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  Disturbers of the Peace

 

Black moonlit oil pouring over glass might possibly capture the lustre of the particular slab of marble that Clark was leaving smudged bodyprints all over. Aliens definitely sweat, Lex appreciated, lapping at the back of Clark's neck; Clark's skin was wetter even than his own, as he rubbed back against Lex's body and curved his spine like a cat and dragged his slick palms down the $4m piece of dark frosted marble that Lex was crushing him against.

Lex hitched himself closer, deeper inside, digging in his nails for purchase on Clark's wet-satin hips, wandering glazed through the corridor of Clark's groans. Dizzily, he admired the way sex was spoiling the stone's gloss.

Fucking standing up was always good. Fucking Clark, who'd grown up and predictably up, but stayed lean enough that Lex could bully him - that was especially good. Fucking him after hours of expectation was best of all, Lex thought, now Clark was practised in the Greek arts but still yielded with noises like a sweetened virgin.

Lex wrapped his hands around the edges of the jet marble masterpiece that wouldn't look out of place in his kitchen, clinging with slippery hands, and moved his hips hard enough that Clark yowled. Clark had been revving to go since Lex had whispered that they would take a drive. He'd do anything, even this. His little cries sluiced off the walls as freely here as they'd done in the pyramids, in St. Paul's Cathedral, in the Vatican...

"You and... *that*? Over my dead body," Lionel had spat, a good five years ago.

Lex didn't wipe the grin off as, an hour later, he led Clark out of the exquisitely dignified Luthor mausoleum, and padded back to the car.

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