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I have a kink about it.
The words have been replaying in his mind for hours, like a broken record, scratchy and loopy in a way that scares you. Lex's face imprinted behind his eyes, that smug, mean smile he always carries with him and the brightness of his eyes, the pink of his cheeks under harsh lighting and how he hadn't shaved the stubble, it made him seem older, wiser, a bit more like his father.
It's quite the habit now for them; they'll gather at one of their apartments for the big events of the year, roaming from the Oscars to the fashion events Clark claims to not enjoy but get hooked on the moment his eyes land on the horrendous choices.
For the Met Gala they were at Cat's, cramped into that pink couch she owns that smells like cherry lip gloss and perfume. Even Jimmy was there, ignoring every time his phone lit up with a notification—Clark guessed things weren't going quite well with Eve again, but he didn't pry. Clark was banished to the carpet, his frame too wide and muscular for them to withstand it in the couch, and he would've complained but Cat's carpet was warm and fuzzy under his skin. Beer flowed, then some cocktails, they ordered food and snacked on chips and ice cream until they couldn't think, too full and too upset at ugly outfits.
At some point in the live-stream the crowd erupted into surprised and shocked yelps, Clark perked up, glancing away from the bowl of chocolate covered pretzels.
Lois was the first to react, her breath caught in her throat as she wheezed, "No way."
Lex Luthor, previously imprisoned and newly re-entered into society, had just walked out of a pristine Mercedes Benz, decked in tones of black and gray from head to toe. Clark's heart seized in his chest, a lump formed in his throat—Cat gasped, Jimmy made a snickering sound that felt like words but weren't, and Lois stood very still behind him.
"He looks…"
"Amazing," Cat finishes, sputtering as everyone's bewildered gazes fall upon her. "What?! I get it, he sucks, but his fashion choices don't!"
Jimmy squiggled in the couch, uncomfortable. "Is that all leather?"
"Looks like it," Lois narrowed her eyes at the TV, lip trapped between her teeth. "Is he wearing gloves? Oh my god—He's wearing gloves. This guy," She laughs, incredulous. "It's spring time, and everyone's sweating in that carpet. He's such a douche."
"Can you walk out of prison and attend the Met Gala?"
"It's Lex Luthor," Jimmy groans. "He can walk out the toilet without washing his hands and no one would say a thing about it."
Cat tilts her head. "Something about him tells me he washes all the way down to the elbow."
Lois nods. "His head is so moisturized, it's really odd."
Clark remains silent through their chatter, laughing softly at a few jokes but his eyes never leave the screen. Something brews inside his chest—Anger, bitterness? He's not sure it's either of those.
Those are normal emotions for normal people, like his friends behind him, who are now bickering about whether Luthor buys extra-soft toilet paper or has a high pressured bidet. Cat brings up Japanese toilets and they all come to a final agreement. Clark, on the other hand, is mesmerized by the way the leather sticks to him. He's changed, that much is clear, physically wise he's larger, broader. Lex has always stood tall, almost as tall as Clark, but he looks taller as everyone around him ducks when they see him.
The crop of the jacket is interesting, his shirt is a dark gray, like the sky during a bad thunderstorm back home, with a tie that's the perfect length and all matte black. Clark swallows, cheeks warming as he stares at Lex's legs, hugged by the black leather that leaves nothing to the imagination.
The cameras catch him from behind, it's mere seconds of footage—Clark's breath hitches.
"Jesus," Lois whistles. "Is he opening bakeries around town now? Where did all that cake come from?"
Cat takes a deep gulp of her cocktail, putting her hands up. "Guys, you're gonna have to hear me out,"
"Okay," Jimmy rises. "I'm going to the bathroom, I don't wanna hear this."
"It looks…" Clark speaks up and suddenly everyone's eyes are on him. He hadn't realized he had been that quiet. His flush deepens, Lois raises a brow at him. "Uncomfortable."
Her eyes narrow, silently calling out his bullshit. "Uh-huh."
"They probably rubbed him in baby-oil," Cat adds. "That's what they do to squish you into leather. Don't ask me how I know."
Great. Now Clark can't stop thinking about Lex Luthor lathered in baby-oil.
The night progresses with little sightings of Lex. Some cameras catch his head, others his good side, but the moment he walks into the museum it's like he's dissipated. More bad looks flood, a lot of tuxedos that have everyone groaning and rolling their eyes while tossing popcorn at the screen.
Eventually it ends. No interviews with Lex, a reporter had made a snarky comment about how the billionaire had refused them from the get-go, only to be kicked off the carpet moments later, much to their bewilderment. Jimmy and Lois share an Uber, they hug Cat goodbye and go on their merry, separate ways, telling each other to text once they're home. Clark takes two seconds to get to his apartment, but he waits as everyone else texts the group chat first to announce his arrival minutes later.
He's restless, and usually he'd set off on patrol but he's on a mini-break after having gotten beat up pretty bad while saving people during a typhoon.
So, logically, he lies awake in his bed, wondering if Krypto and Kara are alright, checking his inbox to see if Terrific got back to him with that info he'd been wanting about the structural damage from that one earthquake months ago but there's nothing.
He puts his phone down, sighing, but mere seconds later it pings and buzzes back to life.
Lois: Are you awake?
Clark: sadly
Lois: Amazing. You gotta watch this.
She sends a link to a video posted to Instagram. Clark opens it, his thumb hovering over the screen as he racks up the volume—It's Lex, sprawled on some fancy couch, being interviewed by someone off-screen, funnily enough.
He looks…radiant. Happy to be answering questions, which means whoever's asking those to him must be close, or a personal stylist. It's as if he'd come out a new man after his stay in Belle Reve, then Van Kull, though Clark doubts that—Lex is good at playing for the cameras, at charming even those who believe him to be the devil and changing their minds. It works because he's terribly persuasive, with big eyes that never quake when challenged and a sharp tongue that never holds back. Clark knows it's all an act, a class act, for sure, and yet his chest constricts all the same.
The person's voice is muted, their questions written on text in the video.
When putting this look together, what were you thinking about?
Lex takes a breath, looking pensive. "I was thinking about being very fashionable, and looking very sexy."
How do you feel about leather?
"I feel very good about leather," He's brighter then, comfortable with his words. "And it's a kink of mine, the tie is leather too. It's a bit grabby so you gave to then really cinch it up there, tighter than you'd expect you'd want it."
Clark's head swims. The sentence blurs together.
Kink. Grabby. Tight.
He's scared by Lois' texts, who's obviously been expecting a response as Clark lets the video play on loop like a weirdo.
Lois: He's not serious. He really said all that.
Lois: Gosh, he's such a weirdo.
Clark sends a few ha-ha's and emojis, wishing her a goodnight before grabbing his pillow and burying his face into it so it can muffle the groan he lets out as he feels the swell of his cock only hardening when he closes his eyes and thinks of Lex.
A week passes, he hasn't forgotten about the look or about Lex's words.
Thanks to his upbringing and his happy-go-lucky personality most people he's met, either with romantic interest or not, have assumed him to be quite the prude. Clark, born and raised in a Kansas farm to your most common American family, was a virgin until he started college. He can't judge or be mad at people who assume he's the kind to blush when his cheek gets kissed, because he does, but he's not all saintly either.
He hasn't experimented a lot, not a lot of room to do so when he lives two lives and he can count the people he's taken to bed with one hand, but that doesn't mean he's a prude.
While dating Lois he'd cave to her needs, doing whatever she wished to do because that made him happy, too. Their sex life was far from dissatisfactory but Clark had never dared to try and push some of his own ideas onto her, always too scared of creeping her out or making her look at him under a new light. Since breaking up with her, and that month of mourning he took from work because he'd been so sad, he hasn't been with anyone. His friends, even Lois, insist on him finding someone to at least hook-up with but Clark's been busy, work and Superman getting in the way of his life, and he's honestly haven't been feeling up to meeting someone new.
The voice in the back of his head he always ignores whispers to him while he's writing at his desk; you don't have to get to know him. No one knows you better than him. No one knows him better than you do.
Clark holds his pen so hard it explodes, blue ink staining his palm and his white button up. Lois' eyes bore into the back of his head as he stands to head for the bathroom, embarrassment suffocating him from the inside out.
Much to his luck (as he sarcastically puts it) he comes to find out that LuthorCorp, now up and running after its stocks were frozen and all personnel involved with the rift incident were detained, are onto something shady again. It's late by the time he has a moment to drop by. The newly designed building is a contrast amongst all others around it, far more sleek and darker, but not completely black like Wayne Industries, because Lex would rather die than share similarities with anyone, let alone Bruce Wayne.
Clark lands on the roof, where a hatch opens over the helipad, leading to an elevator.
It could be a trap, the elevator could be laced with Kryptonite, or maybe it's another pocket universe portal—Clark takes the risk, because that's what he does, and he's pleasantly surprised to find himself moving and the numbers on the modern, digital keypad go down a few floors. The doors open to reveal a woman on the other side, Clark recognizes her from a few of Lois' articles she'd put out during the trial; Mercy Graves, Lex's new assistant and right hand, seems like.
She glances at him with little to no impression, then steps aside, "Follow me, Superman."
Clark does, quick yet tense on his step.
"He's here," She announces as the doors to an office open, quite similar to the one he'd destroyed when he was throwing that fit over Krypto being abducted but different at the same time. "Would you like anything, Superman?"
Clark blinks dumbly at her. "Uh, no. No, thank you, Ms. Graves."
Her face does a funny thing when he says her name, then she's leaving again.
"Well," A voice—the voice—pulls him away from his thoughts. Clark tenses up in his spot, hands fisted at his side as he turns slowly to face the man he'd been daydreaming about for a week. "I knew you'd come at some point, I just didn't know you'd be this quick."
Willing himself to remain calm, normal, Clark clears his throat. "I was made aware of… rumors, all about your labs downstairs doing funny things again, Luthor."
Lex is right there, in all his refined glory and regal presence, wearing half a suit with the sleeves of his button up rolled past his elbows and his tie loose. Clark holds the gasp he wants to let out at the sight of Lex's exposed neck, he's holding a glass of what seems to be and smells like bourbon, carelessly strolling about the office like it's not the first time they speak to each other in months after Clark's foster dog broke his arm.
After Clark imprisoned him, made him cry, put him to shame in front of the whole world.
"Oh, is that so?" Lex grins, sharp and toothy, lips pulling sharply at the edges. "May I know the source of this leak?"
"You may not," Clark states. "I know what you do to your enemies, Luthor."
Lex pauses, tongue pressed over his top row of teeth, his eyes meet Clark's and Clark can't help the sudden jolt of arousal that makes him swallow dryly around the knot in his throat. "And what's that?"
"Let's not do this," Clark sighs, averting his gaze. "Whatever it is you're doing… stop, stop or I'll have to intervene again, Lex."
"Mh, I'll think about it."
Lex turns away then, distracted by something on his desk. Clark can't help the surge of anger, of grief, that washes through him as he walks up to the man with his fists all tight and his muscles taut under the suit. He's not one to intimidate, not when people usually cower under him so easily, but Lex is not like everyone else.
No, he isn't. And isn't that lovely?
"You can't be like this," Clark spits out. "Haven't you learned anything? Don't you feel even an ounce of remorse?"
"My goodness, relax," Lex rolls his eyes, leaning back against the desk. Clark doesn't think about how easy it would be to lift him up, sit him on it and—, "Whoever your source is you should let me at them, because clearly they're an idiot. The labs reopened last week, oaf, and they're under supervision of the government, as is my entire life. It's nothing new, nothing about you, it's cancer research."
Clark steps back, surprised, awed. "Cancer research?"
"Must I explain everything to you?" Lex sighs. "Yes, cancer. Us humans—so weak and frail in our mortal bodies—have this to fear more than anything, I guess. More than extraterrestrial beings playing God within our homes and children."
"I know what cancer is." Clark deadpans, choosing to ignore the jab at his origins.
"Right, great," Lex nods, pleased. "It's the disease that took my mother, so I've been pouring my surveilled hours into doing some good and finally ridding us of it—well, or so I've been trying to do. There's been no fruition yet, but I've a lot of hours under the watchful eye of that crowd of clowns to spend with my nose deep in tissue samples and vaccine mixes."
Clark feels thrown off his balance, taken aback, by the ease in which Lex speaks of such a horrid illness taking his mother, who—Clark assumes—he must have loved endlessly, despite very little being known about her.
He'd love to relate, but his planet being wiped out isn't the same thing. After all, Clark was raised by a loving family even if his own was far gone, and his mother calls every weekend with updates about the calf they'd brought into the world last spring and laughing at his father's temper with that rusty tractor. What little is known about Lex's family leads back to his father, a cruel, callous man who the papers never spoke kindly about—He's gone now, too, it happened a few years into Clark's first week at the Daily Planet, and no one had mourned him for long. Not even Lex.
Would Lex weaponize his mother to lie to him? His heart remains steady, calm, and Clark can't think of a world in which he'd call Lex out for such a thing.
"Okay." He says, easing back.
"Okay," Lex echoes, his eyes void of that casual harshness. Tension litters the air with what feels like the crackle of electrical wiring over a puddle but neither acknowledges this. There's no biting comments about having been thrown in prison, nor are there any blaming glances. "Mercy will see you out."
Clark nods, watching as Lex presses a button on the desk to call for her.
She shows up mere seconds later, which is scary and impressive, her heels clicking along the marbled floors. The doors open, she waits.
"Good luck," Clark says, awkward and stiff as he walks away. Then, unsure why, as if his tongue worked faster than his brain and he had no sense of self preservation, he says, "You looked nice… uh, the other night—at the gala, I mean. I liked the leather."
God, if you're real, you'll strike me down in this moment.
Lex seems to stutter for a second, catching up with the compliment, then his mouth pulls into a grin. "Thank you, Superman."
Clark nods, skipping out of the office with his neck burning and then flying to the Fortress instead of going home. Sleeping in the ice cold cavern he calls a bedroom in there feels like a fitting punishment for having been such a huge dumb ass.
The taste of almond in his coffee is too overpowering. He'll see that the café pays for such a thing.
"So," Mercy begins, her red-tinted lips are pulled into an amused smile. "He liked your outfit."
Lex averts her gaze, eyes darting back to the sheet he's been working on with different information on all the mutations he's seen from the few vaccines he's modified out of preexisting viruses. He doesn't blush, because he never has, though he feels warm in the face—He blames it on the rising heat.
"So did a lot of people," Lex mutters, fingers tapping against keys quickly, efficient. "It's Prada, Mercy. You'll find they have a lot of fans across the world."
"Superman smells like the perfume section at a drugstore," Mercy hums, her gaze pressed to the magazine she's been reading—It has Lex on the cover, with a flashy title about his leather and his beauty. "I'd be surprised if he knew the country of origin when it came to the cologne he wears."
Lex laughs, softly. "You mean the randomized warehouses they bottle them at?"
"Touché."
He hates when she has a point or when she's right, which is way too often for his liking.
Lex has been a loyal ambassador to Prada since he was a teenager, often found hidden in the folds of magazines posing with their pieces, or in billboards in the largest cities of the world, where opulence and wealth were worshiped. Few were the hands that didn't let go of him after what happened, and he wasn't surprised Prada was one of them—Fashion houses are known to be on the funny sides of history, after all.
They'd come up with the rough idea of what he discussed at first, all having to be done over the course of days, but the leather was all him, that much was true.
He's never been one to shy away from expressing his peculiar tastes through fashion. The importance of a good suit was instilled in him before he knew how to ride a bike, as a child he wore cologne so strong it would make the maids sneeze, and his mother would often match him to whatever she would wear for the day. Lex remembers himself in colors, lilacs and soft greens, mostly, holding onto a skirt of the same shade. After her passing he took to wearing strictly dark tones, cold tones—Clothes that reflected how he felt at the time, then it just stuck around, his wardrobe looked like the night sky.
Leather isn't something he's new to. He grew quite the fascination for it, and practices involving it, while studying abroad.
To have said it was a kink of his didn't really feel weird or outlandish. The people now regarded him as a murderer, as a fascist and a monster, so their shock wore thin when it came to such statements. Sure, some portals and blogs spoke of what he said like he'd been practicing BDSM in front of the camera, but those were scandalized prudes who nitpicked at anything he said. Others, mainly on Twitter, praised his fashion and his choice of words, people like him. Lex had gotten tired of the word mother being attached to pictures where the swell of his ass was quite visible.
For such a look to have piqued Superman's attention… That felt like an opening.
"God," Mercy groans, stealing a glance at him. "You're thinking about it."
Lex doesn't hide his grin. "As a pet project, yes."
"Yes, I'm sure your impeccable plan to bend Superman to submission finally will come to fruition with a flogger and a collar."
"I hadn't thought of a flogger, huh."
"I hate you," Mercy mutters, she gathers their stuff, even taking his gross coffee with him which he pouts about. "We have a meeting, move."
His mind drifts back to the idea when he gets a moment of quietness. Once he's out of the lab, well into the night and worn down from a day's work, he finds himself laying back against the cold metal of the elevator and thinking about the shyness to Superman's features when the man had stepped over himself to compliment him.
His plans to destroy him aren't stopping, no. Lex is just… on sabbatical from that for now.
He should be good. He needs to be good, so that society's eyes will drift from him and find something else to frown at when they're mad. It's why he's keeping quiet and laid low, the government won't want to monitor him forever, of that he's sure, and the fastest he proves he's no longer volatile and manic then the fastest they'll pull their attention from him. Patience has never been a virtue he possesses, a flaw he blames his father for, but during prison he learned that it is one of man's greatest strengths—Van Kull had been cruel, Belle Reve had been disgusting, and freedom has never tasted sweeter.
Curiosity prickles at him, as it does often, so he makes a quick call to an old friend.
Well, friend is a generous word. Lex's closest friend is Mercy, who didn't regard him as such until he left prison because she didn't want her reputation stained by befriending an inmate.
He drafts an email while nursing a glass of Japanese whiskey and listening to a record on low volume, despite how late it is he's restless, unable to hit the bed and fall asleep. He reads it again and again over the rim of his glass, thumb hovering over the send button and lip trapped between his teeth. A part of him wonders if the government is tracking his emails, if they'll read this one, too, but then he finds he doesn't care.
He presses send, and then goes to bed.
From: [email protected].
Subject: A batch of your strongest.
Hello, old friend. It's been quite a while, but you might have watched the news. I don't reach out to speak of my grievances, though. I was merely wondering if you could get back to me with information on what's the strongest material you work with, costs aren't an issue, so if it needs to be obtained through a special second-hand I can cover it.
My eye is on a man far too big and too strong, normal leather, even the strongest of its kind, won't work, but it needs to be more of a decor. Leather needs to be involved. He's quite the man, almost out of this world, and will break through chains if I were to put him in them. Whatever it is, I will pay for it as I always have done. Your previous products have proven far too good, though they were lost the moment my home was raided and everything was taken in to be declared. As always, I hope you get back to me.
— Alexander.
Clark stares at what his fingers have typed, stomach swirling with self-pity.
Leather porn. Gay leather porn. BDSM gay porn.
He might be an adult, but even while searching shady stuff for articles he turns to the incognito tab. Naturally, he does this with porn, too. He's not an avid watcher of the stuff, often finding it overly gross and shameful, but as his loneliness sinks in he fears this might be how he finally stops thinking about Lex Luthor and his damned leather suits.
Most of the videos do nothing for him. They're over-produced, far too poorly acted and weird, the men in them look uncomfortable.
He scrolls, one hand holding the phone and the other palming his half-chubbed cock over his briefs, and the pages all blur into one another until he starts getting to the ones that seem less professional. Weird thumbnails and harsh captured footage catch his eyes, he clicks on the one that seems most interesting and his breath catches as the two men don't waste any time to get into it. One of them is wearing a collar, bound by leather belts and straps from his arms and legs, a gag placed over his mouth and a thin sheet of silky black fabric over his eyes. He's at the mercy of his partner, who's fully clothed in what seems to be a leather wetsuit, or something close to it.
Despite it being crude and vulgar, Clark finds it weirdly intimate as well.
That's what gets him going, with his cock hardening to the fullest and dripping as he rubs the heel of his palm over it. Both men are rather muscular, so it's easy for his mind to drift back to the tone of Lex's body as the cameras captured him; his broad shoulders and his thicker thighs, all supporting the round, firm ass he'd gained while in prison.
He thinks of Lex being at his mercy like this, though that feels far-fetched and distant. He does not wish to subdue Lex, to have him like this, so he places himself in the bound man's spot instead and a moan is ripped out of his throat before he can stop it. Nothing in this world can hold Clark down, not like that, but he dreams of a situation in which something could—His cock springs free from his boxers, big and dripping down his hand, and he wraps his fingers around it almost immediately. The bound man is being fucked mercilessly against the bed, headboard rattling with every thrust is unforgiving partner gives, and his sounds are all muffled, saliva dripping down his mouth and cock bobbing in between their bodies, untouched.
The gag comes off, a litany of moans interrupted by a deep, sensual kiss.
Clark comes into his fist with a shout.
It's the fastest he's cum since… well, since college, since he learned how to masturbate.
Of all things, a kiss is what does him in.
The lights of his bathroom flicker as he stands over the sink, hunched over because the sheer size of his body is too much for any room, washing his own cum off his hands and abs. The washing machine is running a quick cycle, Clark waits while eating a bowl of cereal with chocolate milk, because he ran out of whole milk and going down to the 7-Eleven is too much of a task after taking a dip in that radioactive river thanks to the Imp that manifested earlier. He runs his suit, briefs and light blue button up through the dryer after, hanging them over his shower curtain and then returning to bed.
"Smallville," Lois greets, cup held in between her thin fingers, smile flashing. "Feelin' hot today, hm?"
Clark glances down at his outfit; the button up he'd washed overnight, his usual slacks, a red tie that's tied half-assedly. It is hot in the streets of Metropolis but Lois still sports one of her many vests, one in emerald green this time, and she has this curious glint to her eyes.
"It's—It's hot today, yeah."
"You look good," She grins. "Quite in theme."
The red and the blue weren't a deliberate choice, yet Clark can't help but feel like a huge nerd and loser as he stares down at himself while he walks toward his desk.
The day moves on without much fuss, there's a fire downtown that he has to skip a few hours of work for but nothing else. At the end of their shift they announce a celebratory bar trip because of Jimmy's new front page, Clark tries to get out of it, excusing himself with exhaustion and overload of unfinished work, but Lois manages to convince him with pleading eyes and a good amount of childhood related blackmail she'd learned during her short stay in Kansas.
Clark's never enjoyed going out drinking, drunk people are bothersome, sometimes unnecessarily angry, but it's not just that. These types of outing have always made the feeling of being different, of not quite fitting in, stronger.
Clark knows that, were he capable to do so, he wouldn't like getting drunk anyway. But it's not just that, it's about the company and the way everyone melts together, deep into a buzz of joyful fog and with the tingling of alcohol on their lips as they lean into one another with such ease, not minding the weight of their bodies or how easy it'd be to trip and break each other's bones. The mindlessness that comes with just existing, with being one with the others, is something he years for and yet feels so out of reach.
He's stiff where Jimmy is grabbing onto his bicep for leverage, trying to hit a bullseye so he can collect the tiny pile of dollars they've put up as a bet for whoever can, when he hears the distant commotion.
"Lois," He calls, casting her a glance, one they both understand.
"Go," She mutters, taking over his spot. "Text me when you're home."
Clark nods, trying to sneak out as quickly as possible.
The commotion comes from LuthorCorp, of all places, and Clark sighs as he nears the building. There's a flurry of anxious employees hurrying out, one of them yelling something about samples while the others just pull her away. Clark scans the crowd, he sees the staff, firefighters and police, some men in suits, but he doesn't see Lex or Mercy.
His heart picks up, rushing to one of the employees.
"Lex," He rasps out. "Where is he?"
"He was… he was in the lab—I don't know."
He races inside, pushing past the flames and the fumes of whatever it is that exploded.
It reeks, that's for sure, and Clark scrunches his nose up as he tries to detect any signs of heat but… well, the lab is on fire, everything is surrounded in heat. Then, a yelp catches his attention; it comes from one of the closed doors, Clark pulls it off the hinges, revealing the shocked faces of Lex and Mercy. They don't seem afraid, Clark cocks a brow but doesn't have the time to question it, he grabs them both in each arm and rushes them out of the building.
There's paramedics waiting, they take Mercy and Lex away while the crowd erupts into cheering—all, except for the LuthorCorp employees.
He returns inside, blows icy breath over the fired up lab and grimaces at the look of it, then cues for the firefighters to continue on with the last bits of help. Clark waits, arms crossed as he glares at the press who are trying, like vultures, to peck off whatever they can. The paramedics give him a glance and then they nod, signaling for him to go on, and Clark rounds the ambulance where Lex is sitting on. Mercy's getting her blood pressure taken, Clark notices the worried frown in Lex's face and gets closer.
"She'll be fine," Clark says, avoiding any greetings. "Her heartbeat's steady."
Lex glares. "God, don't do that. I know she'll be fine."
"What happened, Lex?"
"A miscalculation by a moronic scientist who wouldn't listen to me," Lex groans. "Chemicals got mixed up, components touched that shouldn't have been touched—You know, the men of the caverns might have been smarter than the flurry of idiots I've employed to help me, at least they managed to create fire without blowing up the planet."
Clark stares at him for a second, licking over his lips. His mind flashes back to the gala, to the leather, to Lex's tears and his pretty rosy cheeks—,
"Hey," Clark softly mutters. "You're okay, right?"
Lex looks at him like he's grown a second head, bewildered and uncomfortable, eyes flickering with something close to panic like he doesn't know how to respond to such a mundane question, before his usual icy glare returns. "I'm fine, alien. Go, scram now."
From the short distance they watch as Mercy is let go, her lithe frame slightly trembling but it's just the sudden fear, nothing else. She gives Lex a thumbs up from afar, quite the adorable gesture for such a biting personality, and Lex nods, his body relaxing.
It's something new, Clark realizes—He's never seen Lex care before.
Lois might laugh at him, probably say something about how it's just Lex wishing to not be in another scandal for getting someone else killed, and Clark would agree on a normal day, but there's something to the set of Lex's shoulders and how stiff he sat as Mercy was looked over that gave more than just mild worry over HR mishaps and a general disdain to not have someone rely on him. Maybe Clark is trying to grasp onto straws, trying to make his attraction and arousal make sense. He's not quite sure.
"Be careful."
"Kal-El," Lex calls, Clark freezes on the spot. "Come by the penthouse on Saturday after you're done with your… Superman business."
Why. Why would you want me there? Why are you calling me by my name? You're supposed to be mad, I'm supposed to be angrier. Why do I want you so bad?
"Okay," Clark nods, curtly, sharply. "I'll be there."
"Don't take too long. I don't like waiting."
"I won't."
Lex nods, hopping off the ambulance and rushing towards Mercy, who watches them both with her eyes narrowed and her posture stiff.
Saturday comes, the sun's out, people are roaming the streets, coming back and forth from home to work, and Lex watches as they parade like little ants from the top of his glass castle.
It's the first time in years he takes time off willingly, without counting prison.
After he'd send the email and gotten no response within the next twenty four hours he'd kind of given up on it, passing it off as a fleeting attempt and not holding it against his old friend. Days later, though, he found himself scrolling through his unread emails and was pleasantly surprised to see a response from Maxie. He'd excused himself, chatting about an eventful trip to Hungary to sight-see some bears, which had made Lex snicker to himself. The rest of the email was purely professional, Lex's mouth watered at the next sentences.
As I am nothing but a craftsmanship for perversion, I can confide in you with this; a few years ago a very rich man, one not unlike yourself, asked me to make him something similar. The strongest thing you have, and if you don't have it, invent it—He'd said this to me, but I didn't need to invent it, for another fool had done it already.
Tungsten is what you're after. Though… If we're talking about our specially-biologically-engineered friends, it would have to be laced with something else to work on them.
I can work the metal. I can work the leather. You can work what I need to make it efficient.
Lex had been thrilled at the response, but the reality of his situation had come crashing down as he realized what Maxie was asking of him. Kryptonite no longer existed on the planet, for the Element Man had joined that circus of freaks Superman is friends with, and whatever raw materials Lex had were confiscated during the raid of his home, like he said.
He spent a long afternoon sulking about it, throwing tantrums to Mercy, who immediately gave up and went home. He could not judge her nor be mad at her.
"There is a man," Mercy said the next morning over breakfast, Lex often found himself scared of her, sometimes questioning if she was a mind-reader of sorts. "He keeps precious jewels and stones, I've known of him for a while—You had me buy emeralds from him to send Lena, remember?"
Lex nods, stirring his coffee. "Go on."
"I think he has what you're after."
In mere hours he was on a flight to Rishikesh, where Mercy's mystery man resided in—There had been the bothersome hours of endless paperwork he needed to do for the government to let him go, of course, but he hadn't worried about the cargo.
Lex thought of it too good to be true, to be honest. Not because Mercy was a liar, though she was a brilliant one, but because he couldn't trust a jewel merchant to not lie about keeping Kryptonite on earth and not having wanted to leech off its existence down to the last penny. It's what he would've done, anyway—His raw sketches and project works for weapons designed out of the green glowing rock now laid rotting in some governmental warehouse, but he remembers a time where he'd convinced himself it would be the next big thing in the market.
None of it is a lie, though. And when Lex's blues meet that radioactive green he feels like he could kiss Mercy, there's a world where they're all wrong and he does, probably.
Having connections across the globe who've the same tyrannical thirst as him helps quite a lot, Lex manages to smuggle Kryptonite out of India and into the United Kingdom without a single idiot noticing. It doesn't go back home with him, and he types on his response email to Maxie that he wishes for him to keep it until he's out of the woods, to use the most minimal sliver of the rock, barely rub it across the metal, because he wants his other weakened but not dead. All emails turn to encrypted coding that changes per second, so as to keep it hidden from whatever bug is in his every device, and he smashes the laptop to pieces once he's back in American soil.
Now he's home, the sun lowering in the horizon as he responds to corporate emails and makes a few posts over social media about the energy renewal project LuthorCorp will be handling the next year, and the anticipation is killing him.
Mercy comes in at eight, rolling a cart with food before her, one hand holding her phone, "Dinner, roasted lamb, something about roasted 'taters, too," She mutters. "Response to the renewal energy project is good so far."
"Taters," Lex echoes, slightly amused. "You've watched too much TV, Mercy."
"I like the westerns," She makes finger-guns at him, taking the seat across from him, slumping down. "So…"
Lex arches a brow at her, reaching over for his plate; the scent of herbs, lemon and something pleasantly burnt hits him, reminding him of how the last meal he had was a coffee at five in the afternoon. The utensils click together as he changes them from hand to hand.
"So?"
"You're going to fuck him."
Lex jolts, halfway through cutting his lamb. "Mercy, you kiss your mother with that mouth?"
"No," Mercy reaches over, taking one of his roasted potatoes. "Are you?"
"I'm… going to work towards that, yes."
"Lex and Supes, kissing in a t-r-e-e—,"
"You're dismissed," Lex cuts in. "And fired."
Mercy stands, smirking like the devil, and simply leaves without another word after having successfully made him want to toss his lamb across the room.
Night grows darker, the hours pass by and Lex returns to his penthouse, the one he'd kept after having sold the house during his court trial. The gifts are all in his room, laid upon his cashmere blankets and silk sheets, and he hopes the Kryptonite isn't so strong it'll have Superman fainting as soon as he comes in.
Lex showers, mainly to cleanse himself of the day's sweat and grime, to smell nice, and slips on a lilac colored robe that's like wearing fog upon his skin.
He pads towards his corner bar, pouring himself a generous amount of bourbon as the anxiety that comes with expectancy eats away at him. He thinks about turning on the news, decides against it, he has a few missed calls from his sister and another one from his publicist, which he ignores in favor of keeping his head cool. He's naked beneath the robe, which should be message enough, but he doubts the lunk-headed alien will immediately understand. God, he'd looked like a deer in headlights at the invitation.
Right as the clock turns to ten, there's movement outside his windows.
A red cape, flowing in the wind flawlessly, blue amongst the black and a thoughtful look to bright blue yes. Lex presses the button that opens the glass panels.
"Am I late?"
Oh, good. He's not doubling on himself and retching. "Just in time," Lex swings back his glass, ignoring how the alcohol burns his throat. "I hope patrol was… easy."
"It was good," Kal-El nods, walking further into the penthouse. "I rescued three kittens, two dogs, one of them bit me, I think—I didn't feel much."
"I have a proposition."
Kal-El stops his rambling, suddenly curious, confused. "What is it?"
"First I must know, just how much do you like leather?"
The question seems to settle heavy in Superman's head. Lex enjoys the mixture of emotions portrayed in that perfect face, from confusion to sudden recognition to being totally flustered—Superman clears his throat, trying to keep his face blank. He fails massively at that. "Where is this coming from, Luthor?"
"Oh, come on, don't Luthor me," Lex scoffs. "You said it—you could've said anything else, could've left it at you looked nice, but you mentioned the leather, Kal."
"M—maybe I just like the material!"
"Or maybe," Lex closes in, the space between them narrowing. Superman smells like cheap cologne and common body wash, coconut and smoke mixed into his scent, and there's pomade in his hair and traces of a finely shaved jaw. There's flaws in there, too, ones Lex cannot stare at for too long. "You're all nervous because you've been caught, because you're as perverted as me, hm?"
"Jeez—," Kal-El pushes back, cheeks crimson then. "I—I thought you'd called me to talk!"
"What is it that we need to talk about?"
"What happened! I sent you to prison, I ruined your life!"
Lex's jaw clicks. "Yes, you did," He mutters. It's not like he'd forgotten about it, his hatred and bitterness still run rampant when he thinks of what had gone down, how he'd let his ambition get ahead of him—his feelings aren't lost on him. "So?"
Superman blinks, "So," He stops, then, "Why aren't you angrier at me?"
"What good will that do me?"
"I'm—," Superman's brain is rewiring itself, Lex notices, hides his amusement behind a stiff smile and a raised brow. "I'm not sure what I'm supposed to say."
"That you wanna see what I've been working on."
"I—I, yeah, sure. Show me."
Lex nods, motioning for the Kryptonian to follow, which he does, like the good dog he is.
The moment he opens the door to his bedroom there's an immediate effect to Kal's demeanor, like he can sense what's coming—his eyes widen, and he's halfway through a splutter when he spots the toys on the bed. His cheeks turn crimson, both from the embarrassment and the sudden exposure to the rock, and he stands by the door while Lex luxuriously paces around the room.
Superman's eyes turn to him, "What's… all that?"
"That?" Lex points to the leash and the collar, which are next to the harness and the gag-ball and the flogger—All in dark purple leather, which is only to cover the metal beneath. "Is part of my proposition, Kal. All infused with Kryptonite, the tiniest bit of it, of course."
"Lex," Superman groans apprehensively. "That violates the conditions of your release."
"I didn't do anything illegal—nothing they can prove, at least. I thought you'd be angrier at the use of your Achilles' heel, actually."
"I am."
"Oh, good," Lex nods. "Now you have two choices, right? To snitch on me with the law or to hear me out on my proposition."
Superman glares, pensive. "What if I don't do either?"
"Well, for one, I won't give you the name of the man who even sold me the rock," Lex tilts his head. "And you won't get to experience this kind of sex with anyone else, I bet."
The moments drag on like hours, Lex, whose patience training during prison seems to have paid off, just stands there, waiting.
Superman's chest rises slightly more heavily than it did while they were in the living room, a direct sign of effect by the Kryptonite. The gears working inside his head are notable through his eyes, which shift from the stuff on the bed to Lex and then to his own hands, like he's trying to find the right answer magically instead of thinking about it.
"If I do this," Kal sighs, fingers twitching at his sides. "You won't wait until I'm weakened to kill me, right?"
Lex smiles, shaking his head. "Now, where's the fun in that?"
"I need to hear you say it, Lex. Please."
The sheer vulnerability in those words, in that plea, do something weird to Lex's psyche—he can feel the dampness in between his legs worsening. It's as bothersome as it is arousing, and he hates that his breath hitches about it.
"I won't try to kill you, Kal-El," Lex says, firmly. "Not tonight. That's not what I want."
A beat of silence, then, "Okay," Superman nods, slowly stepping further into the room. "What do you want me to do?"
Lex ignores how his heart begins hammering against his ribs, mouth gone dry, throat hoarse, in favor of standing and giving orders.
"Undress, down to your briefs."
"Uh," Superman jolts. "I go commando under the suit—so, yeah."
The lick of desire that travels up Lex's spine is strong enough to have him blushing, a rare sight, uncommon, one he reserves for the partners who treat him the best and Mercy's merciless jokes about his dessert choices. He swallows all that need down, "That's okay, then. Naked it is."
The layers of red and blue begin coming off, all blurring together beautifully by the time Superman gets to the last piece—those damned skin tight pants—which he shyly begins shedding, letting his cock spring out of the fabric, already half-hard and looking like the monster Lex expected it to be. Not that he's thought much about Superman's cock like that, maybe once or twice while wallowing in his anger during his imprisonment, but he did expect it to be big. The length is thick, big, with a potent vein running along the side and reddened at the head. Kal-El is not circumcised, which Lex guesses it's obvious, given that he can't be operated on by the common medical procedures made for humans.
It's the biggest cock Lex has seen in his life, and he's been around—a lot.
Superman gets bashful under Lex's watchful gaze, instinctively bringing a hand to cover his junk, big enough to do the work. That they can't have. Lex clears his throat, feeling as his lungs try to dislodge his heart from its rightful place to make space for his desire, and proceeds to speak up again.
"Come," He orders, finger pointed to the carpet. "Kneel before me."
Kal-El is quick to obey, and that's thrilling. His knees hit the carpet with a thud, the weight of him strong, solid, and they're just perfect like this—their height difference has never been grand, though Lex would never admit those few inches between them do wonders for his fantasies, so Superman is at eye level with Lex's hip bones.
Blue locking onto blue, oceans merging, the earth splitting and coming back together.
"You tell me if it's too much."
Superman nods, pink tongue darting out to wet his swollen lips. Lex reaches behind him, the collar is heavy, much too heavy, but he can handle it. The closer he brings it the more Superman becomes affected by it, his brow bone begins dampening with sweat, cheeks flushed furiously, his lip quivers. Lex tastes victory in the back of his throat as he clasps the collar shut, tightening it as he likes, letting it press against Kal's throat like a reminder of who's in charge.
"It's—It's fine," Superman mutters, swallowing past his nerves. "Not too much."
"Mh, good."
The process is slow, Lex gauging each reaction, each intake of breath, to make sure he's not killing the man before him via slow-paced Kryptonite poisoning.
Lex is amused by how Kal's cock responds to the leash, twitching in its place, the flushed tip leaking as he straps the harness around those huge muscles—which he had measurements for, of course—and lastly he leaves the flogger aside for later. All in all, Superman paints a perfect picture of both corruption and perversion, kneeling in a carpet that costs more than some people's common salaries, flushed red all over and fully naked save for his collar and his harness, both which he cannot break out of at the moment.
Or maybe he can, Lex didn't test this. Maybe Kal can, and he doesn't want to.
His perfect curls, so soaked in pomade, are now a mess, falling over his perfect face like a cascade of darkness. Lex's cunt throbs at the sight, he feels parched, too needy.
"Watch me," He commands, reaching for the bow tied around his waist. "Eyes on me, Kal."
The robe slips off as easy as water dripping down his back, rippling onto the floor gracefully, he's bare, fully exposed. His body is mostly hairless, save for the patch of hair he keeps neatly trimmed in between his legs, in his youth he'd gone for the scandalous things; getting it trimmed in the shape of a heart, once, and he's sure that ended up on the web and still lingers. Now it's just taken care of, never growing too much but never fading, because his lovers like it and he does, too. Kal-El's eyes widen at the sight, his eyes darken, blue taken over by the tar colored lust.
He knows the effect his body has, how he's gawked at, ogled, and he's always taken some sort of sick pride in knowing that his seduction would get him places his wit could not.
Where he was abrasive, too rude and callous, his body was soft enough, pudgy enough, his cunt tight and mouth more than good enough. He's disarmed men with less than this, sometimes just with a glare or the wag of a finger, a smirk over the rim of a champagne glass he absolutely hates. It works wonders because men, as smart as they think themselves to be, are always led by their cocks and the blood flow that reaches it—which, in case of a pretty young thing making heart eyes at you, begins to rush fast and angry, just enough to ruin new engagements or thirty-year-old marriages.
This, however, feels better than any of that.
Everything else pales in comparison to the sight of having Superman, the earth's sworn protector, their golden boy, the man who'd bested Lex when no one else could, down on his knees and panting while leashed like a bad dog, eyes set on his cunt like he's hungry for something he's never been allowed to have.
"Bed, climb up, get against the pillows."
Superman does as he's told, and having him silent somehow sparks this weird sense of fear inside Lex, an unfamiliar sensation.
He's quite the view laid upon Lex's silken sheets, spread wide, taking too much space, and slightly panting. His muscles are all raw, polished, chiseled, like someone took their sweet time making him out of Kryptonian marble, and they glisten under the warm lights thanks to the added detail of sweat no common human can see in him. Lex climbs up to bed too, hooking his fingers around the leash, slender and manicured, pulling Kal as close as he wishes while he settles over his lap.
"Do you want it?" Lex asks, voice low, threaded with lust and composure. "Wanna taste me, Superman? I need to hear you use your words."
"Yeah," Superman nods, dumbly, then he doubles down, "Need to—want to taste you, Lex."
"Then ask properly."
A battle is fought behind the darkened blue of Superman's eyes, clearly between shame and need—need wins, as it often does. "Please," He gasps. "Can I eat your pussy?"
A sick, perverted glee overfills Lex's chest when he hears Superman use such crude language. He wants to bring it up, ask if that's how he talks to the scared women he rescues, if when he reads to the children he puts on his whiny voice, but he knows better than to poke the bear with a stick.
"Lay back, I'm gonna ride your face, Kal."
That gets an excited reaction out of the alien as he crawls downwards, allowing Lex to position himself, legs cradled next to Superman's head. That hot breath settles over the mound of his cunt and he has to bite his tongue to avoid making a sudden sound, he reaches over for the headboard, wood cool and refined against his palm, and his gaze locks with Superman's one last time before he's sinking down.
The first touch of Superman's velvet, feverish tongue against his cunt feels like everything clicking into place, filling him with equal amounts of dread and pleasure.
There's many flaws to his technique, which only makes Lex grind down harder, knowing Kal can take it—he's clumsy, messy, slobbering over the folds of his cunt and licking over him like one would with whipped cream that's leftover on a finger. Superman is a messy eater by all means, but he's good, he's solid, his tongue a force of nature as it tastes the depths of Lex's cunt, licking up his slick and his sweat. His nose nudges at Lex's growth, and every time Lex grinds down against him it serves as a nice bump on the way, like how the seam of his jeans would feel as he started taking testosterone and his cock began filling out.
He tugs at the leash, forcing Superman's face to be flush with his pussy, drenching him. Superman's throat gives a deep groan, one Lex savors, licking over his teeth.
"God—Fuck," Lex gasps, legs trembling beside him, cunt gushing. "That's good. That's so good, Kal-El."
Superman hums against his pussy, egged on by his praise. Lex feels himself drifting, his mind grappling with the need to cum and the desperation to make Superman work for it, but he's been deprived of this for far too long.
It's embarrassing, really. His knees buckle, body falling forward as his stomach twists, tightening, and his vision blurs—he cums right into Superman's mouth, throbbing and spasming as that tongue keeps on assaulting his depths way past his peak. Like a dog licking a clean bowl, he thinks, amusing himself as he pushes away from Kal's mouth, ignoring the pout that meets him.
His chin is covered in slick, shiny with it, and his eyes have hazed over.
"Don't flatter yourself," Lex exhales. "I'm just… sensitive."
"I didn't say anythin'," Superman mutters, though he's trying to hide the quirk of his lips, the glint in his eyes. "That was good, thank you."
Oh. That's sweet. Lex's stomach flutters, butterfly wings shaking inside him. "We're nowhere near done, Superman."
"What do you need from me, Lex?"
He's a quick learner, Lex will give him that. Superman's chest rises and falls heavily, the Kryptonite's effect staking its claim over that muscular body of his, forcing him to be clumsy and dull-limbed despite the strength in them.
What does he need? Everything, nothing—Lex finds himself debating inside his mind the lengths he's comfortable taking this to. It's ridiculous, really, after having planned it all and having just ridden Superman's face into the mattress, to have such doubts and feelings over what he's wanted since that comment left the alien's lips. The flutter of doubt clouding his mind is quickly dissipated by Superman's hands on his thighs, merely caressing the hot, soft skin of his body. God, the Kryptonian is looking at him as if he could smell Lex's internal battle, and it's quite annoying.
Lex tugs on the leash, forcing Kal into a sitting position. He's basically sat on the alien's lap, legs bracketed at his sides, nose to nose.
Kal-El smells like his slick, like sweat and something sweet, his hair is in disarray and his blue eyes are shining like the sea on a bright day as he looks down at Lex. He's not pushing him, mainly because he's in no position to do so, but because he wants Lex to admit his needs just as he's succumbing to his own. It's a weird game to play, Lex has never had to do this, he's never had to give himself to vulnerability to get what he wants.
And yet, he grinds down, his naked body pressed tight against Superman's, his wet cunt dripping over Superman's hardened cock. Their gasps go into each other's mouths, Lex doesn't kiss, he doesn't like kissing people, it's too intimate and too open—They'll taste what he's really like, what he's made of, and leave. Superman, however, leans in to kiss him like a man who's got nothing to lose. His lips move against Lex's, pushing past the barriers and the momentary fight, like they're riddled with morning prayers and reverence, his saliva closer to the holy wine than anything else.
Lex kisses back, because Superman knows he's something awful, so the taste must not scare him at all.
"I want," Lex murmurs as he peels back, licking the string of saliva that connects them back into his mouth. "To suck your cock, Superman."
Superman's eyes widen, then they're meek, reserved, his cheeks redder than before. "Oh, that'd be nice."
"You think so?" Lex quirks a brow, appalled by the alien's way of retreating back to his common, shy persona after having kissed Lex stupid. Lex tasted himself in Superman's mouth, and now he blushes like a virginal maiden over the prospect of getting his cock sucked. "I could just not do it."
"No, wait—," Superman reaches over, pulling Lex closer. "Please, Lex."
"Back up, against the headboard."
Superman nods, following the command. He's kept his hands to himself so far, except for slight touches that weren't enough to earn him a punishment, but Lex's twisted mind sort of craves the trashing and the fight, the anger, to flare up in the alien's body.
He wants him feral, wants to see him under a light no one else has and keep that glued to his chest, to keep the memory like a precious thing. Maybe some other time, when they're well past the awkwardness and the freshness of things, he can do something to earn the Kryptonian's anger again—Maybe he'll blow up a hospital, or kick a child on the sidewalk, something that'll truly tug at those heartstrings, so he can tug the leash harder, watch it snap and tear under his grasp as the alien shows him who he truly is.
Now, though, he lets the thought simmer in the back of his head as he lowers himself, tongue tracing the hardness of Superman's abs, finger still hooked on the leash.
He tugs on it once, hard, rejoicing at Superman's frown in response.
His hand wraps around Superman's cock, his touch is exploratory, clinical, at first. The sheer size of it feels heavy in his palm, he traces the vein with his thumb, heart hammering in his chest at the thought of having that monster inside of him. But he mustn't get ahead of himself, not yet.
Lex, for all his selfishness and self-centered manners, has always been a great cocksucker. Men who've laid with him have said it in the past, that he's better off with his mouth full of cock rather than the psychotic bullshit he tends to sputter often, and he's gotten a sick enjoyment out of making them finish inside his mouth then putting an end to their careers the next morning. Those who are smart resort to complimenting him, the ones that understand him tend to keep quiet, and Superman's staring down at him like he's somehow the man who makes the sun shine, which he's not sure if it's any better.
The first lick is tentative, kitten-like. His tongue grazes the side of Superman's cock, feeling it twitch, watching it drip, and for a moment he wonders if he's ought to be more worried about what he's about to taste but then he realizes he doesn't care.
The reaction is immediate, Superman's whole body goes taut before he's letting out a grunt that sounds pained, and it probably is, considering what he's got going on. It eggs Lex on like nothing ever has before, making him feel like he's finally falling down the slope of madness every genius has found themselves becoming victims to. Those plump, bruised lips wrap around the head of Superman's cock like they were made to do so, and then he's swallowing him down as far as it'll go, as far as his throat allows him.
"Lex, oh my gosh—E-ease down, you'll—oh,"
Choke? Yeah, that's what Lex wants. To feel that girth palpitating in the back of his throat, to have it molding his mouth to fit only it for the rest of his days.
Kal's hand is on his shoulder, squeezing it as gently as he can manage while every other sensation is enhanced by being under the influence of Kryptonite. Lex tugs on the collar again, again and again until Superman's coughing above him, finally understanding the message—That hand, broad and big, comes to rest on the back of his neck.
"What I want," Lex comes up, his hand stroking Kal's cock, using the mix of saliva and pre-cum to do so smoothly. His voice is hoarse, worn down. "is to be skull-fucked, Kal-El."
"I—I can't," Kal whimpers, whimpers. "I'll hurt you."
"Think of what happened," Lex presses kisses to Superman's length, noisy in their nature, vulgar at best. "How mad you were, how you wanted to break me then and there… You can do it now, and I won't tell anyone."
It's delightful to watch Superman lose the internal battle between his morality and his desire, how badly he wants and how it shows behind the darkening of his irises, a big black blob taking over the kind blue. Lex's spine goes cold.
One second he's basking in the triumph, rejoicing on the knowledge that he's finally broken past the shell, and the next one that hand is clamped down on his skin as if he were being scruffed, and his mouth is then full of cock. Lex gags, moaning around the girth, cheeks flushed pink and losing oxygen as Superman does as he was told—The good dog he is, obedient even in his rage, loyal even in his bitterness.
He gets what he wants, what he asked for, and it is good enough to bring the sort of quietness Lex has been chasing all his life.
Saliva spills out of him, the sounds he's making are downright obscene, and he's glad he'd given Mercy the rest of the night free because he can't think of himself living in a world where he has to face her after she's heard all of this going down. Kal-El uses his throat like he's merely a fleshlight, pushing him down on his cock with a pace that's close to too fast for a human but just slow enough to not have his neck snapping. There's still restraint behind his every move, but it's thin, wavering.
When Kal-El cums it's violent, plentiful. His seed is warm, and he's basically feeding it to Lex, forcing it down his throat as he keeps him there while he spends, down to the last drop.
Lex is let go, and he's sure to bruise in the morning, but he remains with his face pressed to Kal's navel as he catches his breath, swallowing around the mess of cum and saliva. It's slightly salty, with a strange undertone but not an unpleasant one—His non-human biology comes at play then, because when Lex glances down Superman's cock is still as stiff as it had been when they began. No refractory period, huh. Lex saves that information for later.
"See?" Lex comes up, tugging at the lash to force Kal's face closer to his, breathing the same ragged and hot air. "Don't you feel justified, Superman?"
A shaky exhale, then, "Did I hurt you?"
Lex rolls his eyes, the more he hears in regards to all that concern and niceness the more he feels like he could go dry for the rest of the night. "Stop feeling sorry for yourself," He snarls. "You're a God, aren't you? You take what you want, whenever you want, even now, as I've got you on a leash… your beastly self does as it wishes with my body—,"
He's cut off by a sudden change in position, the breath knocked out of his lungs once again as his back hits the mattress. Suddenly he's underneath Superman, legs splayed, chest having, his eyes wide like saucers as he stares at the sweat-soaked, Kryptonite-affected alien.
"I do not—," Kal starts to argue, brows furrowed, but then his foot touches the forgotten flogger by the end of the bed and he's grabbing it, trying to make sense of it. "What's this one?"
"To hit you with," Lex says, plainly. "A flogger, that's what it's called."
"It's all leather, how's it infused with Kryptonite?"
"It isn't, I was hoping that in my equation you'd be weak enough to feel it."
Kal-El gives that some thought, all their recent arguments forgotten as he sits back on his legs and hands over the flogger. "Try it."
"We were in the middle of something,"
"And I'm bored," Superman interrupts, knowing full-well it's one of the many things that Lex hates—to be interrupted, talked over. "What kind of experiment is this, Dr. Luthor?"
That shit-eating grin makes Lex scowl, he grabs the flogger roughly, whipping it backwards and biting the inside of his cheek as he braces for nothing.
It's not nothing. The reaction is mild, given how much Superman can withstand, but it's there in the form of a hiss held between gritted teeth and the scrunch of his nose as the leather makes contact with his skin, turning it blotchy red on impact, something that shouldn't happen in any other occasion. Hell, if Superman was at full power the flogger would've snapped in half, most likely.
Lex sucks in a breath, slightly stunned. "Shit."
"I don't know how it's supposed to feel."
"Like it stings," Lex brings his hand up to Superman's chest, tracing over the faint red lines, pressing down on the tender skin. "For you it'd be closer to a mosquito bite, I bet. Maybe a bee, but to a normal human it would hurt a lot more."
"It felt like…" Superman glances down, breathless for a moment. "Like a tiny slap."
"Yeah? How does this feel?" Lex asks, he doesn't wait for Superman to brace—His palm smacks him right across the face, a tendril of heat traveling down his body and forcing a gush of slick out of his cunt at the sight of Superman's stunned face.
"Like you slapped me."
"I did, woops."
A chuckle, foreign, odd even to himself, escapes him as Superman reaches to grab both his wrists in one hand, completely engulfing them. He looks ridiculous in his attempt at causing any fear while collared and leashed, with his pecs bulging out of the harness.
"Do you wanna hurt me? Break out of your binds? Prove to me that you're the cunt-driven beast I exposed you to be back then, Superman? Is that what you want?"
"I want—," Superman cuts himself off, licking over crackled lips. "I want you to hold this," He hands over the leash, hooking it around Lex's finger despite the look in the man's face. "And I want to know what else do you want me to do."
It should sicken him, the loyalty, the niceness, but Lex finds himself endeared, bewitched—His cunt throbs, gone uncared for for far too long now. He tugs at Kal's leash, pulling him impossibly close, doing as he wishes just for tonight.
"I want to be fucked, dog. I want to be fucked properly."
Kal's breath comes in short. "I—I can do that."
"One would hope," Lex deadpans, glancing down at Kal's hard cock sitting stiff and still dripping against his stomach. "First, you must watch me as I prepare myself. Can you do that, puppy? Can you sit back and watch as I finger my cunt open for you?"
"I can," Kal nods, desperately, and if he had dog ears they'd be bouncing and his tail would be wagging, probably. "I can do that, Lex."
Lex hums, sitting back as he spreads his legs. His cunt is annoyingly wet, like it's never been before, and so, so empty, he almost whimpers at first contact.
If he were doing this by himself he'd tease, toy with himself until he was too hungry, craving something that he can't have, and then he'd slide a big dildo right inside him, mount it until his legs became jelly and his brain went foggy. With any other man he would've been done already, a quick, rough fuck is what Lex tends to like, but Superman's not any man, and he's not even a man to begin with.
He puts on a show, instead, trailing his hands across his skin, making it so that the paleness becomes flushed with every touch.
Kal's eyes follow every move, tracing his fingers like they're a ball he can't lose, and his mouth is open wide in adoration. He has the stupidest look to his face, completely cunt-struck, and despite the bulk he looks like a puppy sitting there, waiting for a turn, for a taste. Lex bites back a smirk, pressing his palm against his mound once, bucking into it and hissing as the sudden stimulation makes his nerves come alive—He spreads his folds, gathers slick in fingers, and only then does he push one inside. He's slick and stretched, as he'd toyed with himself the previous night in preparation, but it still burns slightly.
"Lex," Comes a rasp, airy, broken.
"Watch me," Lex commands as he throws his head back, adding a second finger shortly after the first one, scissoring them inside his pussy. "Watch as I—ngh—fuck myself, Kal-El, tell me how I look."
"Beautiful," Superman gasps, he's drooling. "God, look at you… you're so wet."
Beautiful. Lex hates that the word makes his heart kick inside his chest, hates that he's flushing down to his chest. His thumb is pressed against his growth, a reminder of pleasure, but he's not moving it. He bucks his hips into his fingers, uncaring for how loud he is, how much he's dripping into the sheets.
"You're doing this to me," He gasps, his gaze meeting Kal's then. "I'm wet and broken because of you—you ruined me."
Kal reaches out, pawing at his thigh. "Please,"
"Fucking—get inside me, for the love of God—,"
Kal-El moves with the precision of an apex predator, pouncing on Lex the moment the command is given. He's hovering then, with a hand wrapped around his cock and his mouth pulled into a stressed line.
The nudge of that huge cock against his entrance makes Lex tense, his hold on the leash tightens, it's suddenly frightening and odd. Lex breathes through it, squeezing his eyes shut as the head begins slipping in, which shouldn't be as intrusive as it is, Kal groans above him at the tightness.
There's a hand on his waist, holding him, keeping him grounded, and the slide of Superman's cock feels like shoving something that shouldn't go there inside him, it's blissfully painful and weird. He's taken big cocks before, at times more than one, if he's feeling adventurous, but this is… inhuman. That's the only word he can find for it, and it's quite a good one, considering who's doing this to him. His cunt stretches beyond belief, fluttering open and tearing to make space for the girth, he thinks he smells copper in the air at some point but his head has been taken over by a nice, quiet droning.
He's swimming, body taken by the waves as he drifts, someone's speaking to him from above but he can't quite hear them—,
"—ex, Lex," Superman shakes him, bringing him back down to earth. "Are you okay?"
Lex glances down, noticing that Kal's not all the way in. He whines, like a cheap whore, as he tries to impale himself. "Don't—fuck—pity me."
"You're in pain."
"I'm empty," Lex pleads, something he never thought he'd do in his life. His voice is thin, worn by the exhaustion, and he's needy, his whole body burns with the need to be fucked into next week. "You're killing me by not giving me your all, Superman."
Conflict brews across those perfect, alien features. "It will hurt—,"
"Please," Lex tugs at the leash, his lips grazing Kal's, warm breath cooled by that frosty one, he knows his pleading is working because he's seen that look in men's eyes before; the dark, far-away look that indicates lust has messed up with the wiring inside their brains. "Please, Superman, I need you."
Superman pulls back, and for a moment Lex starts to believe he'll be abandoned, given a good reason to destroy the world next time, but then his whole body jolts as Superman pushes forward once again, feeding him his whole length this time.
Lex gasps, ragged, torn, and he can feel the girth in the back of his throat once again. When he glances down he notices the slight swell of his stomach where Kal's cock lies nestled against his cervix, which will be bruised come the morning, he'll be aching all over—God, how will he walk to the office? The thought makes him giddy, he bites his lower lip to stave off all the laughter that threatens to spill out of him, feeling manic in his need. He never thought he could be this full, and now he thinks he won't be able to live with just the reminder of it. He's gone and made himself addicted to Superman's big cock.
His legs lock around Superman's hips, bracketing him in, as if the poor bastard could go anywhere else than here. Lex blinks heavily through blurry lashes, feeling floaty.
Their gazes lock, a quiet war is fought, one of morality and need, of steel and fire, and Lex finds himself unable to catch just who wins—The stare-down goes on for too long, he grows bored, sore, and more annoyed by the minute.
The first thrust is shallow, aimless, as if the brute was trying to hit something that's not there, and Lex snarls at this like a cat when toyed with. His grip on the leash never falters, he wraps his fingers around it and brings Kal close, chest to chest, to breathe his scent in, to feel him impossibly close. Kal's heart hammers against his own as they lie flushed together, sweat mingling, skin chafing with every rub. One of his thighs is raised upwards by a tentative hand, Lex finds himself folded in half by the time he watches Kal pull back so slightly, pushing in again and again and again.
The pace is rather punishing, which it's good for him. The slap of skin makes for a nice melody, one that quiets the anger boiling inside him, and Kal has finally found an angle that's favorable. Lex's mouth is open, he's loud, unashamed, and his free hand grips the silk beneath him with the threat to tear right through it.
When they kiss again it's all teeth and tongue, Lex's lip splits on impact, Kal-El licks up his blood, so sweetly and tenderly.
"Right there," Lex gasps, body jolting forward as Kal's cock collides with his sweet spot repeatedly. "Fucking Christ—you're breaking me."
Kal's sweaty brow, a sight for the ages, is knitted on a deep frown as he works himself through the late effects of Kryptonite. His cheeks are far redder, his skin having taken a pale tint now, almost green-ish, and his lips seem dry. "Should I—Should I stop?"
"I'll kill you," Lex spits. "I'll go back on my word and kill you, Kal-El."
"Don't," Kal shakes his head, rising Lex's other leg up, folding him like a pretzel atop the sheets, hovering over him with his huge body. The slide of his cock feels better, deeper, and Lex can only grasp onto the last bits of his sanity as he feels his entire nervous system failing him. "Not now… not ever."
Lex laughs, which breaks into a moan, but he doesn't want to think about it, "I didn't say I'd stop hating you, moron."
"This isn't hate," Kal's hand comes down to where they're joined, his thumb pressing against Lex's growth, forcing a stream of whimpers out of him as he rubs on the sensitive nub in circles. "You like me."
"I don't—I wouldn't—,"
"You would," Kal pushes in a finger next to his girth, right into Lex's used cunt, the stretch makes him lose all train of thought as his eyes roll to the back of his skull, mind pleasantly fogged up. "You do."
He wants to say no, wants to cuss him out and kick him, but his legs are locked in place and he's so close to his orgasm he can taste it, sweet and sour, in the back of his throat.
He feels an array of emotions toward the alien, many of them rarely positive, but deep down below he knows this speaks of a weird obsession rather than a purpose—He's seen it reflected in others now, he heard the tales during his time in Belle Reve from that Gotham transfer that spoke of the freak who'd gone around killing people just so Batman would give him the time of day. Lex was not like him, he wasn't like them, he didn't belong behind bars rotting away for simply caring about the well-being of the world.
And yet, now that he was beneath the alien, he felt closer to joy than to disgust, and that was something that he rarely got to feel.
Kal-El was pounding into him like there was no tomorrow, like they were the last two people on Earth with a mission to repopulate and, well, Lex hadn't thought that far ahead when he started toying with the alien but the mere idea of carrying his offspring sent chills down his spine. Still, as said before, he'd rather take the risk than deprive himself of any pleasure, so he wasn't about to ask for a condom.
His cunt, now molded to fit and please Superman's cock, throbbed and ached the more abuse it was done to it, and his saliva spilled off the sides of his mouth as he felt himself growing closer and closer to his peak. He was creaming around the girth, slicking so much he would have to burn the mattress, replace it with a brand new one and try to forget he had even drenched it in such a way. The sloppy noises aided his fog-headed state, all there was in the world was Superman, him, and this room they were confined to. He would not have anything else at the moment, he's sure to not want for anything more anytime soon.
He tugs Kal down, rubbing the tips of their noses together, enjoying the pleasant sigh that earns him, "Kiss, puppy."
Their lips connect once again, sweeter this time, slower. Kal's kiss is reverent in nature, his tongue licking around Lex's palate, behind his teeth, staking its claim as deeply as possible while his thrusts falter, growing tired and possibly burning beneath the flesh.
Lex's head lolls back, exposing the expanse of his throat, which Kal latches onto like a vampire, sucking and marking as he pleases—The idiot seems to have forgotten there's no powerful healing factor to him, that he'll be purple and green in the morning and have to wait it out through days until it fades. Or maybe Kal's not as dizzy as him and he's well aware that Lex will sport the signs of their coupling for days to come, that he'll wake in the morning and struggle to get to the toilet, to stand underneath the shower.
The thought alone is intoxicating, Lex whines around a mouthful of moans, "Kal, I'm—,"
"I got you," Kal mutters, like a promise, like he truly means it. "I'm here—I have you."
"Superman!"
His vision whitens as he comes, his body jerks, shaking in its sorry state, and his spine arches off the mattress with the ease of someone much younger. He's gushing, squirting all over Superman's cock and thighs, his cunt spasming and pulsing around that thick cock and finger, and he's rubbed raw until overstimulation kicks in and all he can do is paw at Superman to stop him. His whole body is slack, spent, and he half-remembers letting go of the leash by the time Kal's giving his last few thrusts.
Lex drifts in and out of consciousness, he does feel Superman cumming inside of him, filling him up with his plentiful seed, making his stomach swell with it.
The tear and clank of metal hitting the ground isn't lost on him, either. Lex lies by his lonesome for a while, feeling disgusting and sorry for himself as he passes out over a pile of shared fluids and sweat, but then those warm, kind hands return to take him to the bathroom, where he's slipped into the tub that's warm and scented nicely. His body relaxes into the water, and when he reaches out a hand catches his own. Lex does not pull it back, nor does he remember falling asleep, giving himself to the void, at all.
From: [email protected].
Subject: My gratitude.
Dear distant friend, I write to you to thank you, now that I have been freed from the prying eyes that once haunted our back and forth, and to tell you that our combined efforts were a success. They did not last past the night, as I was afraid would happen, but they served me quite well, and played their part in the bigger picture.
I am close by, staying at a loft in Amsterdam, staring at the people who walk by and live their lives blissfully unaware of the threats that linger. I do not wish for them to find out, as I've sworn myself to protect and see that they are freed from the shackles of this mad fanaticism that's taken over their brains. Though, said mission has been… halted, for the time being, as I attempt to tame one special being that'll see my ends met with the right means. When the time comes he'll prove loyal, like a young dog, and make me proud.
He is stirring in bed right now, the bulk of him taking over most of it, emanating a warmth that's deeply annoying. He stinks of Old Spice and cheap toothpaste, but he is the greatest fuck I've ever had, and he proves to be quite the fit for all the things I look for in a partner. This is not love, don't mistaken me. We're not children.
If you ever wish to see him, just look up.
— Alexander.