Old Habits Die Hard (SV, NC-17)
Nov. 14th, 2002 02:34 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
buggeryI should probably stop posting new fic five times a week. Oh well.
I said: give me a bunny, i'll see what i can do?
Pearl-O said: uh. Clex futurefic, clark kent reporter and lex luthor famous guy, closet at important reception.
Old Habits Die Hard
The door's barely closed behind him when the voice speaks out of the close darkness. "Somehow I knew you'd wind up in here eventually."
He snickers. "Nothing to do with seeing you slipping away from the ballroom, or the fact that there are no other rooms off this way."
Shifting in the darkness, rasp of expensive fabrics he feels as much as hears, and the voice is closer this time. "It seemed like a good idea at the time." There's warm breath gusting against his cheek, and over the stale smell of the packed coat closet, another scent, familiar and comfortable as that voice.
"You mean you weren't enjoying the attentions of the Hunderssen twins?"
Someone's fur coat brushes along his side, so thick he can't really feel where there's a hand pressing it to him. "Oh, yeah. I just love trying to be polite to people who are trying to use me to wrangle an introduction to you." He can -see- the hazel eyes rolling, in his mind's eye if not the unrelieved darkness around them, and snickers again.
"Well, you know..." Frowning, he trails off. The fur wrap has resumed its inanimate dangle, and the sweet tease of breath has disappeared. Reaching out one blind hand, he finds only more coats, yielding easily as he brushes past them. "Cl-"
Two large hands grip his hips, hot even through the dense knit of his wool slacks. Low laughter drifts up to him, and he doesn't mind that the caress of exhalation has relocated there, he truly doesn't. He reaches his own hands down to help, but they're caught, bundled together at the wrist with... someone's scarf? Feels like silk chenille; he approves. It would be nothing to get out of, not even knotted securely, but as he's finally learning, it usually is the thought that counts.
Now the other hands are at his waist, unbuckling his belt. Pressure against his fly, then, firm nose and chin and warm damp breath in between; a little yank as the hasp's loosened, then the slow draw of the zipper drawn down by unseen but surely grinning white teeth. Fingers hook in the waistband of his boxers, ease them over his swelling erection and down, then, "I hope I didn't take you away from anything important out there."
A groan escapes him. He can practically feel that hot, wet mouth on him, and he's expected to process and respond to sentences of more than three words? Estimating positions, he twitches his hips forward. Clear miss, though in this pure dark it might've been by mere millimetres and he'd never know.
The second groan is mostly frustration with an undertone of pleading he hopes only he heard, this early in the game. Smothered chuckles give away his tormentor's retreat route, but before he can make another feint, silky hair flows along his length, then a heated cheek brushes against it, and a tongue-tip draws curls and stripes where his pubic hair might have been.
Shifting his weight from one foot to the other, he lets out a long breath. "Come on," he whispers. "Please."
Little snort of laughter, and that teasing tongue traces from base to head before lips part to take him in. His hips buck again, this time without any need for him to exaggerate the motion. Indulgent chuckle right onto him, into him now, and he can't help but gasp, his head going back, skull cradled by cashmere and camelhair. Knowing fingers poke and pet his balls with the first pull of suction.
A slow slide deeper, then a sudden swallow and he's down that talented throat, moaning again and no longer giving a damn how it sounds nor who hears. Twisting twirls of tongue on the upstroke, suction pulling him back in... they could make this last until socialites started seeking their outerwear, but that's really only funny once or twice. He thrusts a little, following the rhythm set, and the hand stroking lightly over his hipbone is nothing but encouraging. Out and in, slide and suck and swirl and stroke and when Clark drops one hand -- to his own erection, Lex knows as well as if he could see it -- and groans around him, that's all it takes.
Fortunately one hand is all that's needed to hold him up, because his knees buckle while he's still pulsing into that greedy, slurping mouth. He has enough presence of mind to ease down to the floor himself, though, and slide his own hand into the pants Clark's larger hand is working over the outside of. The scarf hangs up briefly on his other arm before dropping to the floor. He wraps his hand around engorged flesh -- and squeezes instead of stroking.
"You about ready to get out of here?" he murmurs.
"Bastard," comes the answer, laced with too much love and laughter to sound anything like an insult.
A quick kiss as they stand, then, "There are still a lot of witnesses out there. Shall I fly us out?"
He just wraps one arm around a strong neck, clasps his fly shut with his free hand, and kisses, "Home," into his lover's ear.
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psg_productions Production
I said: give me a bunny, i'll see what i can do?
Pearl-O said: uh. Clex futurefic, clark kent reporter and lex luthor famous guy, closet at important reception.
Old Habits Die Hard
The door's barely closed behind him when the voice speaks out of the close darkness. "Somehow I knew you'd wind up in here eventually."
He snickers. "Nothing to do with seeing you slipping away from the ballroom, or the fact that there are no other rooms off this way."
Shifting in the darkness, rasp of expensive fabrics he feels as much as hears, and the voice is closer this time. "It seemed like a good idea at the time." There's warm breath gusting against his cheek, and over the stale smell of the packed coat closet, another scent, familiar and comfortable as that voice.
"You mean you weren't enjoying the attentions of the Hunderssen twins?"
Someone's fur coat brushes along his side, so thick he can't really feel where there's a hand pressing it to him. "Oh, yeah. I just love trying to be polite to people who are trying to use me to wrangle an introduction to you." He can -see- the hazel eyes rolling, in his mind's eye if not the unrelieved darkness around them, and snickers again.
"Well, you know..." Frowning, he trails off. The fur wrap has resumed its inanimate dangle, and the sweet tease of breath has disappeared. Reaching out one blind hand, he finds only more coats, yielding easily as he brushes past them. "Cl-"
Two large hands grip his hips, hot even through the dense knit of his wool slacks. Low laughter drifts up to him, and he doesn't mind that the caress of exhalation has relocated there, he truly doesn't. He reaches his own hands down to help, but they're caught, bundled together at the wrist with... someone's scarf? Feels like silk chenille; he approves. It would be nothing to get out of, not even knotted securely, but as he's finally learning, it usually is the thought that counts.
Now the other hands are at his waist, unbuckling his belt. Pressure against his fly, then, firm nose and chin and warm damp breath in between; a little yank as the hasp's loosened, then the slow draw of the zipper drawn down by unseen but surely grinning white teeth. Fingers hook in the waistband of his boxers, ease them over his swelling erection and down, then, "I hope I didn't take you away from anything important out there."
A groan escapes him. He can practically feel that hot, wet mouth on him, and he's expected to process and respond to sentences of more than three words? Estimating positions, he twitches his hips forward. Clear miss, though in this pure dark it might've been by mere millimetres and he'd never know.
The second groan is mostly frustration with an undertone of pleading he hopes only he heard, this early in the game. Smothered chuckles give away his tormentor's retreat route, but before he can make another feint, silky hair flows along his length, then a heated cheek brushes against it, and a tongue-tip draws curls and stripes where his pubic hair might have been.
Shifting his weight from one foot to the other, he lets out a long breath. "Come on," he whispers. "Please."
Little snort of laughter, and that teasing tongue traces from base to head before lips part to take him in. His hips buck again, this time without any need for him to exaggerate the motion. Indulgent chuckle right onto him, into him now, and he can't help but gasp, his head going back, skull cradled by cashmere and camelhair. Knowing fingers poke and pet his balls with the first pull of suction.
A slow slide deeper, then a sudden swallow and he's down that talented throat, moaning again and no longer giving a damn how it sounds nor who hears. Twisting twirls of tongue on the upstroke, suction pulling him back in... they could make this last until socialites started seeking their outerwear, but that's really only funny once or twice. He thrusts a little, following the rhythm set, and the hand stroking lightly over his hipbone is nothing but encouraging. Out and in, slide and suck and swirl and stroke and when Clark drops one hand -- to his own erection, Lex knows as well as if he could see it -- and groans around him, that's all it takes.
Fortunately one hand is all that's needed to hold him up, because his knees buckle while he's still pulsing into that greedy, slurping mouth. He has enough presence of mind to ease down to the floor himself, though, and slide his own hand into the pants Clark's larger hand is working over the outside of. The scarf hangs up briefly on his other arm before dropping to the floor. He wraps his hand around engorged flesh -- and squeezes instead of stroking.
"You about ready to get out of here?" he murmurs.
"Bastard," comes the answer, laced with too much love and laughter to sound anything like an insult.
A quick kiss as they stand, then, "There are still a lot of witnesses out there. Shall I fly us out?"
He just wraps one arm around a strong neck, clasps his fly shut with his free hand, and kisses, "Home," into his lover's ear.
a PSG
psg_productions Production
