Title: Collectable
Author: Lemon Lashes
Summary: Kind of a PWP.
Pairing: Clex
Fandom: Smallville
e-mail: don't have one, sorry
Spoiler Warning: No spoilers
WARNING WARNING: bad words, violence (sort of), m/m sex. Rating: R
Disclaimer: The sitch is mine. The characters are totally stolen property and belong to someone else entirely. Feedback: Sure!
Archive: Yes, anywhere
Thanks: Spike, button-pusher extraordinaire

Collectable

Lex has a bounty going on meteor rocks.

There's a middleman, of course; there's always a middleman. Guy named Fernley Gross pays the local kids a buck a rock, more if the stone's really large. Fernley claims to be selling the meteor fragments on E-bay, but really he's just piling them up in a C-class office that can't be traced to anything Lutherish. There's one oil drum full to brimming on the floor in the place. He stops in to look at them tonight and it's like they're shining, casting a green glow against the T-bar ceiling and looking like a kind of post-Apocalyptic Slurpee.

Meteor rocks. Just one of the many things Lex does to keep from thinking about Clark.

Clark. Who is, first and foremost, too young. Also too innocent, too pretty, too Fifties fucking square and--let us not forget--too hung up on Lana. Or is it Chloe this week?

"Shit," he says aloud to the Slurpee. "I'm doing it again."

The rocks don't answer. Lex has a sudden urge to jack off on them, to spray a steaming wad of Luthor genetic potential all over the freaky science ghost that haunts his adopted hometown. See what a little rogue protein does to the mix. It wouldn't take long; he's had Clark in his thoughts all day and his cock has throbbed the kid's namewith every heartbeat.

But he knows that anything to do with meteor rocks is a bad idea.

So he goes back to the limo, barks "Home" at the driver and pours himself a scotch. Another bad idea, at least for a man trying to forget something... but it's one of those wired summer nights when Lex's every instinct is screaming for him to go find some trouble. And he can't very well do that, can he? Not here in the land of everyone knows your every move. Instead it's back to the castle. Maybe if he's lucky someone'll kidnap him and he'll get to see...

Fuck. Forget about it. Buy some porn, pick up a girl, something. Fake normal for twenty minutes and get it out of your system.

He plans to get into the tub but he pours another drink after he's got his pants off and somehow that turns into him roaming the empty rooms in his shirt and tie. Glass in hand, he pads around not seeing the antiques, the overpriced furniture, the crust of art--not to his taste--that lies thick on the walls. Generally he likes being cocooned in expensive invisible stuff, but tonight it's like a heavy wool coat he can't move in.

Speaking truth to Clark, Lex thinks, is the sexiest thing he's ever done. 'I've done things I'm not proud of,' he said to him once, and he'd been hard as a rock, just thinking about it, for two days after. Hard as a big, green, glowing...

"I'm not nearly drunk enough to be this fucked up," Lex says as his hand slides down. His cock feels strangely light as its weight shifts from his shorts to his fingers. He pauses to let the briefs slide down to his ankles but can't just abandon them on the hardwood floor. Kneels instead to pick them up, still holding the hairless length of himself. The floor's cool on his knees; it's nice down here. He squeezes himself, wishes he knew a way to stay here and still have a drink within reach too.

His cock jangles and he thinks of nuzzling the base of a neck with dark hair.

"Lex?" Clark is filling the hallway, jeans, red shirt, wide shoulders that need to be gnawed on, and the perennial look of puzzlement on his face. Shouldn't he be embarrassed or repelled? "What are you doing?"

Just the question makes his cock jump in his hand. Small moment when he gathers himself and Lex speaks the truth, putting his whole self into his voice and his eyes. "I'm thinking about fucking you, Clark."

If not for his remarkable breath control, the last couple words would be breathless. He swallows a groan. And Clark's not backpedalling either, he's got that accepting look that is so fucking what makes Lex crazy, even as he hates himself for needing it, and now the kid, he's a kid Lex, gotta stop this, is kneeling down beside him, sliding both pale hands up the insides of Lex's thighs. The eye contact is as sudden and intense as a bullet hitting him, a sensation he remembers well from another longago summer mistake.

"Clark," he says, trying to summon up a dismissal, and then the lips are on his and the white uncallused hands are holding his balls, loosening Lex's grip on himself. Clark lifts Lex's jack-off hand up to the back of his young neck and takes Lex's cock in a grip that is unlike anything he's ever felt. His skin's too cool and it's like Clark's fingers are metal; the grip's wrong somehow but it's so good and Lex can't think about anything as it starts the up and down. Clark's tongue is on his and Lex can't seem to move him, can't pull him closer, can't get their clothes off or dimple the flesh of Clark's neck with his fingers, can't disrupt the rhythm of the hand that's fucking him up and down.

Clark inches forward a bit at a time, shifting them both until he's lowering Lex to the floor. He's still completely dressed, and his weight on Lex's chest is the same right-wrong implacable force. He's plate steel, sandwiching Lex to the floor. He doesn't seem to need to breathe as they kiss.

All Lex's alarms are going off now, because Clark just isn't old enough or experienced enough or confident enough to pull this off. This isn't Clark, but he couldn't get away even if he wanted to. And he can't speak, because of the Clark or not lips, the tongue, oh shit, and the hand still moving up and down his dick would be enough to stop him even if his mouth wasn't full.

Close to coming now. His neck arches, and the eye contact breaks. For an instant Lex has a brief whiff of sanity returning, not enough to change anything, just a sense that he might be willing to try to sort this out, get away. He tries, one last time, not to think of Clark. Focuses on thoughts of his mother in her last week. His head clears a little more.

Then Clark's hand tips his face back so they're forehead to forehead. Strong fingers pull his closed eyelids up, and the dark eyes meet Lex's again. The mental discipline goes as the country-boy lips pull off his mouth. "Scared, Lex?" Clark whispers.

"Yes," he says, and that breaks all the emotional dams he's got left--he shoots warm jizz all over his white shirt, all over the hardwood floor and Clark's hand and the ceiling too for all he knows. It hurts a little, but pleasure overrides the electric jolts. The good-bad spasms explode outward from his cock to every cell of his smooth body; he feels his arm muscles spasm, his toes curling. His calf muscle cramps. The sound in his throat is a little like a death rattle.

The hand between his legs squeezes one last time, releases. Clark brings it up to Lex's face and wipes the jizz on his cheeks and forehead. The hand holding his head lets go and Lex turns his face away, closing his eyes to buy himself a moment. At least the lust is gone, he thinks, as he registers a sound of weight shifting in the floorboards. Clark standing.

His whole body's starting to hurt now; instead of post-orgasmic relaxation, it's reacting as if he's just been in a fight--muscles tightening, skin sensitized to the touch of mere air. Lex waits for the sound of a zipper and wonders what to do.

But nothing happens. When he opens his eyes, he's alone.

He gets to his feet. Strips, wipes up the jizz with his briefs, and then leaves the rest of his clothes on the floor as he walks away. He heads straight to the shower. Daring whatever it is to come back.

Lex soaps himself clean but doesn't overdo it. He's okay. He's not drunk and he's not freaked--not much, anyway--and he's not hurt. The everywhere pain he's feeling isn't even worthy of a Tylenol. Hot water clears the last haze of the... encounter... away and he falls into himself, evaluating. After he's clean he wraps up in a white robe and visits the bottle of scotch, contemplating it without pouring one. Drugged? Yet another job for the lab.

"Lex?" Clark again, in a blue shirt this time instead of a red one. He sees the bathrobe and averts his eyes. The real thing, or a better fake?

"A little late to be dropping by, isn't it Clark?" He smiles as he says it, making sure the kid knows it's okay. In case it is the kid.

"I just wondered if you were okay." Diffident dip of the head and Lex feels residual lust stirring in the silt of his belly. Clark is obviously worried about something particular. The second-sexiest Smallville phenomenon? Survey says--moments when Clark knows something and isn't sharing. "The lights were on and you've been a target for so many kinds of, um, crime this year, and..."

He's a crappy liar, Lex thinks.

"I was passing by and I..."

Somebody's fucking with me, Lex wants to say. It's the truth, even if it isn't G-rated enough for Martha Kent's son. "I'm fine, Clark," is what actually comes out of his mouth.

Perplexed, dark-browed frown. "You sure?"

"Good night, Clark," Lex says, and the kid half-blushes as the bathrobe registers again. He lets himself be shown the door, vanishing into the Kansas night. Lex is alone in the big stupid castle, but that's okay. His mind's engaged now; the unshakable thought of Clark that dogged him all day has receded even before the kid pulls out of the drive.

Someone is fucking with Lex, and he's got a lot of work to do if he's going to be ready for the next time.