly, but Clark's on a roll. "Nobody wants you here." Smallville may be learning to tolerate Lex, some of the people some of the time, but Lionel's a different story; and Lex probably wants him gone more than anyone. "Lex may be too afraid to tell you, but I'm not. No one in Smallville wants you here."

Lionel's mouth is still open, and his brows have relaxed from drawn-down affronted to plain uncertain; hardly the devil incarnate Clark's heard horror stories about since childhood. Was that all it took to throw the mighty Lionel Luthor off his game? He wouldn't have thought so, to judge from the stories Lex tells. Lex. Lex is fucking afraid of -- this?

Lex is taking care of the penthouse, the car, everything for their future; Clark can take care of the old man.

"You seem to know a lot about me," Lionel says. "Have you got a name?"

Clark grins, prowling closer and wishing the expression wasn't wasted on Lionel... but then, it's fun to watch his head swing back and forth as he tries to follow Clark's movements by sound alone.

"Wouldn't you like to know," he purrs into Lionel's ear, then dances back out of the way, trying to keep his chuckle quiet when Lionel spins around and reaches out with his free hand. Pathetic.

But Clark's done letting opportunities for fun pass him by, on any scale, and he sidles back in, taking Lionel's elbow in one hand and wrapping the other around his waist. Turn, step, step, and this isn't so different from when Lex taught him to waltz, except for the reasons why. And except for Clark no longer being the one tripping over his own feet, but he's strong enough to hold them both up. The rising heat's pretty much the same.

He stops when he has Lionel backed up against the pool table, pinned there against the hard surface. Totally free to Clark's will, under Clark's power, and he has to grin. He trails his fingers down Lionel's arm, brushing along the fabric, till he reaches his hand. It's easy to wrench the cane out of Lionel's weak grip, and Clark throws it behind him, not bothering to watch. It lands with a clatter.

"What do you think you're doing, young man?"

Clark laughs, and presses himself closer against Lionel. "No wonder Lex thinks he's smarter than you." He pauses. Lex... there's a thought that's simultaneously distracting and precisely the right motivation, because how often has he imagined having Lex just like this? Or Lex trapping him where Lionel is; but waiting for Lex to make his move has lost its thrill.

"He is," he continues, shifting one leg between Lionel's and leaning even closer, so he can hold him in place with just his hips. "You'd have to be blind" -- and he snatches the dark glasses that are too hip for Lionel, really, and slips them on himself -- "not to see it."

Lionel makes a sub-verbal sound of frustration and fumbles against Clark's chest and shoulders, as if he has a chance of retrieving the shades.

With a laugh, Clark catches him by the forearms, and forces his arms back until the gnarled hands rest on the so-Lex purple felt.

"Calm down, Lionel," Clark says, almost cooing. "Take it easy."

"You would be well-advised to take your hands off me, boy," Lionel says coldly, and Clark smirks. Bastard thinks he's in control? Clark leans forward even more, pushing Lionel down over the playing surface, and moves to whisper in his ear.

"What're you going to do to me, Luthor?" He shifts his leg again, rubbing his thigh just hard enough to matter. Oh yeah, a few small changes, and this could be any number of Clark's old fantasies.

But Clark doesn't need fantasies anymore. Not when the real thing's here, breathing hot into his shoulder.

Pressing full-body against another man may be new, but those tailored slacks aren't any more concealing tactilely than Lex's are visually. Lionel's not hard, but he's not quite uninterested either, and that little revelation makes Clark's own cock twitch in his expensive new pants.

He wonders whether Lex will smell like this years from now, not like money but like the things it can buy: the subtlest colognes, the finest fabrics, the choicest -- brandy? He'll have to have Lex give him a crash course in what the wealthy drink when they get to Metropolis. He wants a taste of something expensive now, though.

Lionel opens his mouth to speak before Clark gets a chance. "I take it you're a ... friend of my son's?" Lionel's voice is still just as steady and bell-clear with Clark right here breathing over his lips. Almost impressive.

"You could say that," Clark murmurs. He lets his tongue slip out during the words, licks his lips, and lets it almost -- but not quite -- touch Lionel's mouth. The alcohol-laced aroma of Lionel's breath is heady on his tongue.

"I see." And wow, does this guy ever shut up? Maybe that's where Lex gets it from.

"Lionel," Clark says. He clucks his tongue. "You talk too much."

And maybe Clark's talking too much, too, keeping his tongue from other things. Like licking Lionel's cheek, just where his beard's only stubble. It tickles his tongue and tastes of salt and a faint bitterness, some rarefied cologne or maybe just soap.

Lionel tries to jerk away, but he's still imprisoned between Clark and the billiards table, between the irresistible force and the immovable object. He tilts his face back instead; Clark just snickers and redirects his attention to Lionel's newly-exposed throat.

Time to put his new skills from last night into use, then. The parked Ferrari out by the old lake, no worries or responsibilities -- and Clark had been done with being the gentleman, satisfied with sweet little pecks and the occasional hint of tongue. Geez, making out had been even better than Pete had described it. A writhing girl in his lap and a tongue in his ear, while he sucked hickeys all over her till she looked like she was going to die from some horrible rash.

Having a worldly, world-famous billionaire industrialist underneath him is just that much more exhilarating. God. He'd never appreciated how much power he has until yesterday...

He kisses gently at the tiny dip in Lionel's throat, draws his tongue around in a circle. Lionel's breath is coming harsher now; Clark can feel him responding.

Clark leans back a little, just enough so he can see Lionel's face, and moves both his wrists into one hand. The move leaves him one hand free for touching, for stroking along the bearded jaw. Lionel jerks his cheek away from the touch, but Clark yanks it back. He has to be right here for this, even if he can't see Clark's eyes, see exactly what Clark is doing to him, what he's doing to Clark.

"Hey, old man," Clark says softly. "You're not going anywhere. What's more, I don't think you want to." And he lets go of his jaw, lets the hand drift down to cup Lionel's cock.

It twitches against his palm, once, then resumes its slow unfurling rise. Clark's still watching Lionel's face, fascinated by the way his jaw clenches and his lips draw together in an expression he recognizes from the many times he's seen it on Lex. Lex. Lex will have to be next. If Jessie had made last night the best of Clark's life, Lionel is well on his way to making this the best afternoon; and when Lex gets back, well, the afternoon might just turn out good enough to be the new best night of his life, time of day be damned.

He can't help another chuckle as he gives Lionel a gentle squeeze, a little trick Jessie hadn't needed to teach him. Lionel's ready for him this time, apparently; there's no gasp, no shiver, no nothing.

Just Lionel's voice, amusement heavily laced with condescension. "Yes, you must be a friend of Lex's."

That was below the belt, and Clark responds in kind, one hand pulling viciously while the other brands bruise bracelets over Lionel's wrists. There's the sharply indrawn breath he'd wanted, and even the beginning of a moan before Lionel cuts it off. His control's impressive, which just gives Clark that much more incentive to break it.

Lionel's teeth are bared now, but it's nothing like a smile. Clark grins. "Don't be stupid, Lionel. Lex doesn't have any friends; you've seen to that."

Lionel frowns, and opens his mouth to respond, to say something else, and Clark shuts him up with a kiss, small and aggressive, hard against Lionel's mouth till he tastes something sharp and different and unfamiliar. There's blood on Lionel's lips when Clark stops, and he licks it off of them before he continues.

"Besides..." He strokes slowly, gently. Fucker's going to want this. "Do you really want to be thinking about your son right now?" Not that Clark minds; each mention of Lex's name is just exciting him that much more.

Lionel makes a face that can only be described as a grimace, and doesn't even try to speak this time. Amusing. Maybe he's finally learning. That deserves a reward, so Clark stops his teasing petting for long enough to get at the front of Lionel's pants. He figured out the clasps of expensive pants in the bathroom this morning, but it's more difficult from this side, and one-handed. Still, it doesn't take too long till he manages all the fasteners, and then the zipper's easy. Hand down the front of uncommonly soft briefs, he wraps it completely around the warm cock...

New. But Clark's always been a fast learner. He keeps his hand still, not moving, feeling Lionel grow as he holds him. As he kisses Lionel, slowly, slipping his tongue into his mouth. As he breaks it off again and just breathes against his face. Lionel's eyes are closed now. "Or maybe you do. Just how big of a pervert are you, Lionel?"

His face probably wouldn't have given him away: the change in his expression, the swiftly-belayed tic of his eyelids, is too subtle to read, probably even for Lex -- Lex -- but Clark's got palm and fingers curled close around Lionel's cock, and it throbs and bobs up against his skin.

He almost can't blame Lionel; who wouldn't want Lex? Then again, not everyone is Lex's father. And there's a perversely amusing thought... "Hey, Lionel," he purrs, unable to resist a chuckle. He's so close to Lionel's ear that his own warm breath comes gusting back over his mouth. "Does Lex look like his mother?"

No verbal response from Lionel, but his breath's getting ragged now, coming in little harsh pants. Control. Heh. It's time to up the ante, so Clark begins a slow, slow stroke of Lionel's cock.

"Cat got your tongue, Lionel? You're being awfully quiet all of a sudden." Tiny gasp, swallowed before he even lets the breath out, but Clark notices. Oh, this is fun. Clark has been missing out on so much all these years. "You could've called for security. Shouted for someone. But you haven't. I think -- I think you want this, Lionel. Pretty boy your son's age, jerking you off. Your son's friend. Making you come. Is that what you want, Lionel? Tell me."

He's still not answering, or maybe it takes too much effort to hold back telltale moans, leaving him insufficient composure for speech. It's not just his silence that betrays him, though; his head tilts farther back, and his hips move into Clark's stroke -- slowly, slightly, stopped in seconds. Lionel holds his breath through a long swallow.

Watching the old man's throat work, Clark wants to take hold there, too, see what reaction that gets... or just see the contrast of his hand against that wizened skin, tanned darker even than Clark's own. Not safe to trust Lionel with his arms free, though, not yet; instead he lays his mouth across it, lips mapping the topography of his Adam's apple. The skin's surprisingly supple, soft under his tongue.

In the damp darkness of Lionel's briefs, he gives a subtle squeeze and strokes back up, letting his palm slide over the head. Sticky fluid eases the down stroke, and he can't help humming in amused appreciation. The shift of Lionel's hips isn't checked this time, nor is the soft answering moan that vibrates right into Clark's open mouth, their voices merging, one chord struck in two throats.

One last swipe of his tongue as Lionel runs out of breath, and Clark straightens again, smirking at the unsteadiness of his next inhalation. The next stroke of his cock makes Lionel's breath hitch, once as Clark's hand shifts up with a twist and once when he squeezes again on the down stroke. He's still getting harder with every touch, and Clark is impressed.

"He must," he says, and Lionel's eyes snap open, decades of reflex. "He doesn't really look much like you at all, actually." Another stroke, slower than Clark would be able to stand, but then Clark's only had a few years to hone his control. "Lex looks so... soft." He lets his voice drop almost to a whisper, talking into the bristled edge of Lionel's jaw. "His skin, his mouth... So soft. Almost pretty."

Lex's mouth, pretty mouth, the one Clark's wanted on his own, on his skin, on his cock for so long. Lex. There's only a little while till Lex gets back, and that pretty mouth is Clark's now. He doesn't have a hand free to reach down to his own pants, so he settles for grinding against Lionel's hip instead. Good pressure against his dick, nice pressure, sweet pressure.

"Mmm." Clark closes his eyes and lets his forehead rest against Lionel's. He speeds the movement of his hand just enough to feel Lionel's minute reaction. "Jesus, that feels good. If you weren't such an goddamn asshole, Lionel, we could be friends."

And that gets an acknowledgement, laughter in a short sharp burst against Clark's face and a deeper rumble where their chests touch.

"Oh, fuck yeah. Like that." Clark hisses in a breath as he thrusts. "Come on. Show me what you're made of." Lionel says nothing, though, and Clark's getting frustrated, so he gives his cock one more stroke, slow again, and lets go, bringing his hand up to his mouth. Lionel has to be able to smell himself there, so close to his own mouth and nose, and Clark gives his hand a broad cat-lick before speaking again. "Lionel. Tell me what you want."

Lionel's blood-flecked lips part, but he's not giving up ground on demand; he tips his head forward slowly, slowly, until his nose brushes one of Clark's fingers. He's silent still, eyes unfocused, when his tongue snakes out to trace the edge of Clark's palm. He licks a wet line upwards; Clark's hips snap forward, and he squirms over so that the next thrust can bring his own erection in line with Lionel's.

A probe of the curve of flesh where two digits join, then Lionel stretches up, leaning forward as much as Clark's hold will allow to curl that devious tongue around a fingertip and draw it between his lips. Around once, twice it swirls, subtle suction pulling his finger further into Lionel's mouth with each twist of tongue.

Clark's the one panting now, grinding against Lionel, glad of his opened fly and wishing desperately he'd undone his own pants. In a just universe, he thinks distantly, horny aliens would grow a third hand. At least the fine material allows more give and impedes less sensation than the coarse denim he used to wear.

"God," he chokes out, burying his face in Lionel's neck and sucking hard. Hard like he'd done to Jessie, marking her; like he's going to do to Lex, because Lex is his; hard like he wants Lionel to suck his cock instead of that finger, if this is any indication of his talent.

There's a sneering laugh against his hand, though the wet tease never falters. Clark jerks his head up, gaze narrowing. It couldn't be any more difficult unless a meteor rock were suddenly dropped at their feet, but he pulls his finger free of Lionel's mouth.

"Oh, no," he says, trying to regain control over his breathing and managing an admirable degree of success, given that he's still rolling his hips into Lionel's. "Ask. I told you." He wipes his wet hand on one stubbled cheek, thumb smearing the faint remnant of blood along Lionel's swollen lower lip. "You have to tell me what you want."

That sneer is on Lionel's face again. When he speaks, Clark can't resist a shiver at the sound of his voice, husky like sex. "I suppose the concept of self-control is alien to you. Not all of us are as desperate, as ruled by fleeting desire, as you seem to be."

"You forget," Clark says, moving his hand back down to its place at Lionel's crotch. "You're talking to the guy with his hand around your cock." He squeezes once, hard, just to make his point.

Lionel doesn't crack, though, and Clark's disappointed. Just a tiny hitch in his breathing, and he's still talking, no sign of strain in his voice. "Or perhaps my son is simply not keeping you satiated--"

Clark tightens his hold on Lionel's wrists, and twists; Lionel makes a small, surprised noise. "Shut up," Clark says in a low growl. "Don't talk about him. Don't ever fucking touch him."

Lionel does nothing, just tilts his head slightly and listens to Clark. After a moment, though, he smiles, slow and wide. "Temper, temper, my boy."

Clark considers tightening his grip again. It would be nothing to break both of Lionel's wrists right now. But -- Clark's still hard, hips still moving against Lionel's in that perfect rhythm, and he still wants more.

And Lionel is going to give it to him.

Reaching around, he shifts one of Lionel's wrists into his free hand and repositions them spread apart, making Lionel brace his hands on the table as Clark leans his full weight into another thrust. Then he eases back, pulling one arm up towards the middle of Lionel's back and then yanking the other in between them, not using his superspeed, but still moving fast enough that Lionel has no chance to catch his balance, bent against the polished wood rail, held up only by Clark's surely-painful hold. The wince he can't hide confirms it.

"All right," Clark growls. "You've got so much more self-control... Undo my pants." He punctuates the order with one more thrust, then presses Lionel's palm to the tight-strained fabric of his fly.

Lionel pauses, and for a second, Clark thinks he's going to have to say something more; but then Lionel's fingers flutter over him appraisingly. Clark groans, and Lionel smiles and starts to unbutton.

It's immediately obvious that Lionel is much better at this than Clark, even with the same strained one-handed position, and blind, to boot. He moves quickly, surprisingly so, and Clark's almost not prepared for the feeling of Lionel's hand -- bigger than Jessie's, much bigger, and rougher and stronger. A man's hand.

Clark can't help throwing his head back and letting out a small moan as Lionel's hand brushes up and down his length. Exploring? Teasing? Clark doesn't know and doesn't care. He can feel the heat welling up behind his eyes, and he blinks rapidly at the ceiling.

"I'll say this for you," Lionel says, and Clark looks back down at his face, twisted into an odd amused smile with his eyebrows raised high. Clark frowns and opens his mouth to speak, but he loses focus as Lionel's grip tightens and he begins to pump. "You certainly are an interesting young man."

It's a perfect pace, fast enough that Clark's up on his toes to move with it, slow enough to tease. Down, and up, and Lionel's twisting through each stroke, and rolling foreskin between agile fingers without losing his rhythm at all. Clark loses count of strokes, loses track of everything except feeling that callused skin on his cock and thrusting up into its grip.

He realizes he's whimpering in a dishearteningly unmanly manner too late to hide it, and it's still an effort to stop the sound. Either this just feels better and better when it's done right, or Lionel's squeezing steadily tighter, stroking gradually faster. It takes a while for Clark to notice that he still has one hand wrapped around Lionel's moving arm, and that he's let the arm behind Lionel's back free enough to ease down to the table again.

A glance down confirms that Lionel is still mostly erect, just the head poking out of the top of his navy briefs. Right there. Easy enough to shift his hand over and push the waistband down in the vee of Lionel's opened fly, and the sudden gasp at his ear reminds him that this is more fun when the old bastard is less in control.

With an emphatic roll of his hips to keep Lionel's attention mostly on sustaining that rhythm, he raises his hand, holding the palm over Lionel's parted lips, index finger and thumb pressing lightly into opposite cheeks above the line of beard. "Wet it," he says, voice husky but thankfully in an appropriately masculine register.

Lionel flicks his tongue out, once and then again, lightly pressing into the palm of Clark's hand. He's keeping the rhythm of the hand on his cock, Clark realizes after a moment, and he swallows hard. "More," he says, and if his voice is slightly shakier this time, no one could blame him. "C'mon."

And Lionel obeys, does exactly what Clark told him to, and there's the wet warmth of his tongue drawing a spiral over Clark's skin. Clark grunts deep in his throat, a sound he's never heard himself make before. He could just keep doing this, just like this, Lionel's tongue and Lionel's hand -- but no. He has other plans. It's an effort to drag his hand away.

"Good. That's good, Lionel," he says, slightly out of breath. Such a tight hand, so perfect to thrust into -- the man must work out, take care of himself, no softness anywhere. "You see how good this can be when you listen to me?"

There's a slight pause in the rhythm -- what, is Lionel going to try to rebel? -- and Clark raises his eyebrows. The hesitation is minute, though, and then they're back on track, with Lionel chuckling softly.

Chuckling has never been sexy before; chuckling is something fathers do, or kindly old neighbors. Chuckling takes on a different connotation when it's coming from Lionel Luthor's mouth, six inches from your own.

Lionel's cock slides back into his grip, and his tongue slides back into Lionel's mouth. He's trying Lionel's trick of keeping all their movements in sync, and almost, he thinks, managing it.

Then Lionel is moving against his hand, and licking between his lips, and everything just eases into place.

Nothing but natural, now, the glide of Lionel's erection in his hand, wet and hard and smooth in a way completely different from the way his own dick feels when he touches himself, yet so much the same. Hot, inflaming, needed clench and pull of Lionel's hand, letting him thrust into it and doing so much more. Wet mating of Lionel's mouth to his, lips clasping and teeth nipping and then Lionel sucks on his tongue. And again. And again, and there's just one rhythm of movement between them, one breath, one pulse.

And Lionel keeps sucking on his tongue, lips letting it slide back into Clark's mouth before he sucks it back between them again. Lionel's tongue paints invisible patterns up one side of Clark's and down the other. Impossible as it seems even to think, much less make any movement independent of instinct, Clark knows he has to have that wicked mouth's talents turned elsewhere.

Jessie hadn't done that, just jerked him off quick and rough, while Clark moved his fingers around blindly in her panties and she'd made little keening noises against his throat, then louder when she'd yanked the panties aside to straddle him for a few dizzying, dangerous strokes until he'd pulled out, just in time. And that had been great, mind-blowing even, but Lionel Luthor's mouth around his dick -- oh, yeah, that's going to be better.

"Lionel," Clark whispers, and he can't resist an extra shivery thrust. "I want you to suck my cock."

Lionel bites Clark's bottom lip hard, and it feels good, that little sensation of should-be-pain. It should be blood, it should be even rougher and lewder and dirtier than it already is.

But, oh, Clark is untouchable. There's no end to his power.

"Come on," he says again, and the twist to the arm behind Lionel's back earns him something that would be a groan in anyone else. "Don't you want to?"

Clark can't stop moving into Lionel's uninterrupted stroking, can't stop his own hand from continuing to stroke Lionel in return as they pant into one another's open mouths. Lionel's voice is unfairly calm and infuriatingly condescending when he replies.

"Is that what passes for seductive dialogue between you and my son? I know he, at least, can do much bet-"

Impossible to keep his hand between Lionel's legs at those words; it's wrapped around Lionel's throat so fast his hair blows back from his face, cutting him off mid-goad. "I told you not to talk about him," he growls between clenched teeth, punctuating the reprimand with a bruising bite to Lionel's chin. Lex is his. His. Not Lionel's, never Lionel's.

Shaking with fury, he extends his arm till Lionel is dangling above him, one arm still torturously pinioned behind his back but the other raised to claw at the stranglehold of Clark's grip. Lionel is gasping, kicking uselessly at Clark's legs, making choking and gagging noises that only remind him what he wants Lionel to do for him. And Lionel has no real choice in it; only in how it will go, and even that only if Clark allows it.

All he has to do is relax his arms, and Lionel Luthor, the monster that comes after children who won't stay in their beds at night, is sprawled gracelessly on the floor beside him, fighting for breath, helpless, powerless -- though not, Clark notes with a leer, impotent. He snarls his other hand into that obnoxious hair, the pretence of Clark's needing to restrain his arms dropped when Lionel was. Clark pulls him up, fingers merciless on Lionel's neck; he's quick to get his knees under him, probably mostly the reptile brain's instinct towards self-preservation, but Clark's enjoying the visual anyway.

Lionel's hands wander Clark's thighs and hips, and it's probably more to get his bearings and his balance again, but fuck, at this point it feels like another tease. Clark is an ever-decreasing number of seconds away from just pulling Lionel's face forward and shoving himself in. If Lionel isn't going to give it to him... Clark is not above taking what he wants anymore.

But somehow Clark doesn't think it's going to come to that. Lionel wants him. Everybody wants him. Clark could have anyone he wants at his knees right now. Hell, Lionel is lucky to be there. He should be grateful. Worshipful, even.

Clark loosens his grip on Lionel's neck a little, admiring the contrasting marks his fingers have raised, even as they begin to fade. He nudges Lionel's head further forward with the hand in his hair. "What do you need, an engraved invitation?"

And Lionel leans in even more, mouth just a few inches away, and breathes. Draws in a deep breath, and smiles.

"Lio-" Clark starts to scold, but he's cut short by the wet caress of a tongue on his cock, and it mutates, somehow -- despite his best efforts -- into a moan.

In Clark's old fantasies, there had been long hair in front of him, straight and shining black, but sweet, there to be stroked gently; in the newer ones, there's nothing but smooth soft skin beneath his fingertips. Here now, though, is a full head of hair for him to grip, for him to pull and tug as he makes the most of this.

He tightens his hand in Lionel's hair, but he can't concentrate on comparisons; can't focus on anything besides this warm wetness, so fucking perfect. No need for him to do anything more just yet. Lionel's tongue circles the head, the tip teasing into his foreskin ever so slightly; then the flat is sliding down his length in a long candy-stripe.

At the base, Lionel pauses, inhaling deeply. There's stubble against the insanely sensitive skin of Clark's thigh, and he's distracted by the tickling touch for a moment before it occurs to him that Lionel is smelling him. His cock flexes, brushing Lionel's bearded cheek and making him shiver, but he wanted Lionel to...

Thought retreats again when Lionel's head dips and the same moist caress moves to his balls. Licking first, then his abused lips -- Clark can feel where the lower one's split -- close over Clark's sac, drawing one testicle into his mouth. Fist tightening in Lionel's hair, Clark sways as Lionel's tongue moves in ways he can't picture, stirring sensations he can't describe.

Then those callused fingers are replacing the fluid heat, rasping over the new wetness left by Lionel's mouth. Little licks flutter up one side of his erection and down the other, and he's keening and shaking and flexing his hand against Lionel's bruised throat before he remembers he's the one in charge here.

Opening his hand, he moves it to Lionel's jaw, wrenching it down. A twist of the other hand brings it tight to Lionel's scalp, and he grunts, "Suck it. Now."

It's a weirdly heady mix of surprise, victory and pleasure when Lionel does, leaning in and closing lips tight around the head of Clark's cock. One of his hands is still on Clark's balls; he wraps the other around the base as he begins to suck.

Clark moves his legs apart a little more, adjusting his stance to lock his knees and keep himself upright. A mouth feels better than a hand -- anyone's hand -- ever did, and more mobile than Jessie's equally heated wetness had been; Clark closes his eyes and throws his head back.

"Oh, fuck, that's good." This is sapping him in a way nothing else ever has, leaving him breathless, almost weak. He tugs on a strand of Lionel's hair, twists it in his fingers. It's soft, softer than his own, almost like a girl's. Expense must make as much difference in the quality of styling products as with clothes or cars, because even though there must be hair gel or spray or something in the long brown locks, Clark can't feel a trace of it.

"More. Give me more."

Yeah, this is way better than Clark's faithful hand. His hips thrust, pushing him deeper into that warm dark opening, and Clark's cock is going into overload with this stimulation on top of everything else. Lionel's hand moves away, but Clark barely has time to notice the absence before it's back, a single finger slipping wetly to the skin behind his balls.

The finger works its way further back, aided by the motion of Clark's hips, and he's about to protest when knuckles press up into -- fuck, what was that? He bucks, babbling, and Lionel's chuckling again but that just feels good now, vibrations thrumming right through his cock up into his body.

Another probe of those knuckles, meeting the rush of sensation wrought by Lionel's laugh from the opposite direction like waves on a choppy sea. He moves into the touch, can't help it, and that slippery finger slides right into his ass. At any other time this would feel weird, or so the ever-shrinking rational part of his brain insists, but now it's a spike of pleasure so intense he thinks he's coming from it.

Lionel sucks hard, then, does something that closes a fleshy grip around him tighter even than Jessie's pussy had been; his finger goes in till his palm's flat to Clark's ass, and the pleasure when it was just his knuckles was nothing compared to this. Heat and light burst behind Clark's eyes like a nuclear explosion, and now he's coming.

Lionel's hand and Lionel's mouth are still there, holding him, as he jerks helplessly and thrusts in and in and in. It's... good, Clark thinks, and he's maybe a little dazed, because he's just standing here blinking as Lionel pulls off and licks his lips.

"Well," says Lionel, looking up at him. "That was... fast."

Clark blinks again, finds his brain and remembers all the reasons why inviting Lionel to come along with them to Metropolis to do that a lot would be a really stupid idea.

Lionel rises slowly from his knees, using Clark's legs for balance. Clark grabs Lionel's head as soon as he can, drags him in close to assault his face, biting and nuzzling at his throat and mouth. He wants to crow at the discovery of his own taste there. Growling, he pushes Lionel back hard; Lionel stumbles back against the pool table, but doesn't lose his balance. Clark moves towards him, lifting Lionel quickly to settle him on the edge of the pool table. Lionel makes a complaining noise, but he shuts up when Clark spreads his legs apart and steps between.

Lionel's pants have slipped down around his waist, but not as much as Clark wants; shifting his hands on Lionel's thighs, he grabs two fistfuls of fine fabric and pulls down. Lionel chuckles again but rolls back to let his pants be pulled free. They don't come all the way down, though. Just to his knees, leaving Lionel half-undressed and hobbled, an image that amuses Clark in a really satisfying way. The dark briefs, damp and already bunched and twisted out of shape, follow.

Lionel's cock is cantilevered in a dark arch over his belly. The hair around it is shot through with silver like his beard, to Clark's surprise. Lionel could almost be staring at him, resting back on his elbows, panting lightly and wetting his cracked lips, but his eyes aren't quite focused. Clark slips the glasses off himself and returns them to Lionel's face. While the old man's adjusting them, Clark grips one tanned hip and turns him over.

The skin of Lionel's buttocks is softer than Clark expected when he leans in against him, hands holding down the narrow shoulders trying to rise from the table. Clark hadn't completely lost his erection when he came, and now, slipping into the warmth of Lionel's cleft, still saliva-slick from his mouth, it twitches towards full hardness again.

"Don't worry, Lionel," he purrs into one hair-veiled ear, squeezing taut-tensed shoulders for emphasis as he shifts between half-spread legs. "That took the edge off, but I've got plenty left for you."

"Good to know." Lionel's voice is subdued, but still amused. His shoulders are relaxing now under Clark's hands, but he's taken by surprise when Lionel leans forward further, pushing himself back against Clark's cock. Clark can't help sucking in a sharp breath. "I should hope that wasn't the limit of your skills."

"You have no idea what I'm capable of," Clark says, and that's the second time today. Nobody knows what he's capable of, not even his parents -- but everyone will, soon. Clark's been hiding, been waiting for so long.

He shivers a little as he runs one hand down Lionel's back. Still covered by his stupid black shirt, soft and expensive. Like all the stuff Clark's never had. But he's getting it now, isn't he?

"You know, Lionel," Clark says, pleased with his own calmly conversational tone, "I never expected you to be this... slutty. I mean, look at you. You're practically begging for it."

He feels Lionel shake a little beneath his palm, and a cold anger washes through Clark as he realizes that Lionel's laughing at him. Again. Clark leans forward and bites Lionel's shoulder hard, through the fabric of his shirt, and Lionel arches in a painful looking way.

"Fuck you--" Clark begins.

"No, no, I insist. Show me these remarkable accomplishments that keep my son so enthralled with you."

That cold anger flashes over into burning rage at Lionel's latest insinuating invocation of Lex's name, and he has to close his eyes and concentrate a moment to keep from scorching anything. "What did I tell you, Lionel," he growls, squeezing the bastard's arms with bruising force, then shifting one hand to the back of Lionel's neck to hold him down. His free hand pushes at the curve of one buttock to open Lionel to him, though he doesn't shift his cock down yet. "Do you want me to hurt you?"

It had been an idle question, rhetorical in his mind, but once the words pass Clark's mouth he's struck by their aptness. Why else would Lionel keep taunting him?

"You're a real piece of work," he sneers, trying not to let excitement show more than disgust in his voice, though both are clearly there. "Do you deserve for me to hurt you, Lionel?" Lionel's still chuckling under him, but his laughter's a little more strained now. Wetting one finger with a quick swipe of his tongue, Clark returns it to Lionel's ass, shifting his own hips back so he can push the finger into him in one swift, rough thrust.

He leans back down over Lionel's back, pushing down enough to quiet any sounds of pain by dint of forcing the air from his lungs. "Do you?" he grates out. "Tell me why you deserve it, if you want more of -- this." And he shoves his finger in as much farther as it will go.

Lionel makes a low grunt, startled and slightly pained, and twists sharply. Clark grins. It's a tiny victory when he moves his finger and gets another small noise in response.

"Fuck, you want it bad, don't you?" he says softly, leaning in close enough for his breath to gust over Lionel's hair. "I bet you're used to getting what you want, aren't you?"

It's silent beneath him now, except for Lionel's breath, finally reduced to ragged panting.

Lionel's control makes Clark want to... do something. Crack that composure. Break him. Get some response, dammit.

He twists his finger again. Whatever he does manages to make Lionel jerk, arch up as far as he can, but Clark's there to stop him.

"Say something, already." Nothing. He clenches his other hand tight over Lionel's neck; when he lets go after a second, Lionel just coughs.

"Fine. If that's what you want..." And he pulls his finger out and steps back away from the table, leaving Lionel still bent over it and breathing heavily.

It only takes him a second to figure out what's going on, pull himself back together, and turn in the vague direction of where Clark is standing.

"What do you think you're doing?"

"Me? I'm not doing anything," Clark says, smirking.

Lionel pauses a moment, and raises his hand to beckon. "Come here." There's amusement still in his voice, but he sounds pleased, too, and there's something else in his tone Clark doesn't get at all. Lionel's pants are still bunched around his thighs, and he's still aroused, and he should look more ridiculous than he does, but Clark finds himself walking back over anyway. And when Lionel says, "Give me your hand," he gives it to him, and when Lionel wraps it back around his cock again, he doesn't pull back.

Clark's definitely missing something, he thinks as he watches Lionel jerk himself off with their joined hands, but he's not sure what.

It's a different rhythm than when Clark was stroking him earlier; a little faster, a lot rougher, and he thinks this must actually be how Lionel does it when he's alone. Only now Clark's hand is between Lionel's hot palm and hot cock, his own spit and Lionel's pre-come making the slide just moist enough for the sound of it to be truly obscene.

He watches, fascinated, as his own hand, snared in Lionel's, snaps forward with an apparently well-practiced flick of their wrists. Swift on the squeezing upstroke, easier pull back to repeat the motion. There's a curve to the strokes that reminds him of the way Lex's shots sometimes arc balls across the pool table instead of knocking them in simple straight lines.

That conjures an image of Lex bent over the table much as Lionel is now, hips pumping into Clark's hand... Or just touching himself, putting on a show for Clark. His own neglected cock twitches impatiently, and he soothes his free hand over it. Oh, yeah, he'd like to see that. He squeezes himself, gives Lionel an extra squeeze through one stroke that makes his breath hitch just enough to satisfy Clark.

Well, enough that it satisfies Clark's need to make Lionel react, if not, perhaps, other of his needs. Reaching over, he removes Lionel's other hand from the edge of the table and curls it around his cock, imitating their double hold on Lionel. There's that damned chuckle again. Closing his fingers in a viselike circle, he thrusts, but Lionel's just leaving his hand slung passively in Clark's grip.

He squeezes Lionel again, near bruising-hard. "Play nice, Lionel," he growls, "or I'll make you finish this--" another, slightly gentler squeeze "--off by yourself."

"Mmm," Lionel says -- he sounds noncommittal, but his grip tightens, and Clark has to clench his teeth together hard as the pleasure increases again. He has to make Lionel come, do it before he does again. Can't let him win, though Lionel seems to think he will, his expression already smug.

He tries to keep Lionel's hand on his cock to an easy rhythm, while their other hands go faster, tighter, hotter. Lionel's cock in his grasp is still vaguely strange, slick and hot and hard as his hips snap forward. Lionel's palm is rough against the back of his hand and Lionel's voice is -- he's not even talking, just this low murmur or hum that Clark can feel inside, all the way from the tips of his fingers down to his cock.

"Lionel, Lionel," Clark says urgently. "Jesus." He twists his wrist sharply again on the next stroke, and Lionel throws his head back, makes a choking noise, and then he's coming right into Clark's hand.

And, god, that's fucking hot, and he still isn't missing a beat on Clark's cock, and Lex is going to come back to pick him up any minute now...

And god, that thought alone is almost enough to put him over the edge -- Lex returning, catching them in the middle of a circle jerk, his best friend thrusting into his father's expertly stroking hand. Oh, yeah. He pumps harder, feeling the spasms of Lionel's orgasm taper off. Letting the spent flesh slip free, he wraps his semen-slick hand around their double grip on his own. Lionel lets his hand be drawn along, then drops it to cup and fondle Clark's balls.

Yes. Yes. If Lex could see this... Clark can imagine the look on his face, can almost hear his gasp of shock and -- jealousy; he knows Lex would be as angry that his father had gotten Clark first as that he was touching him at all. Lex has never hidden his interest as well as he thinks, and thanks to the red meteor rock in his ring, Clark is finally ready to show him how mutual it is. The memory of Lex checking him out, the way his eyes had lit up at the idea of them going to Metropolis together, the sway of his hips on the way out, god, he can almost smell Lex.

And all of a sudden he's there, the orgasm he's been striving so hard towards sneaking up and hitting him hard. He wails with the force of it, so good, rocking him back on his heels. Vaguely aware of Lionel shifting the hand not trapped in Clark's own to steady him, he pants and twitches his hips in time with the pulses and wonders how soon he'll be recovered enough to do that again. He'd hate to keep Lex waiting.

Turning enough to lean back against the pool table, Clark drops his head to Lionel's shoulder and opens his eyes.

Lex is framed in the open doorway, one hand in his pocket, the other frozen mid-gesture.

Clark opens his mouth, but even if he could talk at this point -- which he's not sure about -- his brain is still lagging, and the only thought crossing his mind is 'Shit.'

Lionel's recovery time isn't quite as slow, apparently, and Clark can't take his eyes from Lex's face even as Lionel starts talking again. "You've got a lot to learn about tact, young man." He chuckles quietly to himself. Lionel hasn't figured out Lex is here, Clark realizes; knowledge should put Clark in a position of power, but damned if he knows how to use it. "But you speak your mind. That's good, take you far."

"Oh, I'm going to the top," Clark says, and he can't help a small smile. Lex blinks then, and seems to snap out of his frozen state; he swivels around and exits the room without a word.

Clark shakes his head and pushes himself away from Lionel, wiping his hand on the felt of the pool table. "That was fun, Lionel. Really."

"Oh, the pleasure was mine," Lionel says magnanimously. He's still posed against the table, eyes closed and head back, but Clark doesn't look back at him as he jogs after Lex.

"Lex -- wait a sec--"

He's almost surprised when Lex does stop and turn back toward him, looking at him with an expression Clark's never seen before.

"Hey. Where're you going? Are we ready to leave for Metropolis now?" He grins.

Lex stares at him. "Clark. What the fuck was that?"

A more considered look, and he notes the way Lex's mouth is drawn a little too tight, the way he's breathing a little too fast, the way his hands are twitching a little too much. Lex is feeling... anger, verging on fury; feeling hurt; feeling betrayed. Feeling jealous, and a rush of parallel jealousy flares in Clark at the thought that Lex might be jealous of him and Lionel both. He's never seen Lex so close to losing his control, and the rush of power feels too good for him to regret being responsible.

Clark can't help a satisfied smirk as he takes a step towards Lex, then another when he doesn't back away. "Making a point," he drawls, making it sound casual -- and toying with Lionel had been just that, casual, especially compared to how serious he is about keeping Lex at his side now. Holding Lex's eyes, shifting his smile to something warmer, if not quite reassuring, he adjusts the drape of Lex's jacket lapel. His fingers linger along the collar, settling it back around Lex's neck as he adds, "Having a little fun. What took you so long?"

Lex moves into the touch; it's only a moment before Clark can see it hit him again, though, and he jerks away. "Jesus," he says, seemingly to himself, and Clark smiles wider.

"I was waiting for you," Clark murmurs, leaning in close to rest his forehead against Lex's. "Thinking about you, about us. Getting myself worked up. You left me all alone. And then he showed up -- he reminded me of you, you know." Lex winces slightly, and Clark rests his hands on Lex's upper arms. "Not the real thing, though," Clark says, and he kisses Lex for the first time.

It's better than Lionel, better than Jessie or Lana or any of the girls he's practiced this with; it's Lex, relaxing under his fingertips and kissing him back. It's too short before Lex breaks their mouths' contact and tries to pull away.

Clark keeps his hands fast on Lex's arms, not tight enough to hurt him, but tight enough that he's not going to get away. "Lex."

Lex stops struggling. He raises his eyes to meet Clark's gaze. "You taste like brandy, Clark."

Clark licks his lips thoughtfully, and Lex's eyes follow. Clark can feel him shudder.

"That was a game, Lex. Just fun," Clark says softly. "This is serious."

He leans in for another kiss, and Lex tries to turn his head away, but once their mouths meet he gives in to it with a sigh.

"See, Lex?" Clark says against his mouth. "You and me. Does the other stuff matter?" He moves one of his hands up to Lex's face; he's not trying to get away anymore.

Lex's eyes are closed. "Fuck."

"Mmmm," he purrs into Lex's jaw. Leaning in, he presses himself against Lex, his other hand slipping down to splay against the taut muscles of his back. "Not a bad idea."

Lex's laugh is a little scary, and Clark just raises his eyebrow and watches him through it, rubbing his back slowly. When he catches his breath, Lex says, "This is so fucked." Smiling, Clark tries to kiss him again, but Lex manages to slip away this time.

"We don't have time. Your dad..."

The smile warps into a scowling frown. "Forget our fathers, Lex." His hand tightens warningly on Lex's neck. "And don't play with me."

Lex stills completely, in a way that's surprising and almost impressive. "Let go of me, Clark." His voice is low, and Clark thinks it might frighten him if he were human.

"Why should I?"

"Because you're hurting me. Because I'm not just another expensive new toy for you to play with." Flint-hard eyes narrow as Clark's grip relaxes. "Is that what that was about with my father?"

Lex is smart, Clark thinks. Possibly smarter than Clark is. He shifts his hand up to the back of Lex's head. "Do you know how freeing it is to realize that you can do whatever you want, Lex? To suddenly know that everything is yours for the taking?"

Tilting his head back, Lex gives him one of those measuring looks that used to make him want to shiver -- it still makes him want to shiver, actually, just for a much different reason.

"Just wait till you realize that that feeling is an illusion, and that you can't just take what you want when you want it." His voice is silk-smooth, but with an edge under it.

"Why not?" He sounds petulant, but it stings a little. Lex's smile stings more. "I could have you if I wanted."

"You're stronger than me," Lex admits, looking him up and down, just like he had this afternoon. "You could take me. But that's not what you want, is it, Clark? This works both ways."

"It does work both ways, Lex, so I don't need to. Come on, admit it. How long have you wanted me and been too afraid to do anything?" Lex's temptingly open mouth closes, and he swallows, which is tempting in its own cock-twitching way. Clark leans closer again, lowering his voice. "You could have had me months ago, you know. I'm not afraid anymore. Are you?"

There's another of those small, considering pauses, and Lex says slowly, "No. I'm not."


"But there's a time and a place for everything, Clark, and this isn't it. Trust me." And this time Lex kisses him, slow and small, before he pulls away again. "We have all the time in the world, Clark, but now we need to go."


"There are people looking for you."

With a leer, he catches Lex's hand in his. "I've got everything I need. Are we taking the Ferrari?"

"I was thinking the Lamborghini." The corners of Lex's mouth turn up, and he gives Clark's hand a squeeze as they start back down the hall. "I may even let you drive."

Clark just smirks, and doesn't say anything else as they walk out to the garage. He still thinks Lex is wrong: he can have whatever he wants, whenever he wants it. The trick is in making them want to give it to him.

If you enjoyed this story, please send feedback to Pearl-o and Jack

Also, why not join Level Three, the Smallville all-fic list?


Level Three Records Room