by jenn
He thinks sometimes that this is the only thing Clark really needs. No gifts, no friendship, no trust, nothing but this. Moment. Lex, sitting on the floor, pants unzipped and pulled down, and his cock halfway down Clark's throat.
No. All the way. It forces out a little gasp from between his lips, and he bites down into his tongue, keeping his breathing steady. Silk hair wrapped between his fingers and awareness of the quiet room disappearing with every movement of Clark's mouth.
Sex could get more casual than this, but Lex can't quite figure out how. Or why.
Slow movements now, lazy, and Clark's hands on his thighs tighten briefly, like he expects Lex to run away at any moment. Not far from the truth, but it's too much trouble to even think about. Too much to do, to even think about--pull his fingers free, push Clark out of the way, spit out a few cutting words and walk out. He's tried that, been there, done that. It's never worked. Lex wonders if he even wants it to anymore.
He's still not sure how it happened, though. Not the first time against the wall of his office, fingers digging into solid rock beneath expensive wood paneling, staring through the stained glass window at the dying afternoon light streaming onto his desk and wondering if this was actually happening, here, to him. Then. And Clark was there, warm mouth and warm hands, fingers wrapped around his wrists, learning how to make Lex twitch with a flicker of his tongue, moan every time Clark pulls away. Big dark eyes that look straight through him and God, so fucking funny. So--God, hilarious, that his father couldn't break him, but Clark's mouth could.
Would. Did. Jail time and probation, judges and ruined reputation, front page of the Inquisitor and The Daily Planet and fuck, maybe the school newspaper as well, his future flashed before his eyes and he didn't even care. A lot of lines were being crossed that minute, and it only made him shiver and come so hard he could barely see, sinking into the floor and trying to find enough air to breathe.
Clark, staring at him and a little flicker of his tongue over his lips, and Lex had shut his eyes and didn't want to see what else would be in there.
"Yes," he whispers, letting out a breath--he always tells himself he won't talk, but he always does. Words slip out without him meaning to let them, grazing the air broken and needy and desperate. Clark's eager mouth and soft tongue that worked him better than any professional Lex had ever visited, better than the sorority girls at the keggers on weekends at school, better than the fast blowjobs in the bathrooms at any club, pick a name. He wants to think it's the forbidden, wrong, illegal, below-age-of-consent that gets him hot. Wants to believe that it's the pretty face and the beautiful body and the way Clark can make him stop breathing with just a look. Wants to believe he's enjoying this the way he's always enjoyed sex, fun and recreation and rebellion all in one, but it's--not that.
Fuck if he knows what, with the kid who's learned his body so perfectly he can make it last seconds or forever.
Fuck.
"God," he hears himself murmur, turning his face into the cool wall and trying to catch his breath. Another day, it was in the kitchen, sitting on the edge of the counter, Clark relaxed on a stool in front of him, hands on his hips and the steady, wet thrust of his mouth. Almost brutal with each graze of his teeth, sucking bite to the inside of his thigh when he came, collapsing backward on cool granite and staring into the ceiling high above, open-mouthed breathing and Clark's soft sound of satisfaction.
He tells himself this is what he wanted. Clark, sex, the kid who climbs in his bed and spreads himself out like an offering, bright grin and casual nudity, so perfect it makes Lex's teeth ache to look at him. Beautiful and precious and wanting everything, anything, all of it. Everything Lex can show him, teach him, on his hands and knees that first time, moaning into the pillow and so--
"Fuck, Clark." Lex twists his fingers a little tighter, breath speeding up and he can't help the moan, the way he twists into that exquisite mouth. The way Clarks' hands tighten on his still clothed thighs and taking him down in a single swallow that bends his spine, makes him--say things. Anything.
Second time in Clark's loft, and he hadn't gone there for that. Hadn't gone for anything but to see, maybe talk, maybe--God knows, he sure as fuck didn't, not when Clark grinned and leaned back into the couch, mindnumbingly suggestive, legs spread and casual sprawl. On offer, anything Lex wanted, and God, that's so many things, just take it.
And Lex still can't think of a way he could have said no.
"Fuck yes, Clark." Another deep thrust, hips pushing up against the warm mouth, back into the cool carpeted floor where Clark found him today. Like he always finds him, day and night, anywhere and everywhere--never knew Clark could track him so well, so fast. Chairs and walls and his bed, or the floor if nothing else would do, like today, like now, five minutes into a conversation on something else entirely--meteor rocks maybe?--and he was sitting here and Clark spread over his thighs, mouth on his hard and hot and too fast to get anything but a memory of taste. Hands were on the waist of his pants and then Clark was down and…
Here he was.
"*Yes*." Steady thrusting, faster now, harder now, draw of teeth and slick warmth, catching a rhythm that will drive Lex out of his mind. Can't help but get his other hand in that silky hair, touch, feel, convince himself of who's doing this to him, even if he doesn't know why. He should ask, maybe, but he's not sure he wants to know the answer.
And that's probably the worst part of it all.