by grit kitty
Clark could be on billboards advertising underwear. Eyes closed, Lex could think that, alone. He was that beautiful. The contrast of hair and skin, the flirty eyes, the candy mouth. Cheekbones. Chest. Loins. Clark had them all and a sunny accessibility besides. The camera would adore him. And people would trust him -- people would trust him and buy anything he tried to sell. His underwear would be wholesome underwear with elastic that would never let you down. Lex kicked off his underwear, naked under the sheets. Clark, he could sell cars, soda, jeans. Forty-foot tall billboard Clark could sell steel-toed boots to ballerinas, hookahs to pre-school teachers, or tofu to cattle ranchers. If the ranchers were gay.
Lex wasn't a cattle rancher, but he was gay. He'd buy anything from Clark even without a forty-foot billboard ad, and he did so on a regular basis. It wasn't easy to pay for the things he wanted; Clark wouldn't take cash. He bought Clark's smile whenever he could with carefully selected jokes and sharply dry observations of life in whatever immediate vicinity they happened to inhabit. He paid for glimpses of Clark's stomach with the rearrangement of his house so that those things Lex needed always seemed to migrate to the top shelf. And he bought Clark's hand on his shoulder with painful little confessions about his fucked-up childhood. Lex occasionally felt guilty that he didn't feel bad about using himself this way, but it was his pain. He could spend it any way he liked, and he liked Clark. Maybe he was a cattle rancher. Alone, in bed, he imagined he did own a ranch. Lex Corp's holdings were nothing if not diverse. Maybe he'd buy one in the morning, just to make sure. Lex squeezed the ripe head of his dick, pulling it closer to pleasure, and then stilling his hand so he wouldn't spill.
He liked Clark very much, enough to buy even those things he didn't want from Clark: fumbling smiles as Clark avoided talking about his feelings for Lana were purchased with a sympathetic ear; a shrug bought him Clark's absence when curfew struck; and if he chose sly questions as his currency, he got thin, white lines when Clark pressed his lips tight, and gates in Clark's eyes. Lex liked to hope that all these purchases wouldn't accrue, but he knew they probably did because he bought them more often than the smiles and glimpses and Clark's warm hand. Lex stroked his cock in bed at night, before he slept. He drove his car, stalking Clark sometimes on his way home. He paid for things from Clark he'd throw into anyone else's face. He liked Clark that much.
Sex fantasies featuring Clark clung to Lex like burrs. Odd things would spawn them, beginning in the morning with water rattling on the floor of his shower. Sinking into a leather chair. The smell of cut grass. Light glinting off water. In bed, at night, alone, Lex rocked his pleasure, fretting it high enough so he gasped, and then let go, hand tacky, before he came. Letting go took effort. His dick was hard, hard. Lex licked his palm, waited. Felt a kind of stupid, forgave himself, and pushed the heel of his hand from leaking crown to root of his cock. He brought his hand back to his mouth, wet it better, imagined Clark's hot, red tongue licking his palm, and bit his finger, hard, to stop his restless dick from rubbing itself on the sheets.
Clark's imaginary tongue was enough to make him come, or would be, if Lex allowed it. He grinned into the blank dark, delighted with his discovery. The pain of his bitten finger stopped climax, but it was a near thing. He gulped around the finger between his teeth, a pause in his harsh breathing. Orgasm vibrated just outside his skin -- it wanted in bad enough to threaten his unfingered dick as it lolled against his belly, painting broader strokes, slippery now. Clark clung to Lex most when he wasn't there. Lex had intellect to spare, and he had no problem conjuring a self to portray. His self, Clark's self. Lex bent his knees and pushed his feet flat against the mattress, raising his hips, letting his thighs fall open, and then pressing them closed.
At times, Clark could become still, and he could move so quietly and quickly, he seemed to use magic to disappear. Lex liked to discover him unexpectedly at his shoulder. Lex liked to discover him face to face, too. Clark's mouth, a little open, wet. Easy to see in the dark, alone. Shirt, open at the throat, chest, gut. One broad hand laid flat on his stomach as if feeling his own chi. Lex would touch Clark's hipbone if he could and let his fingers run along the furrow between bone and muscle, down, hook the jeans, pull them. Down. When Clark's cheeks hollowed a little and framed the red O of his open mouth -- Lex could imagine this clearly, as if he'd seen it a thousand times before, could see Clark's dark hair, damp and clinging. Lex fumbled blindly at his nightstand drawer. He'd waited long enough; when he wanted to, he could move quickly and unerringly in the dark.
Lex poured Astroglide into the shallow bowl of his palm, ripped the limits off his imagination and --
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