Letting The Telephone Ring
by s.a.

Lex survives on routine, if only because the world demands it of him. Up at six, office by nine, lunch meeting with any of the current major world powers at half-past noon, manipulative social calls at four, brief dinner at eight-thirty, attendance at annoying yet visible parties at nine-thirty, climb into bed at midnight, have intense and passionate sex with Clark Kent at any available moment in between.

It's a grind, but he loves it. He lives for the moments when he can break from his schedule and slip into a closet like some nervous intern, dropping to his knees or pressing Clark into the wall, raining kisses through panting breath on his forehead. It's not as though there's any real danger, considering his entourage knows him well enough to both avoid and protect the places he and Clark slip into, and anyone stupid enough to walk in would be quickly handed a confidentiality agreement and a pink slip; but the thrill is almost there anyway.

The schedule he is on, that they are both on, makes those small moments that much more special and important because it feels as though they are bucking the system, even if it is one of their own invention. Lex looks at Clark and is silently thrilled that there is one person in the world who understands how this works for them, that it must work for them, and is happy in the carefully maintained rut they are in.


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