by The Spike

Summary: Lex thinks about likes and needs Disclaimer: Not mine, no money sought, no harm intended *

Clark likes his cock, Lex thinks. Likes his voice. Likes his hands. Brief, visceral memory of Clark's hand laid over his hand on top of sheets -- Clark's hand is big, but not so much bigger than his own -- a kind of reverence in the touch.

This is the hand that makes me come. Well...

He knows Clark likes his mouth. Likes his baldness. His tongue. His teeth on Clark's nipples, his heels locked around Clark's waist. His ears. His scars. His... cars.

Reverence there too. Cool slide of Clark's hand on metal, on leather, on rubber, on chrome. Clark likes to touch.

Likes apples and carrots, raw, and corn. Things that crunch under his strong, white teeth. Likes girls over women. Likes cotton over silk. Likes water, likes rain. Likes cream in his coffee and clean sheets. Clark likes things smooth. Not rough.

Lex likes things rough. A little rough. Smooth too, but he loves the feeling of things catching at his fingertips. Lex likes leather over silk, silk under wool. Likes cotton with a high thread count. Likes boys over men. Likes fire and cold winter sun in his eyes. Likes a different kind of pain than this. The burn of scotch. The scrape of stubble. Anything but emptiness.

Hates nothingness. Not knowing. Waiting.

When Alexander the Great got lonely, he would leave his tent and walk among his men. Thirty thousand, men and boys, together in the strange land of Asia Minor. They always made a place for him beside their fires.

Clark isn't really going to call tonight.

Clark... maybe isn't out there at all anymore.

I need an army, Lex thinks.

It's the first thing all night that's made him smile.


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