Fic: The Worst Days
Mar. 4th, 2013 01:46 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
museaway.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
old_school_clexI'm having a pretty rough day, so I thought I'd share something cheerful and short, which starts with Lex having a bad day.
Title: The Worst Days
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
amiss (museattack)
Rated: R for language
Notes: Established relationship. 491 words. Written about 9 years ago.
Summary: Sundays are the worst days.
Read on AO3
Sundays are the worst days because they're Lex's day off.
Of course, that would ordinarily seem like something that might make a person happy, but Sundays only serve to remind him of the upcoming week. Of board meetings and bad coffee and ornery staff members who congregate next to water coolers and moan about their poor pathetic lives.
That, and a "day off" for Lex means that he sleeps until seven and refrains from using his cellphone during breakfast.
Clark whistles to himself across the kitchen, wiping his hand on a dishtowel and sits down adjacent to Lex with his own plate. He unscrews the cap from the bottle of Heinz ketchup and pours a generous amount onto his breakfast. Lex winces and looks away.
Ketchup and eggs. Breakfast of heathens.
"Babe, eat your eggs and stop moping," Clark chides, shoveling a forkful into his own gaping mouth.
Lex frowns because he knows he doesn't mope. Lex is fairly sure that he has never, in his entire adult life, moped. He might pout on occasion when Clark trips out of bed toward the shower and leaves him hard beneath the sheets, but he does. not. mope.
This isn't moping. This is poking one's fork at a mound of scrambled eggs.
Moping involves feeling sorry for oneself and quite possibly scowling and oh, fine, yes, he's moping, are you happy?
And where does Clark come off calling him "babe," anyway?
Clark lets out a long exhale, and placing a hand on Lex's arm, he smooths a thumb along his bare elbow.
"You look tired."
Lex groans and nods his head and rifts his pile of eggs, then smashes it all back together again like two colliding tectonic plates.
Minus the earthquake.
"Maybe you should take a nap."
Naps are for infants. He doesn't say this, but he's quite sure his expression must convey it because he can see Clark's eyeroll in his peripheral vision.
"What if we go get in bed, watch a movie? Then if you happen to fall asleep, it'll just be a coincidence."
Lex feels the corner of his mouth twitching, but he will. not. smile. Won't give the alien that satisfaction.
"And I'll rub your back. I'll use that minty stuff Chloe gave us for Christmas."
Turning the fork so that it bends toward the ceiling, he mashes the eggs down until they ooze between the tongs.
Clark leans over and tongues his ear.
"And we'll fuck until the bed breaks."
He shivers. Hard. That's it.
Lex turns his head and kisses without apology.
"I fucking love you," he says, and he doesn't care if his eggs go cold or end up on the floor. This is Clark's tongue in his mouth, wet and hot and oh-so-right when nothing else is. Clark in his arms, Clark in his lungs, Clark lifting him from the chair and carrying him into the bedroom.
"You too."
Maybe worst is an overstatement.
Title: The Worst Days
Author:
amiss (museattack)Rated: R for language
Notes: Established relationship. 491 words. Written about 9 years ago.
Summary: Sundays are the worst days.
Read on AO3
Sundays are the worst days because they're Lex's day off.
Of course, that would ordinarily seem like something that might make a person happy, but Sundays only serve to remind him of the upcoming week. Of board meetings and bad coffee and ornery staff members who congregate next to water coolers and moan about their poor pathetic lives.
That, and a "day off" for Lex means that he sleeps until seven and refrains from using his cellphone during breakfast.
Clark whistles to himself across the kitchen, wiping his hand on a dishtowel and sits down adjacent to Lex with his own plate. He unscrews the cap from the bottle of Heinz ketchup and pours a generous amount onto his breakfast. Lex winces and looks away.
Ketchup and eggs. Breakfast of heathens.
"Babe, eat your eggs and stop moping," Clark chides, shoveling a forkful into his own gaping mouth.
Lex frowns because he knows he doesn't mope. Lex is fairly sure that he has never, in his entire adult life, moped. He might pout on occasion when Clark trips out of bed toward the shower and leaves him hard beneath the sheets, but he does. not. mope.
This isn't moping. This is poking one's fork at a mound of scrambled eggs.
Moping involves feeling sorry for oneself and quite possibly scowling and oh, fine, yes, he's moping, are you happy?
And where does Clark come off calling him "babe," anyway?
Clark lets out a long exhale, and placing a hand on Lex's arm, he smooths a thumb along his bare elbow.
"You look tired."
Lex groans and nods his head and rifts his pile of eggs, then smashes it all back together again like two colliding tectonic plates.
Minus the earthquake.
"Maybe you should take a nap."
Naps are for infants. He doesn't say this, but he's quite sure his expression must convey it because he can see Clark's eyeroll in his peripheral vision.
"What if we go get in bed, watch a movie? Then if you happen to fall asleep, it'll just be a coincidence."
Lex feels the corner of his mouth twitching, but he will. not. smile. Won't give the alien that satisfaction.
"And I'll rub your back. I'll use that minty stuff Chloe gave us for Christmas."
Turning the fork so that it bends toward the ceiling, he mashes the eggs down until they ooze between the tongs.
Clark leans over and tongues his ear.
"And we'll fuck until the bed breaks."
He shivers. Hard. That's it.
Lex turns his head and kisses without apology.
"I fucking love you," he says, and he doesn't care if his eggs go cold or end up on the floor. This is Clark's tongue in his mouth, wet and hot and oh-so-right when nothing else is. Clark in his arms, Clark in his lungs, Clark lifting him from the chair and carrying him into the bedroom.
"You too."
Maybe worst is an overstatement.
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