Title: We Fall, But Our Souls Are Flying (1/1)
Author: sinecure
Character/Pairing: Chloe/Lex
Rating: R (Adult, with the smutting and all)
Genre: Angst, smut, hurt/comfort
Warning: Character death.
Summary: Chloe has a secret that she holds close to her heart and dares not tell anyone else. Will grief make her reveal all?
Disclaimer: I don't own Smallville.
A/N: No beta for this one, so I'm sorry if there are any mistakes. *cringes* I'm really nervous about posting this one for reasons noted at the end, and unknown reasons making me crazy.
Chloe watches him.
All the time, whenever he's near. She knows she shouldn't because he's out of reach and beyond her touch, but she longs for him in ways that make her ache. It slips along her spine, tickling her belly, and tingles in her fingertips, making her itch to touch him and taste him.
Her yearning swamps her late at night, making her body burn for him. When she's faced with him during the days and nights of accusations and suspicion as Clark's friend, her eyes are clouded with distrust to mask the need deep inside her.
She's sure Lex doesn't know.
If he suspects, he hides it well, and though she knows he's a good poker player, she knows he wouldn't be able to pass up the chance to taunt her with the knowledge. If he sees more than anger and hears more than accusations underneath it all, he probably attributes it to something--anything--else.
This afternoon, though, she doesn't need to hide anything; her pain and hurt are real, hovering over her entire being.
Her vision goes dim and her hearing fades out for a moment and in the sudden stillness and silence of his office in his home in Smallville, she shifts on the couch, remembering other times, better times when she's sat there. He tightens his hands behind his back as he stands at the window with his legs spread apart.
She wonders what he's seeing.
His face is turned from her, but she imagines his eyes sliding over the spread of lawn and stone before him; the shapes cut into the hedges. Cars lining the driveway.
In a blink, the rest of the people in the room come back into view and conversation reaches her ears. Glasses clink and shapes pass by, firelight flickers and people whisper. But Chloe has eyes only for Lex. For his pain.
Clark crosses to Lex, stops by his desk, hesitating, indecision on his face. He glances once behind him, at her, before finally slipping away again, without stopping, without comforting Lex.
It isn't selfishness; his own pain is all-consuming.
Lana's death weighs heavily on both of them and on her.
Sudden and overwhelming in its completeness, she fights the sobs threatening, but can't hold them in. Lex turns as she stands and she sucks in a breath, spinning from him, from the people gathered, from everything her friend had embraced just weeks before.
She doesn't have room for Lex's pain just now.
Leaving the room, nearly stumbling in her blind panic, she rushes into the hall. Chest tight and fingers clenching around her glass, she downs the wine and sets the glass on a table that blurs before her, wavering in the watery vision of a girl who's lost her best friend.
Lana is dead.
Slipping into an empty room, she shuts the door and leans against it, letting the tears fall. Letting the pain empty her chest of the dull, aching feeling that's been sitting in it for two days. Since Clark first called and brokenly told her that Lana was gone.
That their lives would change from here on out.
Her memory is good, but she's hoping that that conversation will fade quickly with time and new experiences that can't come soon enough.
Resolutely wiping the tears away, she shoves away from the door and stands in the middle of the room, not sure what to do. Leave and slip out of the house, go home and be by herself? Stay and commiserate with the people who'd graced Lana's life every day but didn't know her? Or stay here until--
A door opens on the other side of the room, and she starts, hastily wiping her eyes with a sniff.
Shadows hug the man, but his voice is unmistakable; her heart knows it well.
"You know," Lex muses, crossing the room to her, "as much as they all came to pay their respects, none of these people really knew Lana. Not like me. Like you, and Clark."
Chloe absently rubs the scar on her shoulder, the one Clark gave her while removing the tracking device Lex's people put in her in their pursuit of answers and death. "Yeah." The word seems inadequate, but so does she in the face of his loss.
He picks up a crystal decanter, making it sparkle in the light from the fireplace as he pours a drink, splashing it loudly into the equally sparkling glass. She hadn't even seen the bar there, half in shadows like its owner.
She could probably wax poetic and draw parallels to him and his house and habits, but she has no desire to search too deeply today. Not today.
Wiping her eyes again, she sniffs quietly. "Do you have wet bars in every room in the castle?"
"Just the ones I use most often." He holds a glass out toward her.
She shakes her head, not wanting to get drunk, though she's already pleasantly buzzed from two glasses of wine.
Instead of putting it down, he grabs her hand and wraps it around the glass. "It helps." He considers his words, chuckling dryly. "Sometimes."
Pressing her lips into a semblance of a smile, she takes the drink from him. "Thanks. You know, I thought maybe it was because you couldn't stand the long walks between drinks." It's a try at humor that falls as flat as she feels.
"Perhaps it is something like that," he says, amusement tilting up his lips. Raising his glass, he clinks it against hers. "To Lana."
"To Lana," she murmurs, tossing back the liquid, feeling it burn down her throat. She fights another fresh round of tears. "I can't believe she's really dead," she whispers, swiping at the moisture. Getting rid of the sorrow is harder than wiping the physical evidence from her face, as evidenced by the man pouring another scotch.
Inside, she knows, like her, he's hollow and filled with emptiness that seems to swell as time goes by. Just days so far. How would months and years feel?
Glancing at her over the rim of his glass, he doesn't shy away from her grief, doesn't pretend it doesn't exist. He seems fascinated by it.
She turns away, sitting on the couch, bouncing on the cushions unexpectedly, used to a hard leather surface with little give. She sips and keeps her eyes on the hearth, not wanting to witness his pain when she's drowning in her own, struggling to keep her head above the surface.
"Acting the bereaved husband for the townspeople is exhausting. I'd like to throw them all out on their collective asses." He tosses her a look. "Is that horrible of me?" He holds his glass up to the firelight, letting it play over the cut crystal, sending prisms of light dancing over her and his stark, white shirt, smudged with a single smear of dirt by his belt. "Everyone wants to talk to me, but nobody's saying anything. Generic condolences and well wishes. It makes me--"
Rearing back suddenly, he hurls his glass at the fireplace.
The tumbler smashes inside, sending the flames higher for a few brief seconds as glass rains down in a shower of sparkles.
Dropping onto the seat beside her, he heaves a breath and rests his arms on his thighs, the very picture of a broken man, but she knows he isn't. This won't break him, not Lex, it will only make him stronger and...
Colder.
She grieves for him as well as Lana now.
"I'm certain they'd think it was horrible of me," he mutters.
His head lifts, turning to her, expecting an answer that she isn't sure she can give without letting more tears fall.
"You're in mourning," she whispers, absently playing with her glass, wishing it had more in it, wishing it were an everlasting glass of numbing agent. Disappointingly, it stays empty. "It's understandable."
He flinches and she wonders at it, but he's back to the in-control-billionaire in the blink of an eye and the draw of a breath.
"Of course. That excuses nearly everything doesn't it?" Taking her glass from her, he pulls her to her feet. "I've been--" he stops, shaking his head as she frowns his way, wondering... wondering.
Why is he here? What does he want with her when they barely spoke to speak anymore? Nothing more than words and taunts pass their lips these days, accusations and blame. It doesn't matter that she wants him and cares for him, he doesn't know, but he's here. Why?
He sighs in a sort of defeated manner.
Then darts forward, kissing her. Moving his scotch-scented lips over hers, sliding his tongue into her mouth in a desperate, hard, kiss that shocks her with its brutality and the hurt with which he takes from her. And takes from her.
Tearing her mouth from his, she pulls back. "What are you doing?" Fingers press to her lips, pretending surprise when she really wants to caress her lips and savor the moment.
The shock is giving way to arousal, which throbs in her, fueling her breathing, synching up with her heartbeat.
There isn't any way she can let this happen. Can she?
No.
Biting her lip, eyes filling with tears, she shakes her head and swipes the back of her hand over her mouth. "This is beyond disturbing," she tells him, backing away. "Death turns you on?"
"Life turns me on," he says dismissively, stalking her. "We're both hurting. I just need-- those people out there aren't her friends. They don't care about her." He stops her with his hands on her shoulders, fingers brushing her hair back lightly, making her shiver. "You do-- did. You were her friend, you understand--"
"No, I don't." But she does. The need to bury her head in his neck and sob out her pain, the desire slipping up her back making her feel antsy and on fire.
Life turns her on too, apparently.
"I'm not going to hide in a dark room and sleep with my best friend's dead wife," she snaps, telling herself more than him. The words register and she understands them, but she can't make them make sense in a way that matters. Why can't she fuck him? Why can't they both seek solace?
Polite company won't understand, but she does.
Lex does.
Grief can be swallowed up and sifted around by stronger emotions, making them numb for a short time. Adrenaline pushes down negative emotions.
He presses into her, body solid along hers. Hard.
Taking her hand, he settles it over the bulge in his suit trousers and she imagines she can feel some of the dirt he tossed on Lana's casket.
Swallowing, he waits, giving her the choice.
Fingers tightening around his cock almost unwillingly, she feels a thrill go through her, tiny electric shocks that tingle and burn along her nerve endings. The desire flutters in her belly and clenches between her legs. She makes no other move toward him, but she rubs him. Then again.
He's so hard beneath her fingers. An indrawn breath is the only sound he makes. The only sign he gives that he's enjoying it. Then his hips rock forward, driving his cock deeper into her hand. Driving him deeper into her heart as he holds back now, after all his insistence, refusing to give in to the pleasure she's giving him.
The pleasure she wants to give him. Anything he wants.
"I shouldn't want you."
Her throat hurts as she swallows dryly, pulling away, but his hand slips around to her lower back, holding her there. His other hand settles on hers, squeezing him and rubbing him and feeding his lust, seemingly now against his will. His scotch-scented breath settles on her lips as his forehead rests on hers.
His eyes burn into hers.
"I shouldn't, but I do."
Pain slips out of her heart, leaving behind sharp barbs that dig in, refusing to leave completely.
This isn't about her. It isn't about him.
And there is no them.
Instead of answering, she slips her free hand to the back of his neck, drawing him down for a kiss. Lips hovering under his, she stares at him, brow furrowing the smallest amount. "You want to use me?"
Will that make it easier for him? Allow him to beat back the despair masquerading as lust?
She'd do this only for him, and at one time Clark, but he's out of her mind and out of her heart now and she has no room for him anymore.
Cracking her heart open the smallest bit, he presses his lips to her forehead.
"Chloe..." There's a pleading tenor to his voice that sends a chill down her back, making her skin tingle and her muscles burn. Her bones feel electrified.
Every inch of her is on fire and soothed with ice. Moisture gathers on her forehead and cheeks.
Between her legs.
She presses closer to his warmth, his pain, and his denial. Releasing his arm, she drops her hand between them and cups the bulge in his trousers again, rubbing gently. "Make me feel alive, Lex. Make me forget." Swallowing, she blinks back more tears, refusing to let them interfere with this moment. This is hers, not Lana's.
His breath bursts into her mouth, as if he's been holding it and only releases it at her plea, which mirrors his own.
"I can't make you forget, but I can make you feel alive." His eyes lift to hers, sliding closed for a second as her fingers tighten around him. "Would it shock you to know that I've wanted to be inside you all day?"
It does shock her, but it makes her want him even more.
He's just buried his wife, the woman he's pursued so doggedly for years. Taking her from Clark as surely as Clark has let him.
But she wants to fuck him and feel. To feel his hands, his mouth, the sharpness of his tongue as he pounds into her, filling her and sending pleasure rocketing through her.
"Make me feel," she whispers, taking his mouth again, lips and tongue devouring him, taking, taking as much as she can from him, because this is it. Just this once for him and for her.
There is no them.
He tears his mouth from hers with a gasp, then slides his lips from her mouth to her jaw, then lower to her neck, palm pressing tightly to her breast. Cupping it, he rubs his thumb over her nipple over the material of her black blouse and bra. His warm breath bursts over her skin, whispering words into her flesh.
She smoothes her hand down the back of his head, finding it slick with sweat.
Erotic.
Hot.
She wants to feel the smoothness of his head between her legs and feel his lips and tongue between her folds. On her clit.
A whimper escapes her.
She rubs him harder with the heel of her hand and steps closer, breath ghosting over his chin as she looks up at him. The textured material under her hand sends shivers down her spine. He grabs her wrist, halting her hand and she sees something flicker in his eyes.
Is it hesitation?
She doesn't think so, doesn't think he's going to stop her. Or himself.
But then Lex is pulling back. Looking down at her.
"Maybe we shouldn't--"
His hands pulls at her blouse, tearing the buttons and exposing her breasts to his heated gaze. He doesn't stop to stare, doesn't bother unhooking her bra himself, he stands back and unfastens his pants. "Undress."
Chloe shrugs out of her shirt, dropping it to the floor. Fingers working at the back of her bra, she bites her lip, trying to temper her need for him. Wishing his was just as strong for her, but knowing it isn't. She drops her bra to the floor and starts to take off her skirt, but he shakes his head and slips a hand behind her neck, pulling her closer.
"On your knees."
Kissing her, hard and wet.
There's something dark and hooded in his eyes as she pulls free and he watches her get on her knees before him. It's hidden in the way his brow lowers minutely, the tilt of his lips, and the sound shuddering from his throat. She wonders at it, but he pulls his cock out and kneels on the floor, stroking it. Eyes hot on her.
"Turn around."
Swallowing thickly, living out one of her favorite fantasies involving Lex, she awkwardly turns and immediately feels his hands rucking up her skirt, then pushing her panties aside. He checks once, with two fingers, to make sure she's wet and hot and god does she want him, then his fingers are gone and she feels bereft.
On hands and knees, bare ass naked to him, Chloe spreads her legs a little more.
Breathless seconds pass and she wonders if this is all some elaborate, cruel joke and then his cock settles against her ass and he thrusts forward, not entering her yet, just sliding freely along her clit. She's drenched and fucking turned on and he's teasing her?
She lifts her head, staring over her shoulder at Lex, licking her lips at how delicious and fucked up he looks. Mouth twisted in self-recrimination at how fucked up she is for even doing this, here, now, she thrusts her hips back, waiting for the first, thick, full slide of his cock into her. Waiting for him to get on with it. To fuck her.
But he seems content with thrusting his fingers into her once again, twisting them and rubbing her clit with his thumb.
"Lex, Jesus... stop--"
She's lasted a long time with her own fingers, images of Lex doing this to her fueling her fantasies, but now it's real and she can't take it. The reality is so much more.
There's a noise behind her that could be a chuckle or a grunt of annoyance, as if she's depriving him of something he wants to do. But that's wishful thinking and she knows better than that.
Lex is using her as surely as she's using him.
His fingers slide free and it's slightly uncomfortable which only makes her throb more. Fantasy has no place here anymore. The tip of his cock rubs teasingly at her clit, and she turns to berate him some more but she sees the strain on his face, sees him holding himself in check.
This surprises her.
She's the one who needs him, not the other way around. Except that he does; he needs her to take away the ache in his heart for a few brief minutes so that he can stop feeling. She needs him to fill her heart and make her continue to feel. "I need you." It's a simple statement, ripped from her soul and filled with an honesty that she hadn't meant to show him.
It goes unnoticed and she's grateful.
And devastated.
His nails scrape her skin as he grips her waist tightly and spins her around, pushing her to the floor and crawling over her like a panther approaching prey. It's scary and unnerving and she mentally berates herself for whimpering at the sight. She can't help it; he's sexy and full of danger.
Right now it's all focused on her.
"Is this what you want?" he pants into her ear, the fingers of one hand digging into her flesh as he guides his cock in with his other hand. She gasps, but can only whimper again when he slides out, slowly, teasing her with carefully controlled movements. His eyes stay on hers for only a few seconds before darting away. "To fuck me? I want to know why you're doing this."
"Why are you?" she retorts, arching and moving with him, feeling the thrust of his cock touching more than just her body, as clichéd as it sounds even in her head. It's her mind and heart and emotions, all wrapped up in one needy fuck. "You've never wanted me."
Hands grasping her waist, he pounds into her, their breathing and the sounds of their bodies slapping together the only noises, filling up the room with an erotic soundtrack. Her muscles clench and she moans, storing this time away for later fantasies. Later recriminations.
"Chloe." It's a demand and a plea wrapped up in a grunt of pleasure.
Tell him? She won't.
"No." Spilling her guts to him won't help matters. They both already feel bad enough, fucking the day of Lana's funeral. The day his wife's--and her best friend's--body was lowered into the ground.
Will he even believe her? Care?
"Tell me," he demands between harsh pants. "Why are you-- why?" He can't seem to finish, though she knows what he wants from her. Knows how it feels.
She knows how he feels because she's feeling it too; desperate and needy, grabbing onto the passion as a numbing agent like the alcohol from his smashed glass. He's controlled in his pace, thrusting hard and deep, shoving forward, grunting with each slide inside her, but she knows he's holding back, afraid to let go.
What she doesn't know is why.
"I need you," she repeats, nails scraping down his neck, and he bucks forward uncontrollably a few times.
His cock slips out in his wild thrusting, his haste.
Gasping, she arches her back, seeing his eyes slide over her chest, covered in flickering firelight. His hips slow, hand rising to a breast, cupping it roughly. Pinching the nipple, he leans down to suck it into his mouth as he begins to move harder. Faster. Shoving her back with each thrust.
His lips and tongue and teeth send shudders through her and a tug between her legs and it's all she can do not to come right then, not to tell him that she loves him and that she wants this more than anything she's ever wanted. More than she's ever wanted Clark.
And suddenly it's too much, too complicated, and panic begins to edge in, but then he stops his mouth and she's in control of her own again and she's not going to stop this or him. Never.
"God," she bites out, head dropping back on her neck, eyes closing. "Harder... Lex." She lifts her hips to his repeatedly, crying out, biting her lip to keep from screaming because she's sure the mourners would find this horrible of them both. Pleasure throbs deep inside her. Fingers rubbing quickly on her clit, she breathes him in, delighting in the musky scent and the harsh grunts he lets out with each thrust.
Better than her imagination could ever conjure or paint him.
Her body clenches around his length, harder and again, tighter and tighter until--
Her mouth drops open, noises escaping her throat as she bucks against him again and again. High-pitched, needy, satisfied noises. It all washes over her, through her, around her, fuck. Fingers rubbing harder, harder, faster, she wraps a leg around his waist trying to get closer to him, never wanting him to leave her.
Never wanting him to stop.
He isn't moving anymore, she realizes, sliding her eyes open to find him watching her hungrily.
There's such yearning in his gaze, such pleasure, as if she's just given him something incredibly gratifying. All desire-driven and likely to die a quick death as soon as this... whatever it is, ends.
But Chloe holds it to her like a precious jewel, wrapping it in her memories and storing it away.
Lex slides his cock back into her, hissing when she tightens around him. It's never felt like this, and she knows it's the circumstances more than Lex. Though that, too, is...
It is thrilling. Finally feeling him.
Tasting him.
Thrusting, hard and thick. She feels his breath warming her neck, causing shivers down her naked back. Opening her eyes, she fists her hands in his jacket, which glows in the firelight. She craves naked flesh, but is left unsatisfied.
His hips buck wildly against hers, sending him deeper, and she clenches around him, gasping as pleasure spikes higher, cresting, slipping into her chest. Her belly. Centering on where they're joined. He thrusts once. Then again.
Then stops, buried inside her, sweaty body hovering, frozen, before collapsing onto hers.
She holds him while he calms, body heaving with each breath, which slowly cools beneath her hands. His tortured eyes slide from hers as he lowers his head to her neck, arms tightening around her. "I never loved her," he admits, and the confession is filled with shame and guilt torn from his soul and his heart as his breath leaves him on a shaky sigh.
Trying not to resent him for reminding her that this is about Lana, she breathes him in and files his admission away as a truth she's known all along.
A/N: This fic was written backwards. I wrote the first part the normal way, up until Chloe ran to the other room, then the last line ideas popped into my head. After that, I was stuck on how to get them to smut, so I started writing the ending and thought of literally writing it backwards line by line to get to the very beginning. It was actually kind of fun, if a little hard. I highly recommend trying it!
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Originally Posted by sinecure
Hee. Aww, sweetness and tender loving. I can't seem to do that without the pathos and pain. Angst is Chlex. Chlex is angst. In my head at least.
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