Intent

by jenn
http://seperis.illuminatedtext.com


Author Notes: Um. Livia and Beth for all the Heat speculation. Jack for encouragement and title. They made me think. And once again, the Beta Fairy gets my thanks for the thorough beta.

Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue.


It's a nine by nine cell down at Smallville PD, bathed in night shadow and faint moonlight; Clark remembers it most clearly from the other side of those bars. Nancy Ellis, the deputy in charge, is doing paperwork outside in the main office, country music playing something depressing about lost love on the radio behind her. He was fast enough not to be seen, and the music's loud enough that she won't hear.

Desiree looks--different, Clark thinks, watching her from the shadow of the heavy door for a long minute. Her dark hair's twisted up and back, revealing the fragile line of her throat, the fine bones of her jaw. No make-up and a sleepless night reveal mauve shadows beneath her eyes, matching the hollows of her cheeks. Beautiful in a way he can't quite describe--nothing like Lana or even Chloe. Maybe the difference between girls and women, but Clark thinks it's more than that. A feeling, then. Like the shiver of his skin even now when she lifts her head, shadowed eyes turning to fix on what she can't possibly see.

"Clark." The rich drawl's like the rain pounding outside--cool after endless heat, water after desert-dry, tightening something in his stomach and arousal is a flash that thrums through every nerve. She pushes off the bunk in a single, graceful movement, padding toward the bars, long, manicured fingers closing around the metal. The wedding band's gone, and Clark's glad about that.

There's no point in hiding--it's not like he came here just to watch, though why the hell he is here, eleven at night and school the next day, is still the question. He pushes the door closed and moves into view, feeling her eyes slide over his body, slow and thoughtful, maybe appreciative, making him want to back away again and making him want to come closer. The way men look at strippers--the way Clark looked at her, once. Maybe even now.

That look isn't nearly as comfortable from this end, and he shifts awkwardly, drawing out a low laugh, like she knows exactly what he's thinking.

"You here to ask why I did it? Or tell me how much it hurt your friend?" One hand brushes back a stray strand of hair behind her ear, a derisive smile curving her mouth. "Maybe pry out a little guilt? I've faced better than you, kid. Run home to your parents."

She turns away, pacing back to the bunk, dismissed like he's nothing but an annoying student staying too long after class. It's almost impossible not to stare at the slow sway of her ass, and Clark's eyes begin to burn in sudden counterpoint to the heat that refuses to go the hell away.

Control, remember that, Clark? Control. Closing his eyes, he thinks of cold showers and his father against the wall and Lex on fire. The look on Lex's face in his loft.

Arousal gutters out like a blown candle with that one, and Clark opens his eyes to see her watching him from her bunk. One slim knee is drawn to her chest, head tilted just enough to study him, like it's the day they first met.

"You don't feel it, do you?" There's surprise in her voice, like she still can't quite believe it. "You're the first."

"The first?" Stepping closer to the bars, he catches that scent--hers alone, not the confusing mix of Lex to complicate matters, and while arousal's there, it's pleasantly distant. No fires tonight. At least, not here.

She flickers her fingers impatiently in the air. Right, stupid game to play dumb. "You know what I mean." Leaning back into the wall, she shrugs slightly. "You didn't feel it for a second, did you?"

"What--what you did to Lex and Dad?" The bars are close enough to breathe on, and that's probably a mistake, too. He doesn't care. "No."

"But you still let me touch you." The flush burns heat across his face, and she snickers softly. "That keep you up at night, Clark?"

Ignore it. "Why me?"

She shrugs. "Why not? It's the oldest story in creation--two friends fighting over the same woman. Who would have suspected anything?" The smile widens by increments until it seems to light the room, and Clark feels the bars pressed against his body, cold to overwarm skin. His palms itch a little with the natural and perfectly reasonable desire to grab her by the throat and hold on until she's blue and begging, but...no. "Open and shut case, minimal investigation, and I'm home free. I learned my lesson from the last time."

Right, the investigation. Shaking his head, Clark backs off a step, trying to pull his thoughts together. Such a mistake to come tonight, and he knows it.

"Why--" There's a brief spurt of horror when he hears his voice crack and quickly swallows in a dry throat. "Why kill him?"

"Weren't you paying attention? Money, Clark. Specifically, upward of five hundred million dollars if I include company assets." Her pause is more amused than anything else. Somehow, it reminds him of Lex.

"You could have--" The words stop on his tongue, and that feeling again. A sort of arousal, and it'll make him as sick as his dreams do, later. "You--you could make him do anything you wanted. He's--" Lex. It doesn't make sense. "You didn't have to kill him. He--he would've given you whatever you wanted, however you wanted it."

"Maybe I just enjoy it." With a shake of her head, she stands up, facing him for a breathless moment. The long line of her bare legs, short flare of her skirt and the hint of red lace beneath before the skirt resettles. "Ever think of that?"

"Yes." Meteor mutants have a propensity toward serial killing. His mouth's too dry and she's stepping closer, and yeah, he can smell her. Something feminine and musky, rich, and it might not make him mindless, but it still makes him hot. Shutting his eyes, he tries to pull up...God, anything. Dad, Mom, Lex, how she moved, how she felt, soft and warm and close and God, willing, slick flesh so close he can taste it, taste--

"Do you know how it happened?" she murmurs, and her voice is everything sex is supposed to be. Low. Rich. Thick. Like velvet against his bare skin. "How I got this way?"

"No." It's a lie that's too easy, too glib, and she seems to know that. A soft chuckle, too close, but he doesn't dare open his eyes to see.

"Meteor shower." There's an edge of wistfulness in her voice. "You ever check out the high school boys' bathroom? Third stall down was where they wrote my number when I was around your age. Call this number for a good time, I think it said. The kind of girl every guy dates in high school, the easy lay. My mom always said I'd come to a bad end, but it was--fun. Just sex. No harm. Boys have names for girls like me, though, don't they, Clark? Why don't you tell me? What you call the easy girls in school?"

His dad raised him better than that. Shaking his head, he presses his lips tight. A shock of sensation when her finger brushes the hard line, cool and gentle.

"Slut." A husky whisper so close he can feel her breath, drawling out every syllable slow and almost musical. Hot. "Bimbo. Whore. Tramp. Easy--"

"Stop it." It's barely a whisper.

"Girl who'll fuck anyone and anything, but that wasn't true, ever. I fucked who I wanted to, and I enjoyed it. Nothing wrong with that, right?" The finger trails slow and easy down his jaw, lingering on the line of bare stubble. "I used to feel them watching me--the guys at school, when I'd walk down the hall. How when they'd talk to me, they'd stare at my breasts or my legs or my mouth. Like they were thinking what they'd do with me if they could, if we were alone. And I'd be thinking the same thing." Warm breath brushes his neck, and she's got to be pressed flat against the bars to be this close. "After the shower, though, everything changed. It stopped being a choice."

There's something dark in her voice--something that makes Clark shudder even when her fingers slide slow and easy down his throat, drawing lines with the sharp tips of her nails.

"I'd go outside and every guy would be staring at me. Watching me. Follow me sometimes. When I'd talk to them, they'd get--strange. Possessive. Hot. Angry." And Clark hadn't even realized he'd been gripping the bars until her fingers closed gently over his. Thumb rubbing slowly, rhythmically, and he can feel that all over his body, over his cock, straining against the worn denim of his jeans. Fuck. No, damn. Damn. "I didn't know what was wrong. Why. How the hell it was happening. When I'd go into a store and there'd be fights. When the women would turn their backs on me when they saw me. When those words weren't said in private or written on bathroom walls but yelled across a street at me when I went outside.

"Me and this guy went out one night--just to the movies, the Talon when it was still open. And it was okay, like old times. He was new in town and hadn't really heard everything, you know? He was sorta curious about why people stared at us, but I just told him not to worry about it and he didn't. We left afterward and went driving up to the lake, where everyone went. And it was good, Clark. He was sweet. Inexperienced. So surprised when I lay down in the backseat for him and pulled off my underwear. And the look on his face--the first push inside, all new for him. All mine. I made that look, I made him feel like that, and--

Her voice stops, almost like she'd been gagged, but Clark didn't dare open his eyes to see, not now. Steady throb of heat between his legs, warm breath against his throat, and the slow, rhythmic stroke of her fingers.

"You know how much of this stuff is released during sex?" she whispers, and her voice sounds choked. "I didn't know. I didn't know it could get out of a locked car, that other people would feel it, too. I didn't know until there was broken glass and three guys were dragging me out and that boy--that boy who came for the first time inside me--was dead and they had me up against the car. And when I screamed one of them clamped a hand over my mouth, and they fucked me. With half the school around us, watching, knowing, wanting it, too. I didn't know."

Her hand moves so suddenly Clark gasps--snaking through the bars, pressing hard against the front of his jeans. "Feel it, Clark?"

"Stop--" But--God, he's moving into it. Her other hand slides to the back of his head, fingers twining through his hair, pulling him into the bars. Close enough so he can feel her breath on his lips.

"I knew something was wrong, I knew no one did that, no one acted like that. When they were done, I started screaming at them to get away and--they did. They just backed off, staring at me like--" she laughs softly. "Like I could tell them what to do. And I told them exactly what I wanted them to do. And they did it."

"What--" It's a mistake to open his mouth at all. The quick dart of a tongue against his lips and he can taste her, almost-familiar, almost-needed. Sucking in a breath, he pushes against her hand. "What did you tell them to do?"

Her hand closes tight over the denim, over his cock, rubbing, and he can't help the groan, can't help bucking into it. Her voice is nothing but warm, silky air he can taste. "Kill for me."

Then she's--gone. Cold where she's touched him, neck and cock and mouth, and Clark wants to see, has to, but--burning heat, warning, no, can't. No way in hell he can control this, no way in hell he'll be able to get home without jerking himself off, no way to do that unless Desiree's the one in his mind doing it. Nausea's climbing, but lost under the pure lust.

"It was years before I could control it, Clark. Years before I knew how to focus it, years before I could walk in public and be safe. Years before I learned to use it."

Shifting his grip on the bars, Clark draws in a slow breath. "Lex loved you." Loves her still. Loves her enough to walk the hall at night in the dark, like he's trying to crawl out of his own skin.

"Lex wanted to fuck me. Possess me. Own me. He wants a fantasy, Clark. Every man does. And that's what I've always been."

His eyes blink open, but no flames, no burn, even if he's so hard it hurts. Bitter, dark eyes stare back at him. "Isn't that what I am to you, Clark? When I came to your loft, when I touched you, when I kissed you, you weren't thinking about Lex or about being a good little boy. You were thinking how I'd just fulfilled every fantasy of your smalltown life. You were thinking how you'd tell your friends about it. You were thinking that--" She stops again, and the smile's sharp and cuts. "You were thinking how much you wanted to be where Lex had been."

"No."

"Because this doesn't work on you, Clark. This--this thing I can do. It doesn't work at all. That was you feeling me up with every look and every smile, and that was you responding to me in the barn. And that was you that wanted to fuck me, precious friendship be damned. Lex and your daddy--they go to bed knowing that. That it was all this, this power, whatever you want to call it. But when you go to bed, you know it isn't, don't you? You know that you wanted to betray your best friend for the sake of a fantasy fuck."

"Shut up." Because it's not true, it was shock and surprise, that's all. That's all it could have been, ever. "You're--you're wrong."

"Am I?" A step closer, and he knows he has to back off, back off now. Those eyes study him, endlessly dark, picking apart the threads, putting them back together. A single, slow blink. "That's not why, is it?"

Jesus.

"What was it, Clark?" Another step closer, and she's too close, too fucking close. Get back. Let go and get back. Leave. Leave before.... "I watched you at the wedding. Watching your little girls. Watching me...." And the stop's almost painful, because he can see it in her eyes. A slow smile spreads across her face with the click of pure knowledge. Amazed and amused and utterly brilliant. "Not me. Lex."

He's two steps back from the bars at the sound of Lex's name.

"No."

"It was--you were watching. Who were you thinking about, Clark? Me--or being me?"

Words are dried-up memories, impossible to access in any portion of his working brain.

"It's-it's not like that."

"When I came to you--" and she's right at the bars now, two easy steps of his feet to take him to her. Painfully easy. And his feet want to do it, stupid, wrong, shouldn't be here, should leave. May never move again. "When I touched you--"

Her breath catches softly. "Your eyes were closed. Who was touching you, Clark? Who was in your head? If I hadn't said a word, if I'd just let you fuck me then and there--"

"No."

"You could have been where Lex was. Close as you can get without fucking him yourself. Could you taste him, Clark? In my mouth, smell him on my skin? Tell me."

"I--"

"Felt what he did when I touched him. Sex how he liked it. Fuck you like I did him. Is that what you were thinking, why you let me touch you?"

No. Yes. Maybe. Vivid, brilliant images in his head, Desiree and Lex, Desiree and him, Desiree this long, silky body between them, feminine and beautiful and Lex's.

"Do you want him, Clark?" Her voice is so low that Clark feels it in his balls. "Do you want to know how he fucks? The sounds he makes? The way he moans and twists when he's in my mouth? What he--"

"Stop it--"

"I could give you that." Just like that, he's against the bars again, no idea how it's happened. She's smiling, wild and bright and God, promising. "Get me out of here, Clark. I know you can. Let me kiss him, and you can have him."

What a monumentally stupid idea. Serial killer, sexual predator, but the images stay, the ones she gave him. "He doesn't want me."

"I can make him want anything." Slow breath that he feels against his mouth, everywhere on his body. "Anything, Clark."

"You tried--you tried to kill him." The words are automatic, falling out without real meaning. He could--could protect Lex, could....

She snorts softly. "It wouldn't do me any good to kill him now, Clark. I'll leave town. Tonight. I'll never go near him again. My promise for my life. You'll have him for--well, say ten hours?" The warm hand is pressed against his cock again, moving slowly, lazily, and he can't pull away. "All yours, any way you want him. Both of us, if you like. It lasts longer when I'm there, when he can breathe me. When he feels me on his skin. You want a fantasy, Clark? I'll give you yours. Just let me go."

No.

"This could be his hand." There's a shocking sound, a zipper being pulled down, button undone, and cool fingers slide inside, brushing against his boxers. The relief's revolting, the wanting...please. Yes. No. "Wet already. Just from this, hmm?" He's not pulling away when her hand pushes through the boxers, close over the length, expert touch, better than even he can do to himself. He can feel the edges of her nails in his skin, the slow, hard stroke that chokes out a groan. "His mouth." Brush against his cheek, then his lips, and he can't pull away--he can imagine Lex doing this. He can taste cognac and spring water on her tongue. His tongue. "His body. I'll tell him to fuck you. To like it. Or you can fuck him. Feel him all around you. Want that? Your cock in his mouth, or his ass, or both. You're young." She laughs, soft and so sure. "You'll have time to do everything you've ever imagined."

He's breathing too fast, and it's--it's there. Everything she's saying.

"Both of us at once, first? Fuck me while Lex watches us? Would you like that? Have him telling you what he wants to do to you while you're inside me? Feel him inside you when you ride me?"

"He's just my friend." Like that could possibly encompass everything. Like those words have meaning compared to this, to Desiree's hand on him, stroking slow and even.

"He could be your lover." Her laugh's like music, rolling through him, and he's thrusting into her hand, eyes closed. Could be Lex, touching him. "I got your daddy to kill for me and Lex to turn his back on you and everything he cares about. Imagine what I could do for you. Just imagine it, Clark. What you want. Just let me go."

There's a rising on the edge of his consciousness, a tightening through his body that's unlike anything he's done on his own. Flares of strobing red light up behind his eyes; tight, wonderful pull in his balls; heat crawling down his spine. So close, and one hand pries itself off the bars--some miracle that he hasn't left fingerprints in the metal--sliding to the lock, and it'd be easy to pull it, just once, quick and hard. He's immune to her, he's stronger than her, no real danger, he can, he--

"Jesus." Cold concrete is hard against his back, cool air on his cock, and her scent's all around him, thick and heady and just that slight distance off. Open mouthed breathing of thick, humid air that doesn't affect him.

Not so immune, maybe. God, he wishes that were true.

"No."

She doesn't look surprised, arms crossed across her chest, grinning like he'd just proved something. And maybe he did.

"Was that me, Clark?" she asks softly, implacably. "Or was that you?"

the end


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