Taking Advantage

A/N: Probably fitting somewhere in the time between Lex and Clark's split-up and their subsequent re-getting-together. That being said, this occurs outside the scope of the actual storyline and it's up to you to decide whether or not it actually happened. This won't be part of the story itself.

Because Justin was very drunk and because it was Saturday night, Clark called Jonathan and told him:

“I’m staying with a friend. He’s not feeling too hot, I want to make sure he’s okay.”

Truth, half-truth, whatever… Jonathan, who was probably a serious contender for several top prizes in passive aggression, said only, “You’d better stay there, then.”

“You don’t mind watching Brodie, then?” Clark asked, glancing over his shoulder to where Justin was lying on the couch, his expression torn between amusement and nausea.

“He’s my son, isn’t he?” Jonathan said shortly, playing the parental card. Clark might have taken issue with it any other night, but right now he wanted to be away. He wanted to be here, in a different place, being the different Clark he could only be when Brodie was under someone else’s care.

"Okay, see you tomorrow," Clark said, biting off a half-dozen retorts and warnings.

He hung up the phone and turned to see Justin staggering across the room towards his bed.

"Tired," Justin said, and added irrelevantly, "and someone should really water that plant."

"I'll do it," Clark reassured him, supporting Justin's elbow as he tumbled, knees and then face, onto the mattress, giggling. "Here, man, let's get you undressed." Clark tugged at Justin's sneakers, his socks, then hesitated over the buckle of his belt.

"I could do it for you," Justin offered, but then his hand went for Clark's jeans instead of his own.

"No," Clark said firmly, batting away Justin's hand and setting about his duty with more calmness. "You're drunk, we're not doing this," he added, pushing at Justin's hand again.

"Have I taught you nothing?" Justin grinned, then released a sexy little sigh as the back of Clark's hand accidentally brushed the front of Justin's boxers. "Drunk boys are the sluttiest."

"I thought we were just friends," Clark persisted, trying not to watch that braced hand as it rucked up Justin's t-shirt, baring a small expanse of smooth warm belly.

"Just friends unless I'm drunk, or you are," Justin said. "That way, we can always blame it on something else later." And his hand pushed up a bit farther, and Clark realized that he'd only gotten Justin's jeans halfway down his thighs and he was now officially staring, never mind looking.

"I'd be taking advantage," Clark protested finally, returning to his task, pulling Justin's jeans down and deliberately not reacting to the way Justin's knees splayed wantonly as Clark freed them.

"That sounds like fun," Justin said, twisting up to pull his shirt off entirely, just as Clark tossed the shucked jeans into a corner. "Come on, Kent. Take advantage." And Justin flopped back onto his pillow, hair mussed, hand trailing over his chest, hips shifting a bit to draw attention to the slight hardness under his boxers.

Clark paused, licked his lips, and then suddenly he was bowing his head to kiss Justin's navel, kiss up to his nipples. Justin tasted so good, so familiar and clean and this was almost as good as -- as it had ever been. Clark moved a bit higher and deliberately scraped his late-night stubble across Justin's skin, shifting in to kiss Justin's lips. "I didn't get to see this, before," Clark murmured, drawing back to take a good look, then pulling Justin's boxers down and off.

Justin was cut, sizeable, and he had -- "Ah, fuck," Clark said, and suddenly he was wearing too many clothes, too. Because Justin had a piercing, and its placement was too familiar, it made Clark dizzy on a sort of contact high, sent him into a very happy place of ingrained and well-thumbed memories. "This is so sexy," Clark said, in a rough voice that didn't belong to him, and reached out to gently finger the barbell.

Justin's eyes were dark and large, and he arched under Clark's touch.

Clark managed to get enough control of his brain to go through the not-too-quick motions of undressing, his eyes fixed on that barbell, needing to touch more. Finally, he was naked, too, and Clark wanted to touch with his own body, not just his fingers, and so he knelt forward and lowered himself gently, shifting and touching until he could feel that hard piece of metal chafing against his cock, hot and uncomfortable. Justin made some sound of protest, and Clark thrust in response.

"I want to fuck you," he said, again hearing a stranger's voice in his own.

"Tell me," Justin said, squirming. "Tell me what to do."

"Can you --" Clark began, then halted, embarrassed.

Justin grunted. "No, don't ask. Just order me."

Clark closed his eyes and mentally put the Other Clark in charge, the one who was too fond of red rocks for his own good. "Don't talk. No words."

Justin sighed happily and kissed Clark's ear, but Clark was unmoved. Suddenly, he knew what he wanted. He got up on his knees and surveyed Justin. "Hands and knees."

Justin clambered to obey, and when he reached for the nightstand on the way, Clark stopped him with a rough hand. "Did I say you could touch that?" he asked, and Justin shuddered. "I want to do that myself." And Clark pushed Justin down onto his elbows, and he bowed his head and began to lick his way down Justin's spine.

Tight little hole, Clark hadn't ever tried this, not on this side of things, and as Justin began to gasp and thrust back, Clark let himself think that it might be -- someone else. Deeper now, licking inside, and Clark needed his finger because he needed to be there, where he was wanted. Clark sucked his finger, pushed inside, crooked his joint, and -- there. Little bump that made Justin cry out sharply. Clark kept the finger there, crooked it again and again until Justin was making a long, continuous wail.

"Lube," Clark said, because he wanted to fuck Justin the rest of the way out of his mind.

"Don't need it," Justin gasped, his fingers on the lame hand fitfully trying to close on his pillow, and why was that hot? But it was, and Clark licked his free palm, getting up on his knees and getting his cock spit-slick.

"Did I say you could talk?" Clark asked, extracting his finger.

"I'm sorry, I'm s-- oh, holy --"

Clark didn't wait for the apology, only pushed inside, feeling Justin rough and tight and not as smooth as he should be and *shit* he should be using a condom but -- but -- this felt --

"Oh god, oh god," Justin gasped, a constant litany under him.

"Shut up," Clark ordered, and slammed in deep.

It became mindless in the purest sense, Clark taking on the instinct and pure activity of something far less than human, never mind Kryptonian. There was no room for careful or pacing or a plan or any sort. It was only - in. Thrust. Come.

Clark's ears were actually ringing when the first wave of orgasm struck, and he had no idea if it was because Justin was shouting so loud, or if it was because he had shorted out some part of his brain, but every part of him was streaming out his cock, and his vision was going all sorts of alarming shades of red, and Clark shut his eyes just in time, pulse after pulse slamming into his spine, his fingers clutching hard.

He opened his eyes when he felt the heat under his lids dissipate somewhat, opened his eyes to find that he'd collapsed alongside Justin, still half inside him, his hand still squeezing Justin's hip. Justin himself was too still, and Clark gathered enough breath to ask. "Are you -- okay?"

Justin made a soft groaning sound, and rolled over a little, so that Clark slipped out of him. Clark could now see down the terrain of Justin's torso, see the wide shiny spatters of come, see Justin's spent cock, and see the hectic red finger-marks on his pelvis, just now beginning to glint with the emerging purple-black of a deep bruise.

"Oh, shit," Clark said, flooded with horror as he took in the damage. Not just his hips, but his sides, his shoulders, and even a deep bite-mark on his neck. If this was just the superficial damage -- "Did I -- can I --" Clark began, then stopped because Justin was smiling, weakly.

"I'm gonna feel that every fucking time I sit for a month," he said hoarsely. "Shit, when you take advantage, you *really* take advantage."

Clark began an apology, but Justin stopped him.

"I think you fucked me sober. Clark Kent, the ultimate hangover cure," Justin murmured, and gingerly bent across to kiss him.

Soft lips, Clark threaded his fingers through the dark curls in an unspoken apology, feeling ashamed and horrified and yet deeply sated and sleepy, and undeniably happy. The kiss deepened, and then fell apart as they both drifted farther into a fog of exhaustion.

They managed to make eye contact once more, brown eyes clear and warm, and Clark felt a strange surge of tenderness. "Did it make it better?" he found himself asking, half-whispering. He didn't even know what he meant to refer to, except maybe that sense that Justin's damage went far deeper than the superficial sign offered by his hand.

Justin's gaze went darker, but he didn't look away. "Yes," he said, finally. "For a while."
 

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