Chapter Text
The wind whips harder the higher he rises, cool and crisp with early fall. Stray beams of sunlight break through the cloud cover and brush him with warmth before they’re hidden away again. Clark holds his cargo close to him, half to stop it from being ripped from his hands, half to keep it warm.
Weaving through the steel skeletons of the partially reconstructed skyscrapers is a treat every time he finds occasion to do it. For starters, it’s just plain fun to do. Then he gets to the top, and he looks over all the hard work and resilience this city, his city, has mustered. People picking themselves up, and then helping their neighbors do the same, and all getting right to work putting the pieces back together again. It makes his heart swell with pride. It makes him grateful that he gets to support such wonderful people.
The crane isn’t moving as he approaches, making it all the more easy to fly right up to the cabin hundreds of feet in the air without startling the poor man operating it.
“Would you happen to be Levi?”
He nods, surprised but not starstruck, and Clark hands him the items he was holding: a thermos and lunchbox. “Your wife asked me to drop these off to you.”
“I didn’t even notice I ran out without ‘em. I’d lose my head without that girl. Tell her I said thanks, and thank you, too!”
He’s halfway back to rooftop level when a voice catches his ear over the din of the city.
“Supes! Hey, there!”
He looks, and finds a woman stood out on her balcony, flagging him down.
“Afternoon, miss!”
“Afternoon! Say, is the rain coming this way, or back out?”
Clark gestures for her to hold on, and darts up into the clouds. There’s already a curtain of rain slanting down a few miles off, and judging by the speed and direction of the wind it’ll make it to this part of the city before nightfall. In a flash he’s back beside her balcony.
“Looks like it’s heading this way. Likely sooner than later.”
She thanks him, too, and a while later he sees her again walking down the sidewalk with her raincoat and umbrella. She notices him nearby and again she’s waving him over, but this time she’s holding something out to him. “Stay dry out there, ‘kay?”
It’s a goofy, multicolored umbrella hat that he accepts and wears with pride for the rest of the day.
It’s not much, but little things like this that anyone else might consider trivial are probably his favorite kinds of things to do. Sometimes he thinks that if Metropolis never saw another kaiju or dimensional rift or interstellar threat it would be okay, and he’d spend his days being the helpingest damned hand he could be.
He calls it a night around the time the rain starts. The cape gets so heavy when it’s wet, and the moisture makes the suit a nightmare to peel off. When he checks his phone there’s a few photos sent from Lois. Some pancakes that look divine, a sunset, her smiling in some little hole-in-the-wall rock show. She’s out on location somewhere upstate, covering a corruption trial that’s right up her alley. He missed her before she had even left, but he’s glad she got to go. She deserves it. Never mind that he’ll literally never forgive her–
New Msg - Lois: Call me when you get off rehab duty. I’m dying for an update
Never, ever, ever, as long as he lives, which will likely be a very long time.
New Msg - Lois: ;)
A winky? A standalone winky? Not even he’s that uncultured. Lois is playing in his face, a phrase he recently learned and is just now confident he’s using correctly. She’s off living her career dreams while he’s here–
New Msg - Terrific: Intercepted this data packet. Thought you might want to see it.
Clark opens the file, and the letterhead on the shipping manifest reads LuthorCorp, and he throws his phone over his shoulder. She willingly left him here by himself, knowing that Lex Luthor keeps trying to fuck him. He’s well aware that time behind bars can change a man, but something’s happened to him.
The week of his release from Belle Reve is still vivid all this time later, if only for how differently it went from how he imagined it would. Clark was on high alert, expecting illicit activity in the city to boom. The media coverage following Lex from the prison was red hot, but reporters from the Daily Planet were markedly absent. He didn’t want to risk any of their safety in case he wanted to make things personal right out of the gate. From what they watched crowded around one of the office TV screens, Lex was slipped into a black car and whisked straight home, and that’s where he stayed for a full calendar month. Immediately it seemed to be an alibi, a perfect cover for something, but nothing more nefarious than traffic violations and some litter happened in the whole span of time. He was quiet, and while Clark had a bad feeling about it he also wasn’t about to complain. And then again, he considered that maybe he was being judgmental. Maybe Lex had turned over a new leaf and learned the error of his ways, and was strategizing the best way to move forward on his corrected course. As Lois would say, bullshit. He didn’t trust him as far as he could throw him. Or maybe as far as anyone else could.
It was another month before his suspicions were confirmed. Drones circling the fortress, scanning things and poking around. Not Terrific’s spheres. These were the oblong ones he’d seen Luthor use before, sleek and stealthy, camouflaged but not well enough. All things considered it was harmless in itself, but something about it struck a nerve. Something about what happened the last time he came uninvited. Clark can admit it wasn’t his most emotionally mature moment, but sue him. In seconds he was in the window of the breakfast nook of his forest hill penthouse, moving just slowly enough not to break the sound barrier and give him any kind of heads-up, but fast enough to knock the pane of glass clear out of the frame.
Lex startled appropriately, spilling whatever was in his mug and sliding in his silk pajamas–of course he would–off the strange modern chair and onto the floor.
“What the hell are you doing here? How’d you get past the-”
And he’d dropped the handful of wires and cables, and the sensors and cameras that dangled from them. He already admitted he was wrong, no need to dwell.
“Knock it off, Luthor. I mean it. Find something productive to do with your freedom.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, you destructive oaf. Do you have any idea how expensive contractors in this damn city are?”
“The drones. Take them away or I’ll send my specialist to deal with them.”
Only a half bluff. It was hard breaking Krypto out of his expensive taste for metal chew toys but it had to be done before he set his sights on something harder to replace like a satellite. He would hate to start him back up on it, but to prove a point to Luthor, he’d do it.
“If that mutt breathes on even one of them I’ll make Cruella de Vil seem vegan.”
Clark didn’t like that. He disliked it just enough to do something he would later realize he’d never done before. He put his hands on Lex Luthor. He’d balled his fists into the slippery lapels of his shirt and hoisted him up off the floor to eye level, and then up over his head. It’s a wonder he didn’t slide smooth out of the slick black button down. More emotions than he could identify crossed Lex’s face, but he didn’t struggle, didn’t fight.
“Threaten that dog again and believe me, you’ll answer to somebody that won’t care if he breaks both your arms this time.”
Something strange started to happen with his heartbeat then, and he seemed oddly out of breath. Clark, unwilling to have sending the man into some kind of cardiac episode on his conscience, let him go. He was even careful about how he set him down, fairly gently and securely on his feet, but he still fell to the floor in a heap like all the strength was gone from him.
“Do we understand each other?”
He’d glared up at him from the marble floor, or at least it seemed like that’s what he intended. There was something off in his scowl, though, something hazy in his eyes tainted it less angry and more…something else.
“Loud and clear Superman. ” Only he could make his name sound like a slur. “More like Property-Damage Man. Now, if you’ve made your point, I have glass to pick out of my crepes.”
Clark had felt a little guilty for that, but not much. He wouldn’t have had to do it if he had just stuck to minding his own business in the first place. It proved to be a necessary evil; he never saw another drone, and all was quiet once again.
He wishes that was it. By the sun on high he wishes things ended there. They didn’t.
Right when the whole thing was a little less than a distant memory he got a message from Terrific, far too similar to the one he got today. A quiet leak from an inside source exposing the first official project of the now much smaller LexCorp: artificial kryptonite. Now, was it smart for Clark to go confront a man who may or may not have synthesized the one thing that would do him real harm? No, no it wasn’t. But he wasn’t about to ask anyone else to go in for him, not with the real possibility of it being a trap of some kind meant to lure him into something worse by putting his friends in danger. He gave them his location to be safe, even though Terrific seemed to know already. He still hasn’t figured that one out.
He went at night, while the facility was likely empty and a fight would pose the least threat to anyone in the vicinity. It was, except for a lone man sitting in a half darkened lab. Waiting for him. Clark would know that bald dome piece anywhere.
“Rather inconsiderate timing. I don’t make overtime, you know. At least you didn’t break any glass.”
He didn’t have a chance to wonder how Luthor anticipated him, or why he would stick around before something on his hand caught the light. The facet of a crystal, a flicker of green. Seeing it caught his attention Luthor had held his hand up and out to show off the ring set with a violently green stone.
“You like it? I hate to admit it but that Green Lampshade or whatever his name is doesn’t have half bad taste. I thought I’d make one of my own.”
Clark was frozen in place with the memory of his tongue swelling and throat tightening and blood running sluggish and dragging, aching in his veins. The memory, but oddly not the actual sensation yet.
“Still a prototype, still a little,” he clenched a fist, and aimed the ring up toward the ceiling, along with the flickering green beam it emitted. “Unstable. But I’m sure it’s still plenty effective. Shall we find out?”
And he’d pointed it square at Clark.
Hindsight finds him a little hazy on the specifics. It had been all instinct, all muscle impulse driven by self-preservation. A dodge, a turn, steeling his nerves preparing to move through the pain and grabbing Luthor’s wrist and craning it out and away from either of their bodies. The beam shot and missed, glaring onto the wall beside them. He’d yelped in pain, and Clark had expected to have to do the same but nothing happened, at least not to him. Between the two of them Luthor was in worse shape somehow, flushed and groaning, trying to twist his body to relieve the overextension of his shoulder. Not fighting him, or trying to get away. It gave him a chance to really look at the ring, into the setting and construction of it. The stone was green, sure, but the crystalline structure seemed closer to peridot than kryptonite, and there was something electronic underneath, emitting the beam. A damn laser pointer. A strong one, but just a laser all the same. All this, all of it for Luthor to do what? Play a prank on him? In a moment of frustration overshadowing clarity he’d wrenched his arm just that much harder. It drew an interesting sound out of him, something like pain. But not quite. That’s when he noticed that he still wasn’t fighting him. He could have tried to yank his arm free, tried to fend him off or push him away but he’d done neither. Lex Luthor had allowed Clark to pin him to the table and twist his arm nearly out of socket, and all he’d done about it was breathe heavily, and, as Clark also realized, tremble.
“Is this some kind of joke to you?”
Lex had swiped his tongue over his dry lips, sweat beading over his forehead. “Not at all. Must not be strong enough yet. Back to the-” A huff, a rattled wheeze. “To the drawing board.”
He sounded winded, strained, like he’d run a marathon uphill. Again his heart hammered away, blood pressure climbing steadily. Mindless of the angle or creaking of any of his joints Clark brought the wrist he held up and pulled the ring off his hand. He’d made an ooh, ooh, ouch kind of sound, cooing in pain and drawing his brow down. It was nothing to crush the ring in his fingertips, bits of metal and tiny shards of crystal falling away like dust. He expected anger from Luthor, watching him destroy his hard work so easily. But a rush of air had escaped him instead, and his head had lolled forward against his own chest. It was almost concerning combined with his elevated heartrate.
Again Clark found himself worried for him against all odds. Maybe he was in cardiac distress, in need of medical attention. Lex was a nuisance and not a particularly good person, but the last thing Clark wanted to do was kill him, even accidentally. Considering it less an invasion of privacy and more a kind of preemptive first aid he’d given him a little scan, just a quick one, enough to warn him of any conditions or blood clots he might not have been aware of. He expected to find out if he would need to fly him to a hospital. He found something else.
Concentrated blood flow engorging some very specific locations, enough to drive his heart rate and blood pressure up to what it was. Lex stuttered an inhale, tapping his heel to the floor with the tremors in his thigh.
Ah.
Clark had let his wrist go, and the look it earned him verged on betrayal. He wanted to say something but he didn’t have the slightest idea what that something would be, so he mumbled some suggestion of a better way to pass his time, and left as fast as the building’s structure could tolerate.
What Clark doesn’t know is that after he was gone Lex Luthor had taken his arm, still cracking and painful and worked those engorged locations into a mess right there in his lab. He didn’t massage the ache out of the long-healed fracture, didn’t wait for the twinge in the socket of his shoulder to subside. Every movement, every flick of his wrist and curl of his fingers hurt, and that only brought him off quicker. He’d never considered himself to have a thing for pain, but there he was, whining and shivering, spilling onto the sterile tile over the bruises blooming on him. He couldn’t even blame it on how long it had been last.
Service in Belle Reve was hard to come by, but not impossible. It spared him desperation when he got out, though there were some particular itches he was eager to have scratched again. That went on the backburner, though. He had to pull together what was left of his staff, his company, himself, and get back to what was really important: annihilating that damn alien that had made a fool of him in front of the whole nation. Over time, he’d restored some semblance of normal. Both LexCorp and him individually were on no fewer than eight different watchlists, so his research couldn’t continue at the rate it used to but he was determined to make progress with what he had. He was able to get drone coverage on the secret ice fortress with hopes of pressuring some government somewhere to do something about it. Small beginnings. He got away with it on two separate occasions before he got caught. But once he was, good god was he caught.
Being shoulder-checked across the room was one thing. The way he did this, the way Superman snatched him up, scruffed him like a misbehaving creature was personal. And it was nothing to him. His arms didn’t shake with exertion. His expression never even changed. He manhandled Lex, a man his own height, and he probably could have done it with one hand. It was such a rare display of his perfect control slipping, more visceral of a reaction than Lex had ever gotten from him. Something frayed in him, something crossed and sparked and changed. When his dominatrix came for his scheduled appointment later she absolutely had her work cut out for her. She’d restrained him and hurt him and made him feel absolutely insignificant, and he’d come wailing, tears streaming down his face when she finally let him. But he wasn’t satisfied, not even after another from her, and one on his own long after she was gone. By the end of the night he was sore and raw and drained completely dry but still not done, not really, and he couldn’t figure out why. It took finally falling asleep and waking up hard and weeping for him to understand.
In his dreams Superman, the extraterrestrial bane of his existence bent him back at an unnatural angle and fucked his spinal column loose from his pelvis. His kind, bright, awful blue eyes were set hard and unfeeling, and while he smiled it wasn’t warm and disgusting like usual, it was vicious. He’d forced his mouth open at the jaw and told him to get louder. Hurts, doesn’t it? I know, I know.
In his waking horror, he realized as he ruined the very pajamas still crumpled from his grip, he wanted to be dominated by Superman. The very thought made him sick to his stomach, repulsed by his own subconscious and so thoroughly turned on it made his back arch involuntarily. So much power wasted on stomach-churning kindness, the capabilities of a god borne to a man that dressed in primary colors with his underwear on the outside of his leotard. Despite having more strength in the stray curl that lived draped over his forehead than Lex likely did in his whole body, that’s not what set them truly apart as two different men. Heat ray and x-ray vision, flight and freezing breath, even intellect were meaningless. When it came down to it, neither brain nor brawn made their difference. Superman was everything Lex was not, and the disparity laid in the clumsy rambling of waking up too early after going to bed too late. The wash of relief in finding something that was lost. Waving at a baby across the aisle in the supermarket. Tiptoeing apologetically over a freshly mopped floor. The squeeze at the end of a good hug. The distance between them was a million miles in single steps, each a tiny moment. A human experience.
He could spit venom and vitriol until it took his tongue but only because he knew better. The alien, as he was always so apt to call him, knew more about what it meant to be human than he ever likely would. To be human was to be flawed, and once discovered no flaw was abidable, not to Lex. Perfect posture, walking gait trained and honed. Mannerisms reigned in and subdued. His perfectly tailored suits adjusted in the measurements to hide as much of his neck as possible, to hide the shame that was the blush that crept up his chest and shoulders and throat and betrayed his emotions even when he hid them otherwise perfectly. His own voice, his speech perfected and manufactured. What slight relatability he hadn’t practiced away his money took from him. Anything lost was replaced, no matter the value or sentiment attached. It had been years since he set foot in a public venue of any kind. Much longer since anyone had hugged him. Imagine that. A son of Earth, peerless in his own homeland. Isolated and lonely by his own design. Alienated. A son of Krypton, truly alone and far from a home that was never his. No other being like him left. Held warm in the lap of the human family. Known. Three years behind those bars and the only real prison that held him was his mind. But leave it to his psyche to turn a complicated emotion into a kink of eye-watering intensity.
From that day, all the hunger he escaped his time in prison without lodged right under his diaphragm. Three long years’ worth, all demanding attention at once. Nothing was enough. Nothing wet enough, tight enough, nothing cruel enough on his swollen prostate, nothing stretching him out enough. Nobody could tie him tightly enough, pin him hard enough. He tried so hard, so tirelessly to lie convincingly enough to himself that he could make it work. A close call with a vice grip and another frustrated night going to sleep hard and he let go. Lex damned the situation, damned himself for the hypocrisy of it all, and drafted the first schematic for the ring that same night on his bedside table.
Leaking his own fake memo and waiting for the alien to show up was the easy part. Goading him into restraining him, all fine. The torture was sitting there, holding himself together when he wanted to do things, make sounds he’d never admit to if his life were at stake. The pain was exquisite, the absolute hold he had on him, intoxicating. And that look in his eye, the glimpses of frustration he let slip. Something very, very sick in him wanted to earn that look full-bodied and genuine, and suffer the consequences. The punishment. Then it was over, and Superman was gone, and Lex was alone with his hand down his pants contaminating his lab. He’d have to work harder to get more from him, but he’d never been afraid of doing what was necessary to get what he wanted, even if it meant playing the long game.
Months of incidents. Excuses to get close, be pinned or shoved or even once stiff-armed. And to the sticky, molten delight in the pit of Lex’s stomach it started to work.
There’s something in Clark’s stomach too, rattling as he putters about, in and out of the shower, deciding what clothes to put on. A few months ago he called this rattling thing uncertainty. Between then and now he’s been able to make a real impact, effect real change where he once wasn’t able to. He puts on a top, long sleeved, stretchy athletic material. LexCorp hasn’t closed a single arms deal this quarter, hasn’t escalated any geopolitical conflict whatsoever. Hell, they were even sponsors in the city charity march not long ago, though how much of it was for public image repair Clark can’t say. Sweatpants, gray, the ones Lois swears are going to get him in trouble someday. He locks his door behind him and starts toward the warehouse listed in the manifest. Slowly, on foot. He doesn’t fly, doesn’t go any faster than anyone else out shuffling through the rain. Let him wait. For making Clark come out in this weather he’s going to make this year’s holiday season spectacular. What’s rattling in him is not uncertainty. This late in the game, he fears it just might be anticipation.
Lex has been trying to fuck him since he got out last spring. He hasn’t quite succeeded, but he’s managed to get what he wants. Not for free, though. Lex has desires, and so does Clark. They’re strictly quid pro quo, transaction, purchase and payout. Clark’s been heroing long enough to know that very few situations are all-win scenarios, but somehow this one is. What Lex wants isn’t all that strange. It’s not even foreign to him, despite what the people in his life think him capable of. Blushing? Sure. Virgin? Please. Their arrangement isn’t half bad, either. Lex bluffs a threat, he gives him what he wants, and then he gives Clark his, and the whole city is better for it. Lex is effectively neutralized, the same people who likely would have been his victims become benefactors, and Clark? He’s not sure if he should feel guilty over just how little guilt he feels.
It feels like cheating. Not on Lois, she thinks it’s hilarious, and the first dibs on covering LexCorp’s new humanitarian efforts don’t hurt either. It’s like he found some loophole in the hero/nemesis ecosystem. Can’t beat the bad guy? Edge him until he blacks out. It’s almost definitely not ethical, even if it is consensual. Ugh, he wishes Lois were here. Her unfailing levelheadedness is a great sounding board, the perfect wall to throw his feelings against and have them bounced back until they’re something he can understand.
If he’s being honest with himself, it’s amusing watching Lex carry on the way he does. Swearing he hates him, calling him names. The initiation to their encounters, his pretending to be up to something is just what he feels he needs to do to preserve his dignity. He could just call. He has Clark’s number. Seeing it all slip away, the anger in him melting to brainless pleading and begging is a kick every time. Clark will do something they both know will bruise deep and dark, and Lex will moan for it only to call him a brute after, knowing he’ll press his thumb into the mark later and squeeze his thighs together, and demand Clark replace it when it’s gone.
Their nights start with Clark’s conditions, and Lex complaining, how much? No way, no way in hell. Why would I give a damn about whether the library is funded? You’re not even that good, don’t count on it, and end with Clark tending to him as he comes down, and Lex drafting an email to his secretary to arrange the necessary donations. All his evil and conniving, so readily abandoned should he do as much as put a hand on his throat.
There’s something else that keeps him coming back, though. More than just the novel amusement of it. There’s someone in there, a real person somewhere in Lex that he won’t let breathe except in glimpses when his guard is down and he doesn’t have the mind to hide. That’s who Clark really considers his appointments with. The man Lex Luthor is afraid to be. A man that likes the back of his neck rubbed when he dozes off and prefers the burned chips in the bottom of the bag to the normal ones. He’s been working hard for any sight of him he can get, and it’s been paying off in bits and pieces. If he keeps on the way he is, maybe both him and Lex will get to meet him someday.
The warehouse is small, near the docks. The smell of the ocean is thick, and the air is cool and humid. It’s dim with the light of only a couple bare bulbs and empty except for a few big crates. He didn’t even bother to make it seem like-
“Don’t you have better things to do than follow me around? Really, it’s getting w-”
Clark normally lets him finish. He usually plays along until Lex is able to delude himself out of what he really came here for. Tonight he does not. He closes his fingers around his neck until his middle finger brushes his thumb–not a difficult thing, not for him–and lifts Lex Luthor until just the toes of his silly dress shoes touch the floor. His words die, choked in his grip. He’s clutching at Clark, grabbing at his forearm and bicep but he’s not trying to get away. In fact, Clark knows that if he puts him down now he’ll never hear the end of it. Instead he’s smoothing his hands over the tight fabric of the shirt, kneading at the muscle beneath his fingers. Enjoying himself. His face gets red, and then somehow redder, and when his eyes start to roll Clark puts him down.
“You’re going to sponsor Thanksgiving dinners for every food pantry and community center in the city this year.”
Even coughing, sputtering and gasping and pitching a full tent he manages to act indignant.
“Are you, hah, out of your mind? Thanksgiving isn’t even a real holiday. Not a chance.”
Clark puts his hand up, just up, and Lex very nearly leans bodily into it before he forces himself to stop. “I think you will.”
Fortunately the crates are heavy even if they are just decorative. The one Clark slams Lex into by the back of his neck doesn’t budge an inch. Immediately he’s squirming against it, seeking any friction he can find.
“Stop that.”
“Or what?”
Clark huffs. “Or you’ll regret it.”
The shiver is faint, but he feels it. Lex doesn’t stop. If anything, his hips pump harder. Clark gives his best impression of an irritated sigh, and yanks Lex away from the crate.
“You’re not going to behave, are you?”
“Why would I? You really think you get to tell me what to do just because-”
A little kick to the backs of legs and his knees are cracking down to the concrete.
“I just got here and already you’re being such a brat.”
Lex laughs, breathless.
“You idiot, I’m in charge. You’re here for me. I say jump, you say-”
It’s okay. Clark reminds himself it’s okay the whole time he pulls back, when the slap connects and again when Lex’s head snaps to the side. It’s more push than impact, but still probably more than a little painful. He inhales, deep and slow, eyes wide and unfocused. The cheek, the whole side of his face is already reddening.
“Heavy-handed brute,” he insults, but his tongue is sluggish around the words, head already starting to swim. “Again.”
Clark is surprised, but glad to hear him ask. He rewards him for it and slaps him again, just as hard on the other cheek. His head whips to the other side with a low hummed whine. He glances up at Clark, absolutely gone, eyelids fluttering, chest heaving.
“See what you get when you use your words? Open.”
He obeys but doesn’t open his jaw more than an inch or so, refusing to look him in the eye. It’s alright. His tune will change. It always does. One of Clark’s fingers is the width and thickness of two of Lex’s, so he takes three of them and pushes them past his lips, over his tongue and down his throat until he gags on them. Out to the middle knuckle, then ramming back down. A panicked moan slips out around his hand, and Lex is scrambling for something to hold on to. He settles on the fabric of the sweats near Clark’s knees, and then he’s bobbing his head in a steady rhythm. Laser focused, swirling his tongue into the divots between his fingers then pulling off completely to pepper them in sloppy kisses before diving back down. His face is blissed, cut with the occasional dirty look for posterity. He’s been begging to suck him in earnest, not that he’ll ever admit to it after the fact. That’s exactly why Clark won’t give it to him. If he could ask for it while he’s coherent, maybe he’d get it. The odds of that are low but who knows? He’s getting braver every time.
One particularly deep stroke Clark pushes into his throat and holds there, feeling him flutter and struggle to breathe around him. It’s a little mean how he takes advantage of his distraction and tips his foot forward until it nudges between his legs, and then a little further until he pins the hard length trapped there to his thigh. But Lex asked for mean, once when they negotiated as much as he was willing to, and again now between his keening and panting as he withdraws his fingers.
“Fuck!” he hisses. “Harder.”
Clark goes harder, until he feels the resistance start to push back onto his foot. Lex shakes in what’s got to be agony, and his head falls back to bare his whole neck. When his wail crests, full-chested and straining the muscle in his neck with the volume of it, laced with the ruined babble just let me suck- Clark takes hold of his head, laying each finger carefully until his whole skull fits in his grasp and forces his his head back down onto his fingers. His scalp is smooth and radiator hot. Clark’s always secretly wanted to give it a little rub, a light massage. It seems like it would be soothing, and if it’s one thing Lex always seems to need it’s soothing.
Lex’s noises go muffled with his choking. He tries to use it as an excuse, stifling his noises with gagging.
“No,” Clark chides, in the very same voice he’d use to chastise Krypto for trying to chew Gary or one of the other Superman Robots. “You know better. Do it right or you don’t get to do it at all.”
Lex glares for the thinnest of split seconds, until Clark tries to pull his fingers out of his throat and then he’s all too eager to cooperate. He lets him get a full breath before he’s guiding his head down and back up again. Like he was instructed Lex does his best, puts noticeable effort into making sure every moan, every whine he makes is clear and articulated, echoing off the sheet steel walls of the warehouse. It’s a matter of moments before it does what it always does to him. The shame of hearing himself so loud, begging words he’ll only say because he thinks his mouth is too full to be understood clearly sets him on fire. It’s not very long before he’s looking up at him, tears in his eyes. The muscles in his stomach are tensing, the breaths he can manage are coming short and fast. He’s close, just from this.
Clark takes his hands away and steps back, taking all the pressure his foot offered but staying close enough for him to steady himself on. Lex gasps, hacking and coughing until his breathing steadies and he’s able to pull his head up to look at him, eyes glassy and bloodshot. Maybe he’s had enough, maybe he wants more. It’s hard to tell with him sometimes.
“You okay?”
“Oh, please. Clearly I’m fine. You didn’t wring my neck,” he deadpans, so breathless and needy that it’s completely toothless. “Now just get me off and we can wrap this up. I have to be in Milan in eight hours.” It’s a funny way of asking for someone so hoarse and fuck-drunk.
Clark can’t help but laugh. “There’s no way you deserve that.”
The look on Lex’s face is more distraught than he’s ever seen him. “And why the hell not?”
“Are you serious? Thanksgiving isn’t a real holiday? You’re lucky I even let you choke after that.”
He rolls his eyes but he’s clearly invested. “Whatever. Whatever! Thank-you dinners for the poors and all their little loved ones or whatever it is, I don’t care. They can appreciate each other into a tryptophan stupor. Now put your–”
“No, no, it’s too late now. You’re gonna have to offer if you want anything else.”
And Lex groans like he’s being run over but he throws his hands up.
“I’ll fund the stupid public health clinics through the rest of the year.”
Clark’s genuinely surprised. “Wow, Lex, that’s a really good one! Good job!”
He shivers at the praise, but tries to play it off as disgust. “Don’t flatter yourself, it’s more for my own benefit than anything. I get tested there once a month ‘cause it’s anonymous and free and I have better things to spend my money on.”
“Yes, of course. Whatever you say.” Let him justify it however he likes. A deal is a deal.
Clark absolutely doesn’t have to scruff and drag him over to the shortest of the crates, but he does, and Lex is panting by the time they make it there. He sits and makes Lex stand the whole time he’s taking hold of his leather belt and the fastening of his Armani slacks, now stained and dirty. He rips them both with the same effort as tearing open an envelope. The Gucci boxers can barely contain him, the way he’s straining against them. He tears them, too, bunching and ripping like a bag of chips.
The first clothes of his Clark ruined Lex had acted like he’d spit on the Mona Lisa. Now he just breathes damn, and stares back and forth between the torn edges and Clark’s hands. He eases them down just halfway down his thighs, leaving his legs trapped bunched in the fabric. The tie, already loosened, goes next, then he rakes a hand so casually down the front of the dress shirt and sends the buttons ricocheting off somewhere. Off his fiery red shoulders, down his arms, twisting and tying it around his wrists to keep his hands behind his back. Maybe for amusement, maybe in the interest of taking every endeavor seriously, maybe for a few extra thousand for the humane society Clark spends the time to mark all the bared torso before him with something, starting at his hips and working upward. Burning welts in the wake of his nails, rings of the imprints of his teeth. He’ll hide them under his expensive suits and vests, and let the drag of the fabric irritate the tender spots until they heal. It looks like it has to be uncomfortably painful, feels like it by the way he trembles, but Lex is all pleasure above him. Slow panting and sighing, little noises slipping out with his breath. When he makes it to his ribs he starts to fidget.
“My hands,” he whimpers. “The shirt.”
Clark’s working it off before he’s even done speaking. Maybe he tied it too tightly and it’s hurting him. Maybe he’s just not feeling being restrained today. He’s about to apologize when Lex stuns him into silence. He settles his hands on Clark’s shoulders and pulls him in, just holding onto him. He’s not usually very touchy but as he keeps going, sucking hickies across his ribs it’s like he can’t keep his hands off him. Running them up his neck and into his hair, across his shoulders. Finally he closes his mouth around his nipple. Lex makes the softest moan he’s ever heard him make and tugs a fistful of his hair. Something is different tonight. Clark won’t pretend he doesn’t enjoy these visits in his own way but it’s normally just about Lex. He handles things on his own when he gets home if he needs to, or Lois does if she feels inclined. This doesn’t feel like those other times. The hand in his hair, how Lex is humming and pulling him close. It’s all running hot in a way he’s not sure if it has before. Then he’s teasing at his earlobes with his thumbs, and regardless of if he knew if it would it sets Clark off. He’s shoving the destroyed slacks down to his ankles and pulling him onto his lap before he really even knows he’s doing it. They both freeze, and look at each other for a beat.
“Two million,” Lex blurts. “Women’s shelter.”
It was the last thing on Clark’s mind but he won’t turn him down on it, so he nods too hard and holds him by the hips to grind up against him while his mouth goes back to work. Something unspoken’s at play now. It emboldens Lex, getting more adventurous with his hands. Groping at his arms and chest, scratching at his stomach through the shirt. He’s leaking all over Clark, so hard it can’t be comfortable, but he makes no move to touch himself. Instead he reaches down to rub at him through his clothes. It’s hardly any contact at all but it makes Clark see stars. He puts one hand around the small of his back to hold him steady, and returns the friction with the other, and they hit territory neither of them know what to do with. Lex digs his nails into his back where he’s snaked his hand down into his shirt.
“F-four. Rent– ngh, assistance.” And he’s tugging the waistband of Clark’s sweats down and taking him into his hand. Startled, he bites down over the nipple in his mouth a bit harder than he would have meant to. The coppery taste of blood is thick over his tongue. Lex all but screams.
“Sorry! Sorry, sorry, I’m so sorry!” Clark pleads, but he doesn’t hear him. He’s buried his face into the crook of his neck, shaking. Coming. Clark holds him until he’s done spilling over his fist, still murmuring apologies until he finally peels his face off his shoulder and looks at him. He looks positively fucked.
“Blank check,” he breathes, words slurring together, imperfect and unrefined. “Whatever you say. Name it.”
“Tell me what you want.”
“Kiss me.”
Clark doesn’t tell him he’ll give him that one for free. He just leans in and slots his mouth against his own, and marvels as he learns that Lex Luthor is the gentlest kisser he’s ever seen. They’re hungry, greedy but still somehow so delicate as he bats Clark’s hand off him and lines both of them up in his own hands. There’s no more negotiation. The transaction is over. This is something else now. Clark can feel the lust playing over his own features as he breaks away only to lean back onto an elbow, only for Lex to arch and follow him down. The hand at his tailbone that steadied him pulls him in now, guiding the back and forth drag of his hips against Clark’s. It’s slow and hot and wet, Lex is panting into his mouth and biting his jaw and working pure sin with his fingers. He’s hurt the man in a variety of ways by now, all at his own request, all to his delight, but he’s never been as worked up as he is now, making out and grinding slow and messy, not in much pain at all.
Ah.
Clark grins, smug, wicked, Cheshire.
“Lex,” he admonishes, too pleased to keep the gloat out of his voice. He shudders hearing his name but goes still hearing what follows. “You like it like this, don’t you?”
“You’re talking too much.”
A nip to his jugular takes all the fight out of him.
“You could have just told me,” Clark breathes against his neck before nipping again. “If this is what you really wanted.”
“I really want you to shut up,” he growls, voice breaking.
He doesn’t. Clark does not shut up. He keeps whispering in his ear, husky with pleasure about all the things he’d be willing to do if he’d just ask nicely. No more donations needed, not tonight. Clark got what he came for: two more little puzzle pieces about the man who secretly likes attention lavished on him slow and gentle, but doesn’t feel he can ask for it, no matter what he offers in return. Tonight, though, he can have whatever he wants, and all he has to do is ask.
“I wanna come,” he whimpers, so softly it sounds like someone else entirely. “Make me come.”
Clark nods, leaving-
“Please.”
Incredible. He wants to praise him for it but he looks so embarrassed already, so ashamed he doesn’t think he could handle it if he did. The next best thing he can do is oblige, covering his hand with his own and squeezing so tightly the bones in his fingers creak. The pressure, the wet glide is delicious. Clark won’t last much longer himself. Lex keens low and drops his head to his chest, right on the edge.
Clark kisses him again, this time on the forehead, right between his eyebrows.
“Come on, sweetheart. Take it from me.”
Immediately Lex suffers the most violent orgasm his body is capable of. It’s like he’s being electrocuted for a full ninety seconds. In that time Clark’s comes and goes, much shorter but no less satisfying. When it’s done he holds Lex, melted and pliable, for as long as he’ll let him.
“Feel alright? That seemed like a lot.”
He rolls his eyes but doesn’t reject it when Clark offers a hand to help him stand. He’s quiet the whole time he dresses in fresh clothes from a duffel that he didn’t notice until now. He doesn’t throw the torn clothes out. They go in a bag and into the duffel, slung over his shoulder. Clark can only imagine what he’s going to keep them for.
Normally around this time he says something like, I guess that was adequate or not the worst I’ve ever had but still subpar. Tonight he turns bodily away from him, refusing to even look him in the eye.
“All the wires should clear by the end of the week. Expect communication when I get back into the country. I suppose you’ll insist on another conversation. ” He spits it like it’s a dirty word.
“About?”
He shifts back and forth on his feet, seemingly unsure for the first time as long as Clark’s known him.
“I want you to fuck me.”
It’s close to two in the morning, and Clark’s laying facedown in bed. He can’t suffocate himself, no matter how hard he tries. Damn.
“I mean, it makes sense,” Lois’ voice offers through speakerphone. “Gentleness is a display of strength if you think about it.”
“I’m trying not to.”
He doesn’t have the slightest idea what to do now. How to feel.
“Do you want to?” Lois asks, somehow on the same page as his internal spiral.
“No? Maybe? I don’t know, Lois. I mean, it’s not all that different from what he’s wanted so far but it is. It feels like a line.”
“Okay, so tell him no.”
“I can’t tell him no. Well, no, that’s not what I mean. I mean I don’t…I don’t want to tell him no. I just don’t know if I can go through with telling him yes.”
“Because you don’t want to do it?”
He remembers how Lex clutched at him. How vulnerable and open he was. For a while his thirst for power didn’t matter, wasn’t a threat to anyone or himself. For just a little while Lex was himself and nobody more, and Clark thinks if he spent more time as that person it would do him good. And clearly, he’s the only person he thinks is strong enough to handle that person with care.
“I think I do. I just don’t want to disrespect us. It’s not the same, I know it’s not but-”
“I don’t feel disrespected at all, Clark. Never once have I doubted my place in that big farmboy heart. Besides, I’m the real winner here. I haven’t been short of LexCorp news to cover since you two started.”
“You’re sure that’s the only reason? Nothing to do with how I come home late and put you up on the bathroom counter and-”
“Alright, Smallville, that’s all you get for a nickel. Some of us still have work to do tonight. I’ll call you tomorrow after the trial.”
“Fine, fine. Killjoy. Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
He feels better, but no less nervous. This is almost definitely putting him out of his depth but if he can handle intergalactic threats before brunch he can do this.
New Msg - Terrific: What was up at that warehouse?
How does he keep doing that?
Chapter 2
Notes:
This is so long I'm so sorry I literally couldn't stop
I had a playlist of songs that would make Lex have an Episode if you made him listen to them and I just
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Clark is so tired when he finally makes it home that it takes four tries to get his key in the lock. It would be one thing if he were tired from being Superman all day. Today he was just Clark, and it was so taxing he’s tempted to change his name on principle. If he wasn’t getting hassled for his writing–he’s well aware how long his sentences are, it’s a style choice, thank you–he was fighting for his life on the sidewalk. A little slush and people forget how to put one foot in front of the other.
When he does manage to get the door open the warmth that greets him is heavenly. The shower is running and Lois is singing something softly just under the rush of the water. As he puts his keys and coat away a sweet smell catches him, and he finds the mug of cocoa waiting for him on the kitchen counter. Every irritation the day left him with melts. He really has nothing to be cross about in the grand scheme.
He taps the bathroom door, steam and the smell of her shampoo pouring out from underneath. “I’m home.”
Never meant to brag, becomes never meant to- “Fuck! Jesus, Clark, wear a bell.”
“Yeah, okay. I’ll steal one right off one of my folks’ cows, nobody’ll know.” Stepping into the bathroom is suffocating. She takes her showers set on hell, scalding even to him. “Quiet cow, jingly Superman.”
Lois peeps from out the back of the shower curtain to give him a kiss, her face red and scorching. He leans in, as if to step into the shower behind her fully clothed before she laughs and pushes him out, leaving a handprint in hot water on his shirt. No, nothing to be cross about at all.
When he first gave her the key he worried she wouldn’t use it, or that she’d be offended that he didn’t suggest they move in together. Thinking rationally it’s nothing like what he’d expect of Lois, but when it came to her his nerves left him anything but rational. What a treat that this is her reaction instead, letting herself in to shower and leave the whole house perfumed with her, and that much warmer for her presence.
He’s swiping through the restaurants still open for delivery, about to ask her when she last ate when she comes down the hall into the living room. Towel on her head, his shirt on her body, happy and clean and warm. Instead he asks himself when he last ate.
“Are you getting dinner? I’d die for a pizza, I don’t care from where.”
“Pizza it is.” Later. Later.
While he orders she dries her hair and regales him with what he missed in the office.
“They were about to jam the elevator, I swear. I don’t know what Jimmy does to these girls but it’s getting out of hand.”
Large pizza, half meat lover’s, half olive and sausage. “Maybe it’s those, uh, what-cha-call-ems. Ferrenmotes.”
Lois squints. “Pheromones?”
Garlic bread, and oh, what the hell. Cheese sticks, too. It’s Friday. “Yeah, yeah. Maybe he smells good and people don’t realize it, they just think he’s hot.”
“You think Jimmy’s putting off pheromones like some kind of alpha muskrat and it’s making every woman in ten miles of him lose it?”
“It’s not just women. I think he just has that effect on people in general.”
There’s a knock at the door then, silencing whatever quip Lois had in the chamber.
“That was fast. Where’d you order from?”
Clark looks at the door, then back at her. “I didn’t.”
He looks through the door, unsure what to expect. The person on the other side is unassuming from what he can tell. A clipboard in one hand, some kind of case in the other. Odd. They don’t usually get solicitors. Lois scoots into the kitchen, out of the line of sight when he opens the door.
“Mr. Clark Kent?”
“Yes?” Why did he phrase it like that? He’s sure.
“Sign here, please.”
The clipboard’s handed to him, marked with the logo of some kind of courier service. He signs before he really has a chance to wonder if he should, and then the case is shoved into his other hand and the person is gone without another word. Curioser and curioser.
“What is it?” Lois asks. “Did you order something?”
“I don’t think so.”
The case is black, solid, nothing identifying. He sits it up on the counter and flips the latch, cautious.
“It’s paper. Lots of paper. Files, I think. Who would send me files?” He takes one out to read in the light.
“Maybe a whistleblower,” Lois speculates. “Someone leaking something.”
–document the above outlined parties agree to the nondisclosure of the following activities including but in no way limited to: dominant/submissive play, painplay, sexual intercourse–
Clark slaps the paper down, shoves it back into the case and almost breaks the clasp closing it.
“It’s, uh, neither. Neither of those things.”
“What is it? What, what?”
Clark swallows, suddenly all too aware of how red he is. “I think it’s from Lex. I guess he didn’t forget.”
Understanding blooms on Lois’ face, then pure mischief. “No way. Let me see! No, you can’t.”
He watches her come undone, in turmoil, as if she were the one who just received what seems to be a dossier outlining a future sexual escapade with an arch nemesis. Does Lois even have an arch nemesis? Splenda?
“Dammit, Clark, you can’t show me. It’s unethical, these were sent certified.”
“I didn’t–”
“But I wanna see so bad! Maybe if you leave it open and I pass by– No, that’s wrong. Ugh! Stop trying to tempt me!”
She’ll go all night if he doesn’t stop her.
“Why don’t you ask a yes or no question, and I’ll neither confirm nor deny…what I can’t confirm or deny.”
Her eyes go electric, and he starts to think that maybe her talent for journalism is just a cover for raw nosiness.
Clark sits at one side of his kitchen table, and the case sits at the other. Challenging him. He still doesn’t really know what all it contains. After dinner, and dinner, he’d leafed through it just enough to satisfy Lois’ curiosity, and when keeping to her journalistic conduct became too hard in the face of a packet of Lex Luthor’s secrets she kissed him goodnight and went back to her own apartment.
He’s been here since, intimidated by a stack of paper.
That night with Lex has to have been two or three weeks ago. It was radio silence from him up until now. He legitimately thought he forgot, or lost his nerve. Clearly not.
Lex had told him to ‘expect communication’, whatever that meant. He honestly thought he was just being dramatic about texting him later. A parcel to his door was never something he considered. In a strange way it makes him happy. Maybe that’s not the right word. He’s glad he didn’t make a mistake letting Lex know who he was. It was only natural for him to be a little apprehensive to give his real name to a man once so hellbent on killing him. As painfully as possible, he might add. He remembers when he voiced as much.
“Oh, please,” Lex had dismissed, buttoning his shirt. “If anything happened to you the public would draw and quarter me, whether I had anything to do with it or not. I’m sure I don’t have to explain how being dismembered would be less than ideal for me.”
And he’s kept to his agreement not to misuse the information. He’s never even called Clark by name. No, that would be crossing a line. A line that is somehow not crossed by sending him a guide booklet of various sex positions, complete with illustrations and stage directions. Some are highlighted and marked with handwritten numbers. Then there’s the glossary. Terms and definitions, some of which he knows, some he’s never heard of before. Details about the latex allergy he didn’t know Lex had, and the results of his last test at one of the clinics he so generously funded. Six little sample sized packets of lube, all different kinds; more than he knew there were. Acknowledgements, terms and conditions. So many packets requiring his initials and signature. One is a single page. I, the below signed, acknowledge that the utterance of any of the following phrases under any circumstance will result in the encounter ending with immediate effect: darn, gee, golly, goodness, gosh, jeepers, shucks, yikes. Jeepers? He’s never even said that before. At the end there’s a printout with an address, a date, and a dinner reservation. This upcoming Sunday, six o’clock. At the bottom of the page there’s something scrawled in blocky handwriting.
I’m not wasting a plane ticket on you. Get here without being seen.
Wear something you didn’t buy on clearance.
LL.
Out of all the pages there, that one makes him feel the most like he’s in over his head. It feels like the stakes to this are higher than any of their past meetings. This isn’t a hero negotiating goodwill out of his antagonist. This is an ordinary man, this is Clark arranging a carnal rendezvous with an international figure and billionaire. He doesn’t know the first thing about what he’s gotten himself into. Will he cause a scandal if he’s not careful? He still has to come back to his life after this. It won’t do for people to see him and think how much he looks like the guy that got caught with Lex Luthor.
These will still be here in the morning, unless Lex engineered them to self-destruct somehow. Tonight he’s tired and full of stuffed crust. He’s about to get up and go to bed when he notices one more page, crumpled in the bottom of the case. It’s thick but plain lined paper, from Lex’s own notepad by the monogram on the top of the sheet. What’s written on it is in the same handwriting as the other page.
page 25, 1c
page 36, 4a & 4b
page 40, 5e & 8a
The next words are crossed out so hard the page is almost torn but he can just make out a few of them:
sweet
make me feel
He could probably suss out what the rest used to be, but he thinks better. Lex didn’t want him to know that thought, so he won’t try. Beneath is written instead,
make it worth my time
It feels like deciphering the Da Vinci code remembering the numbers he saw written in the booklet and hunting down the ones mentioned in the note. Something indescribable lights in his chest as he realizes that this is Lex telling him what he wants in as plain of words as he can handle. If he understands him correctly, it makes the rest of this make sense. For the first time Clark considers that the field might be more even than he thought, and maybe Lex is just as in his head about this as he is. He takes his glasses off and rubs his tired eyes. This is going to be a ride, no question about it. His phone goes off, buzzing across the table.
New Msg - Lois: Ok so before you sign the nda
-
The car isn’t where it’s supposed to be. It was supposed to wait for him on the side of the street opposite the warehouse. Instead it’s parked under a tree on the side closest to him, hazards flashing. The driver most likely thought he was being forward-thinking or considerate to shelter him from the rain pouring while he got in. If he had time to hire another, Lex would fire him. His consideration has been anything but. He gets in the car dry, not a drop of rainwater on him. That means he goes the full ride to his private airstrip, the whole trip on the jet, and all the way to his hotel still smelling him on his own skin. Nothing to dampen or wash away the scent of whatever value detergent he uses, underlaid with some undoubtedly cheap cologne and somehow sunlight itself. Lex has to bury his nails into the vintage leather armrests to stop himself from putting the ruined dress shirt in his bag to his nose and huffing to get as much of it as he can.
Debauched doesn’t cover half of what he feels. There are splinters in his knees. He can still feel the ghosts of his touch all over him. Handprints on his hips, teeth scraping down his stomach, tongue on his neck and breath in his ear whispering it’s okay if this is how you want it. You ask me to hit you, choke you, pin you down all the time. You didn’t think you could ask for this? It doesn’t always have to hurt, Lex. I’ll give you whatever you want. I’ll hold you and kiss you, I’ll be gentle. Is that it? You want me to be sweet to you? I can do that. I’ll make love to you if you want me to. You just have to ask. Lex tastes blood. The entire journey, steeped in luxury from the champagne on the flight to his presidential hotel suite may as well be a trek through the nine circles of hell for how much he enjoys it. He stews the entire time, all but shaking with rage. Rage like magenta; it’s not what it really is, but it’s the closest thing his mind can come up with and that’s good enough for him.
This was not how it was supposed to go. It’s not how his body was supposed to react. He should have been disgusted, appalled at the very idea. He should have made the man beg his forgiveness for even saying such a thing out loud. He was supposed to prove himself wrong. Instead he came moaning like he was in heat after humping at him and begging like a common slut. He’s got to get a fucking grip. Everything’s been fine so far. All his hard work has paid off in the perfect system. He snaps his fingers and the Kryptonian comes running to smack him around until he’s had his fill. He comes hard enough to sate him for the next few weeks, he blows a few dollars on some cause he didn’t care about before and still won’t after. Perfect. And now, as perfect things are wont to do, it’s all going to hell, and it’s all his fault.
Before this, the last time they met was June third. Lex remembers, because he was forced to sponsor the city’s pride parade that same month. The number of those he’s been made to be involved with has gotten out of hand. The new year’s parade, the black history month parade, the women’s history month parade, the earth day parade. He should just fire his research staff and sell all his scientific equipment to become a parade supplier at this point. That evening saw him with an absurdly large bicep curled around his neck, locking him in a chokehold while he squirmed and fucked up into that big stupid fist. He was almost there, just one hard breath away from that world-shattering edge. It turned out he didn’t have a breath left, hard or otherwise. The tunnel vision was obvious but he didn’t tap out, not with how close he was. He was so sure he had time.
The next thing he was aware of he was sitting upright against that mountain of a chest, head back and airway open. He was doing something, patting firm over his sternum and murmuring to him in this idiotic voice. To this day he hates how grounding it was, how well it calmed him and brought him back center. And to this day he sees the look in those eyes. Concern, real worry. Relief. He’d started on about safewords and hand signals or something to the effect. Lex wasn’t listening. He was lost in how it felt to be held. Cradled against him, enveloped in those massive arms. Safe. Like nothing bad would be allowed to happen to him. Protected. He’d never felt such a thing in his life.
If he knew then what would happen, how that lapse in judgement would change things he would have done everything in his power to die right then and there.
The shift in his fantasies when he was alone was subtle but it heralded the beginning of the end. He imagined a little less impact, a little more caress. Degradation morphed into praise. What was once blue spandex on genuine tweed became skin on skin. It all caught up to him, laid in bed one night pumping a silicone replica into his stomach and wondering if it’s how the real thing would do it. Would it be harder for him to keep control in the throes of passion? Would he be too rough without meaning to and then apologize? Or would he be feather-gentle as a precaution? It was over before it began. His mind filled wall to wall with fantasy running in IMAX and surround sound, playing phantom touches over him head to toe. Broad shoulders to hook his legs over, fingers intertwining with his and pressing his hands to the bed. In his own broken voice he said, “Harder,” but the him being pinned down cried slower! Too much!
Only one of them got what he wanted. Real Lex, shivering, wheezing, overstimulated Lex could only watch on at his own fantasy gone runaway, at himself being gathered into those ridiculous arms and ravished within inches of his life. So many inches. He wanted to be slapped. Instead he was nuzzled, tears kissed off his cheeks, sweat licked from the hollow of his throat. He wanted to be choked but all he could imagine was what it would feel like to have those warm hands run the length of his body in worship. He wanted to be told to shut the hell up, to take it without whining or moaning how much it hurt. All he heard was there it is, you sound so sweet when you feel good. That’s right, tell me how good I take care of you. Show me how much you like it.
He came so hard it choked him silent, tweaked his neck and popped a few capillaries. The next morning he wore sunglasses indoors like a moron to hide both the redness and the visible satisfaction in his eyes. It was beyond embarrassing, but just an isolated incident. Surely. Nothing had awakened in him. Who knew what kinds of radioactive isotopes or alien mind-warping chemical compounds he’d been exposing himself to, absorbing through his skin? The oxygen deprivation had given him temporary brain damage. Mercury was in the microwave. He worked harder than the CIA to make sure he was safe behind his shield of excuses and comfortable lies.
Then tonight he goes and does whatever the hell that just was. He’s disgusted with himself, his lack of self-control, the sick excitement stirring in him, and worst of all, the fact that he believes him. He doesn’t doubt for a moment that he, that Clark would lay him out and make him see supernovas all night if he asked him to. That sickeningly good man, that beacon of everything he is not is willing to be good to him, better than anyone else ever has, and he has no idea why. Nobody has ever done anything for him without wanting something to their own benefit in return. He’s not like any of them, though. Gentle and attentive, not because he has to be. Not because it’s the only thing he’s capable of. Because he wants to be. There’s nothing he stands to gain from him. Not notoriety or a career boost, not money–at least not for himself. Everything he’s ever asked for was for someone else. Lex understands, with a feeling courting terror, that everything he does, everything Clark does for him is simply because he wants to for some reason. He has no ulterior motive, except maybe to trick him into personal growth and fulfillment, and Lex has no idea what to do with that.
What he needs is some distance. Too much of a good thing and all that. A regular night with a regular person and he’ll be back to himself and free from any frivolous notions like intimacy or vulnerability. He’s sure of it. He’ll prove it.
Back when things made sense it was nothing for him to find something pretty and leggy to bend over his bathroom sink if he was pent up. They’d mewl his name and tell him how big and good he was, and then be gone before he caught his breath. It worked fine for him. In terms of acquiring said pretty thing, it’s still not very hard. The conference he’s in Milan to attend has no shortage of them in any configuration he could be in the mood for, and after his panel it’s obvious he has his choice of nearly any of them.
Normally he isn’t picky, but this particular evening he’s looking for something specific. As many constants as possible with the fewest number of uncontrolled variables. He’s a designer of some kind, he doesn’t remember. Or did he say he was an athlete? It doesn’t matter. He checks the necessary boxes, and that’s all Lex is concerned with. Approximately six four, dark hair, strong build, dumb glasses. His personality is nowhere near– His personality leaves something to be desired, but then again, they’re not talking.
Decent with his hands, better with his mouth. He even does a passable job choking him, though his hands shake and eventually give with the amount of force he wants. What a shame, all that muscle just for decoration. It’s not bad. Fine, really. Good, even.
It takes a damn hour for Lex to come anywhere near getting off.
There’s no checking in on him, no stupid little remarks, no teasing him. No dorky laughter. Then there’s the foreplay, or lack of. He’s seen building collapses with more preamble. All that would be excusable if only he realized that ‘harder’ was not, in fact, a different way of pronouncing ‘faster’. It’s the worst sex he’s had in recent memory. Maybe even ever. After, he lays alone in the Alberta king four poster and stares up at the ornate ceiling. The long weekend in this hotel room costs more than every dollar Clark’s asked him to donate combined. Asked. He’s never demanded it upfront. Never checked up that he actually followed through.
Lex wants to set himself on fire.
His so-called genius, this perfect system has been poisoning him slow and quiet, and now it’s too late. He’s accustomed to it now, spoiled on the care he’s never had a complimentary word for. Something’s happening to him, something that frightens and upsets him more than anything he’s ever experienced, and yet he lies awake, aching for it. Wishing the right six-four, dark haired, strong built idiot were here, about to crawl into the bed beside him and excel in every category the other one failed at. About to give him what he really wants.
Lex closes his eyes. Defeated. Fine. There’s just not enough willpower left in the tank to sustain his denial anymore. He needs what he needs. He’s not about to go gentle into that goodnight, though. This is going to happen on his terms.
It takes a couple weeks to draw up the necessary paperwork and arrangements, everything he needs to get the full picture of his desires across without having to debase himself by saying it out loud. When the full thing is compiled it’s perfect, if he’s allowed to say so himself. Comprehensive, foolproof and legally airtight. A thing of beauty. Of course it is, it was his idea.
He goes to bed that night a little wired, a little anxious to send it off the next day. Maybe it’s the nerves, maybe the wine he had with dinner, or his subconscious trying to tell him something. Whatever the trigger, he slips into the filthiest wet dream he’s ever had and wakes gasping and delirious, throbbing, clutching at his sheets. He keeps paper and pen beside every bed he sleeps in to write down any epiphany that should come to him in the middle of the night. Tonight that’s the five positions he was spread into in his dream. He scribbles the codes he assigned to them among the others in the reference material, committed as well to memory as the ones he once developed to fight him. What’s the crime in being a creature of habit? Still three quarters asleep and horny out of his right mind, it makes sense to write notes, just enough to jog his memory in the morning. He knocks straight back out and doesn’t spare it another glance or thought until it’s time to ship the file, and he thinks it a good idea to include it to give Clark ample opportunity to meet his expectations. When he looks at it again he’s horrified by his own candor.
want it sweet like he promised
want him to make me feel like its the first time
Lex screams mortal peril scratching the words out, fighting a heart attack off by sheer effort alone. His assistant thinks there’s something wrong with him and offers to call the paramedics. Considering the spots dancing in his vision, maybe she should. He could kick himself down the street for this. He’ll never sleep again, not if it could make him say shit like that. When he’s satisfied his sins are illegible he writes the simple instruction, make it worth my time to cover his tracks and shoves the note into the bottom of the case. He hands the damn thing off to the courier and refuses to allow himself to think about it any further. It’s out of his hands now. One of two things will happen. Either Clark will show, or he won’t, and considering that he knows him well enough to know that he’ll absolutely be there, he really has nothing to worry about except if his will is up to date.
-
It turns out that sometimes it’s just easier to take a plane, even if you’re Superman. It’s hard enough trying to fly without being seen. He thinks trying to do it with an overnight bag would be more trouble than it’s worth.
The address listed takes him to a little upscale restaurant on the edge of LA. Even fashionably early he finds Lex beat him there, already sitting out on the balcony overlooking the coast. One look at him and Clark feels terribly underdressed. He asked Lois for advice on what to wear, and that seemed to be his first mistake. She had him sequestered in a fitting room for an hour and a half trying on just about everything the store sold that he could fit his body into. He’d spoken up exactly once, ready to just wear something he already had. The look she gave him struck the fear of the divine into his very soul.
“Clark Kent. Do not ruin this for me. Try this one with the blazer, it brings out your eyes.” And he’d shut up and put the shirt on. She ended up calling Cat for a consult and Jimmy for a tie-breaker. Between the three of them he’s certainly wearing something but whether it’s stylish is beyond his paygrade. Lex looks up from his wine and notices him, looks him up and down and doesn’t make a face. He’ll take it as a good sign.
“Tom Ford?” he asks before Clark can even sit down.
“I think?” He has no idea.
“Not bad.”
Clark looks around. “This is nice. Posh.”
It’s pleasantly cool and the sky is clear and brilliant with sunset on the beach.
“Yes, the ambiance is nice isn’t it? They only seat twelve tables a night at fifteen hundred dollars a head.”
The two other tables on the balcony beside them, all two-seaters, are empty, as are the other nine inside the building, he notices. All four tops.
“Looks like they’re slow tonight.”
“Hm? Oh, no. I bought it all out. I hate discussing business in front of an audience.”
Business. Okay.
A waitress comes to take his wine order, and he just takes a glass of whatever Lex is swirling in his. To him it’s all just kind of gross juice, anyway.
“You can’t get drunk, can you?” he asks once she’s gone.
“Not here. Not with this. I get a buzz from off-road diesel but that’s about it.”
“Right. Right.” Lex drinks the last of his wine in one gulp. When the waitress returns with Clark’s he asks for whiskey.
“So, do you have everything signed, or did you have any questions?”
Clark sits the case up on the table, everything inside ready to go. “Yeah, it’s all here.”
“Great. Now all that–”
“But I was hoping we could still go over it together. You know, talk about it first.”
He gives him a withering look, like he’s in pain. “Talk? Talk about what? What could you possibly want to talk about that wasn’t in there?”
“It didn’t tell me everything. I mean, I know what we’ve done so far but have you ever done this before?”
Lex laces his hands together over his head and sinks down into his chair. “Mother of Christ.”
“It’s a fair question! It matters!”
“Yes, Clark, yes, I’ve fucked. Been fucked, done the fucking. Men, women, both, neither. Does that answer it for you?”
The door to the balcony bumps closed.
Clark rubs his eyes under his glasses. “I’m just trying to understand you, Lex.”
“What’s there to understand that you don’t already? You talk like you haven’t made me come a minimum six different ways.”
“This is different. You can act like it’s not, but it clearly is. You wouldn’t have gone through all this if it wasn’t.”
Lex turns his glass up, but it appears to be less to drink and more to hide. “You’re overthinking it.”
“Am I? Why come out here, then? Why not in another warehouse or on the roof of that old mill like that one time?”
“You said we’d never speak of that mill again.”
“Why not in your office or that alley over there? If it wasn’t important to you, why give me a play by play of how you wanted me to-”
The glare Lex cuts at him dares him to finish the sentence.
“You just seem to have a lot of specifics in mind,” he settles instead. “And it feels like you’re…way more invested in this than you want to admit. I wanna respect that. If this going a certain way means something to you I wanna do everything I can to make sure it does.”
“It’s not that deep,” Lex says simply, but the way he won’t look at him suggests otherwise.
A moment passes, quiet and tense, both of them waiting for the other to say something and decide where the rest of the evening will go. Clark is preparing to do it himself when Lex surprises him.
“You never said anything. About which freeloaders are getting the check for this.”
“No, I didn’t. Maybe just leave the waitstaff here a big tip and we’ll call it even.”
“That’s a dumb idea. They make hourly here.”
Clark laughs at just how pouty he sounds, and somehow it cuts the ice. He drinks his bitter juice and Lex sips his whiskey for a while, just watching the sun vanish over the horizon. Eventually someone gathers the bravery to venture back out onto the balcony to take their order for dinner. The only thing Clark can pronounce is the steak, so that’s what he gets. Lex orders something-a la-something that arrives on a tiny plate with a decorative sauce spatter. It tracks. And miraculously, they have a mostly normal dinner. Conversation a little tepid but pleasant enough. It’s probably the longest they’ve ever spent just talking. When the last rays of light are gone and the plates have been cleared away Lex drops his head into his hands and pushes his empty glass away from him.
“I hate that I’m doing this. You get to ask me two things. Two before we leave, and if that’s not talking enough for you, I don’t know what to tell you.”
“Not three?”
“Am I fucking genie? Don’t make me change my mind.”
“Alright, alright.” The first is on the tip of his tongue. “Why those positions?”
Lex shifts, redness creeping up over his collar. “They were…inspired by…nocturnal psychosis.”
It takes a little bit to process but once it does Clark lights up a thousand watts.
“A dream? You dream about me? You have dirty dreams about me?”
“This was a mistake.”
“What was it about? Was it the only one?”
“Is that really what you want to waste your last question on?”
It’s so tempting to say yes, but there’s something else he’d rather know more. “What was it you wanted me to make you feel?”
And Lex looks like he just got caught stealing from a nun. He’s sputtering, tripping over himself trying to come up with something, skipping like a CD. His blush has hit his ears, rising like a thermometer. Clark’s seen him get like this once or twice before. What worked last time will probably work this time, too.
The hand he puts up to the side of his neck does the trick, the thumb he brushes over his bottom lip is good measure. Sure enough he goes quiet, eyes flitting back and forth between holding his own and somewhere lower on his face. Asking. Clark answers, pulling him in by the neck and kissing him until he’s not sure who had whiskey and who had wine.
“Your turn,” he breathes into his mouth. “Two questions.”
“Technically I haven't answered you yet.”
He nips at his lip, huffing a quiet laugh. “It’s okay. I’ll get it later.”
“Why are you so good at this?”
“Natural talent, I guess. Maybe a little practice. One more.”
Clark works a kiss into him that has him squirming in his seat before standing abruptly, almost knocking the table over. He straightens his vest and adjusts his cufflinks neatly, but the front of his pants are visibly strained.
“Are you ready to go?”
Lex just about drags him to the car waiting downstairs. Clark gets in, prepared to say a polite hello to the driver only to find there’s nobody in the seat. He’s trying to remember if he saw someone get out when Lex’s door slams closed and the car lurches forward on its own.
“That’s so cool,” he says before he can stop himself, watching the wheel turn and pedals depress by themselves.
“If you say so. There’s a lever on your right.”
Clark looks down on the side of the seat, and there is. “You want me to pull it?”
“Push. All the way down.”
All the way down, and his seat slides back on the track until it clicks into place. He’s confused for just a moment, just as long as it takes Lex to slip down out of the seat onto the floor of the car to settle between his knees. Clark is speechless watching him undo his belt and unzip his slacks with shaking hands and determination in his eye. He has the strangest urge to apologize that his boxers aren’t designer, but Lex doesn’t seem to notice.
“I don’t care what the NDA says you’re allowed to do,” Lex says, smoothing his hands over his upper thighs almost absentmindedly. “If you even think about this ever again, I’ll kill us both.”
And he’s pretty sure he’s serious. “Understood.”
As someone who’s seen how Lex can get, even Clark is shocked to see him like this. And Lex, for all his scheming and pride, can’t reign himself back in once he gets started. He only means to tease, to get a rise out of Clark when he first kisses him over his underwear. It devolves very quickly into him mouthing at the fabric, wild for the taste of him and the same smell that always lingers on him after. Detergent, cologne, sunlight. He goes until his tongue is half numb, until Clark is gently pushing him back, something he has to force rational thought to allow.
It’s obscene, straight out of one of his nocturnal psychoses how Clark hooks his thumb under his waistband and scoots his hips in a motion that makes Lex feel unhinged to watch, to ease them down just a bit, just enough. It’s not the movement, not the darkness over his lidded blue eyes, not the part in his lips or how he keeps a hand on Lex’s cheek to feel him moan as he licks the first hot stripe from base to tip that makes it as filthy as it is. It’s that Clark has no idea what he’s doing, no intention to be seductive at all. Sleeves rolled to the elbow, perfect curls falling out of their swept arrangement into tasteful messiness. Maybe it is just natural talent. Any other time and Lex would have a sharp comeback about his own talents, but wit is so far beyond him now it’s laughable. His jaw is straining and his tongue is cramping, and he’s still fighting to gag Clark deeper into his throat.
“Don’t hurt yourself,” he urges, but all Lex hears is the headiness in his voice. He certainly didn’t mean it as a challenge but neither of them can do anything about the fact that he takes it as one. Licking, slurping, swirling his tongue and sucking kisses with no mind or reason to it at all. Just desire, chasing whatever earns him the shaky exhales and low sounds rumbling from above him. There are words in the back of his throat fighting to get out any time he’s not choking them back. He stops to breathe and god, you taste so- slips out before he can control it. He shoves the rest back down before he embarrasses himself any more than he already has.
Those giant, hot hands plant onto the sides of his head. They don’t force him down, as badly as he wishes they would. They just hold him, caressing so softly as he sucks over the tip of him like it’s the last thing he’ll ever get to do.
“That’s so good,” he mumbles, sighs getting deeper. “You’re so good, Lex.” A lopsided smile, a flash of sharp teeth that he can tell is genuine humor warped by the pleasure on his face rather than an attempt at being sexy. “Are you having fun? Is it everything you’ve been begging for?”
“I hate you so much I could die.” Lex lolls his tongue out and takes him down again until he gags, and then pulls back off, slurping. “Come in my mouth.”
Clark laughs at him, and the moan to laughter ratio in the sound turns him into someone he’ll be ashamed to have been come this time tomorrow. His pants are ruined and awfully uncomfortable, too tight and sticking to him but if he stops choking himself for even as long as it would take to unbutton them he’ll lose his mind.
He does what got him the best reactions again, and then again until those thighs are closing in on him, threatening to either strangle him or break his neck. Lex whines around him just at the thought. That seems to do it. He gasps and grunts just once from the depths of his chest and then he’s filling Lex up. He does his best to breathe through it, to take it all, and he succeeds. He’s not a man to tolerate failure, a principle that doesn’t vacate him just because he’s on his knees. No consideration for the fact that if any had spilled onto his thighs or on the seat of the car he knows he would have licked it up in a heartbeat, and he likely wouldn’t survive the aftermath.
Lex sighs, resting his forehead on Clark’s inner thigh. Every muscle in his body is lax and loose as if he were the one who just came.
“Was I too rough? I’m sorry, I should have-”
“Save it,” Lex grits, voice hoarse and weak. “You did what I told you to do. I guess that’s credit I owe you. You follow instructions reasonably well.”
“Was that a compliment? Did you say something nice about me?”
“It was an observation. If you think it was nice that’s got nothing to do with me.”
“Yes, of course. My mistake.”
The car slows to a stop and the doors click unlocked. Clark, actually able to see through the blacked out windows, notices they’re in a parking garage with a few other cars, all of them expensive foreign sports models. It takes a decent amount of time for enough blood flow to return to Lex’s legs for him to make the walk from the car to the garage elevator. Clark holds a straight face only by imagining how badly the night would end if he laughed. A great distraction is latching onto Lex’s neck in the elevator and starting to work his vest and shirt open. Then there’s a knee pressing between his legs and hands on his hips pulling him closer and suddenly it’s not all that funny anymore.
The penthouse is nice, just as angular and modern as Clark expected it to be. There’s a giant aquarium, floor to ceiling, full of sleek silver fish that look at him funny when he comes up to the glass.
“You can spend the night with them if you want but I doubt they’ll appreciate your company.”
He turns to find Lex standing in the hallway, nearly pacing. Waiting for him. He’s antsy.
“Not like you will, huh?”
He rolls his eyes and starts, hatred, idiot, and so on but so interestingly goes doe-eyed and silent when Clark comes and grabs him by the jaw. It looks like the ideal time to remind him that he did read what he signed. Every page.
“I think you should take a softer tone with me.”
Lex melts, breathing picking up. “Yeah, sure. Like I’m intimidated by a bleeding heart like–”
Clark pulls him forward and slams him back to the wall, too fast to brace himself. He squeaks, genuinely, such a weak sound that Clark worries he actually hurt him. The front of his pants reassure him that he’s fine.
“Don’t be like this, Lex. This isn’t what you brought me here to do. Be good so I can give you what you want.” He kisses down the side of his neck so lightly his lips barely touch him. “Don’t you wanna be good for me?” he mumbles, letting the rumble of his voice vibrate against his collarbones. “Don’t you want it sweet?” The hold on his jaw makes it impossible for him to look anywhere else, daring him to try to break eye contact with Clark when he turns his head to look at him. Lex, beet red and panting, nods.
The bedroom he guides them to stumble into is bigger than Clark’s living room. It’s dark, just the light of a couple can— candles? Candles.— candles burning on the nightstands. There will be another time for fire safety, a time when Lex isn’t stripping his clothes off and pulling him down into bed, begging into his ear now, now, now. He acts like Clark is committing a capital crime when he insists on prepping him first.
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
Lex lets his head fall back to the bed. “And you’re aware that’s the majority of what you do to me? Right before I come?”
“Not the same thing and you know it. That’s a good hurt. This is injury we’re talking about.”
“Whatever. I don’t know what I funded the damn clinics for, then. Bottom drawer.”
Clark drops a kiss to his stomach as a peace offering and goes over the side of the bed to the nightstand drawer. Inside is a bottle of lube, the same kind he indicated a preference for among the samples in the paperwork.
“How–”
“Don’t ask stupid questions. Get on with it before I lose my patience.”
He knows what he said earlier but Clark still goes about it as gently as he’s able to. He’s got a good handle on his strength but when the line between enough and too much is so thin he’d rather be safe than maim him. Lex complains about it for the first two fingers but if he’s got anything to say about the third it’s not coherent.
Laid out like this, you could never tell he’s a destructive megalomaniac with enough power and influence to change the course of the world without much effort. Right now he’s just a man, feeling very good by the sound of things, but completely harmless. He hopes this shows him something, that he deserves the things he wants as much as anyone else, and he can have them without throwing the fabric of reality into the balance. Maybe Lois was right, and he does think everyone he’s ever met is beautiful. Lex is beautiful to him. Maybe never a good person in the traditional sense, but no less beautiful. No less deserving of feeling like the whole world.
Clark isn’t sure how much later it is when he realizes he lost the plot at some point. Lex was twisting the sheets in his fists and digging his heels into the bed, crying out so nicely and writhing on his fingers and he lost track of time. When he pulls them out it’s like someone let all the air out of him. Maybe he didn’t notice how long it’s been.
“Are you, um, ready?”
Lex looks up at him, face wet with tears. “You really are evil, aren’t you?” He gives him the dirtiest side eye but still opens his legs to let Clark move up between.
“Remember to breathe. Here we go.” Without any more unintentional torture he kisses him on the forehead and starts to press inside. He’s more than well prepared but Clark’s also aware of what he’s working with. Not even halfway there Lex is digging his nails into his back and squirming uncomfortably beneath him, noises sounding more pain than pleasure.
“I know, I know. I’m sorry. Deep breath.”
“I don’t believe you . Oh, god, don’t stop.”
He would hate to disappoint him concerning his knack for following directions, so he keeps on steady until he bottoms out and Lex is wheezing like an old computer.
“Do you need a minute? Is it enough lube?”
Lex doesn’t say anything. That’s never a good sign. He just lays there, inhaling slow and staggered, eyes clenched closed.
“Lex?”
“Don’t–” he grunts. “Don’t talk to me.”
“Are you okay? Do you want–”
“Stop talking,” he whines, and Clark sees what the problem is. He’s tense all over, burning red. Won’t look at him, doesn’t want to hear his voice. Maybe Clark likes Lex’s company so much because he’s one of the few people he’ll allow himself to be a real ass to. He leans down until his lips brush his ear. Just to be mean.
“Lex,” he murmurs. “Are you close?”
He opens his eyes then, looking up at him hazy, unfocused. Oh, he’s so close. Clark just can’t help himself. He nudges his hips forwards just once, more adjusting his angle than a thrust. Lex’s eyes roll and his jaw goes slack, coming so hard it streaks up his own chest. Clark soothes him through it, whispering sweet things and kissing the top of his head to stop himself from laughing. It’s not funny, he’s not laughing at him. Lex glares at him when he’s done and he almost loses it.
“Okay to keep going?” he strains.
“I should kick your ass.”
“I’m–”
“No, you’re not.”
“I am! I really am. And I think you’ll forgive me.”
Lex is winding up to say something when Clark kisses him and moves, the first real thrust into him. He tightens around him like lust made flesh and the conversation is over.
How they end up is beyond recognition from the neat, cheated-out illustration. One leg curled around his waist, the other up over his shoulder like an X-rated game of twister. The room being dark was probably strategic in Lex’s mind. He likely thought it would let him hide, let him feel in control. But Clark can see him. He’s biting his lip, eyelids fluttering open then closed and open again. He can tell by the expression on his face when he loses the angle. Clark doesn’t tell him that, though. He just sits up a little more, a little further back to roll his hips more upward than forward. The tilt could be better for him, but by the way Lex arches and throws his head back it’s perfect for him, and that’s enough to make up the difference. He’s moaning obscenely loud and whining, and another odd little sound he’s never made before. Ck, ck, like he’s choking. He’s not, Clark checks on him and makes sure he’s not holding his breath.
“Oh, fuck, o-oh god, ck, ck,”
It’s the strangest thing. Maybe his neck is compressed by the way he’s laying.
“Easy, now. Hold tight,” is the only warning he offers before he hoists him up and into his lap without even breaking his rhythm. Lex clutches to him for dear life.
“If you drop me, you bastard,” he threatens but then gravity does its great work and pulls him down, and nudges Clark rocking into him just that much deeper. “I’ll, hm, I’ll kill you, a-ah, ck, ck, ck!”
What is that? He wants to ask but the last thing he wants to do is embarrass him and make him second guess the abandon he’s dropping his hips down to meet him with. Maybe he’s cramping? Clark repositions his knees wider and wraps his arms around his midsection to support his weight, dropping his head into the base of his neck and drilling with the new leverage.
“Fuck! Yes! Ck, Cla–” and he sinks his teeth into his shoulder to stifle the rest of the word. The rest of his name.
Clark stops on a dime like someone unplugged him.
Shit. Shit. Shit, shit, shit.
This is terrible. Really, the worst possible outcome this could have had. He’d been doing so well clamping it off before the whole thing could slip out, before he had to live with the memory of moaning Clark’s name. Damn him if he could help it, though. Clark feels so good, in every way, that Lex could lose his mind. It doesn’t feel like the first time. It feels like the hundredth time, like they’ve been making love three times a week and twice on Sunday for years and it still hasn’t gone stale. It’s not sweet in the weepy, lovesick way he thought it might be. It’s sweet in that he’s so obviously been putting Lex’s pleasure above his own. Kissing him the best he can with his thrusting bumping their mouths apart, smiling against him when he makes a noise so raw and loud it echoes. He’s giving it to him exactly as hard as he’s been craving, but still so careful and gentle with his hands, his voice, making him so comfortable that the idea of sex without laughter sounds awful now. So deep and slow he’s forced to feel everything. It’s so much better than he could have ever fantasized, and that’s devastating.
Not more devastating than this, however. The seconds feel like forever waiting for Clark to react. Lex has never been more acutely aware of the fact that they aren’t lovers, no matter what he imagines. They’re hardly even friends. He may well have crossed a line not even he would have dared to cross. A lifetime of worry passes in no more than a heartbeat. Just a heartbeat between Lex calling his name in pleasure, and Clark sighing all the air out of his lungs and rumbling,
“Fuck.”
It seems Lex has crossed a line, just not the one he thought. Any tenderness in Clark’s handling is gone as he drops him back to the bed, keeping his hold on his hips, leaving his back arched to hell.
“Wait, wait–”
He doesn’t hear him, or he doesn’t care. Clark fucks him so hard his legs go numb. All he can do is scratch at his shoulders and root his hands in his hair, which only seems to rile him up more. He forgot to check if his will was current.
“Too much,” he squeaks in a fashion that seems all too familiar. “Too hard!”
“Tell me to stop, then.”
He lets up just a bit, and Lex misses it immediately. “No, no, don’t–”
“That’s what I thought.” And he’s back to putting him through the mattress. “Say my name again.” He bites Lex’s neck, licks over it the indents of his teeth and then bites again. “Say it.”
Lex does one better and screams it. His name, how good he feels and how badly he wants him to come inside. If he’s going to say one mortifying thing, might as well say all of them in the same go. Clark’s grip on his goes bruising and he comes with a whimper, a sound Lex never thought he’d hear him make.
Lex’s breaks him in body and spirit. He learns you can only come so hard for your own safety. Any harder and it gets dangerous. His soul returns to him eventually, and all the aches and pains are there waiting. Aches, pains, and Clark, staring up from where he collapsed over him.
“I’m so sorry. I completely lost– I don’t even know– I understand if you never wanna see me again after that–”
“Clark,” he croaks. “Did I sound like I had a problem with it?”
“Well, no.”
He looks down at the mess he’s made over his own stomach. “Do I look like it turned me off?”
“No.”
“Then shut up. Don’t give me the best orgasm of my life and then apologize for it.”
He regrets it as soon as he’s said it. Damn his afterglow honesty.
For the first night they’ve spent together they don’t part ways right after. Clark helps him change the sheets and blow out the candles, which he graciously doesn’t mention. He cares for him in the shower, massaging the hot water into his sore back and thighs. It turns into another round with him pressed against the marble tile and fucked drooling but he cares for him after that, too. He lies in bed behind Lex, cradling his body in his own.
“I’m sorry we didn’t get to all the positions you wanted. Maybe next time.”
Lex beats the joy that wells up in his chest down with his bare hands. “I don’t know. Technically I could sue you for breach of contract.”
Clark laughs, sleepy, and kisses the back of his neck. “Okay. Whatever makes you feel better.”
Time passes in the dark and quiet, with him soothing his hand over his throat. Not pressing, just holding. Warm. Secure. For the very first time.
“It was this,” Lex allows himself to say. “I wanted you to make me feel this.”
-
This is ridiculous. It’s been long enough now that his image is fine. His philanthropic work’s been recognized in every paper in the city. There’s no reason he has to be at this event, ‘goodwill’ be damned.
The way Lex sees it, Superman was going to save everyone on that derailed train anyway. Throwing an event to honor him for it is just overkill. He’s here, though, at his publicist's insistence. Bored. Tired. Excited out of his mind. As soon as the media coverage is over and he’s free to leave he’s got a book of matches and a mostly harmless fire to set. And a whole night to enjoy.
The feeling of being watched prickles down his back, and he notices a woman staring him down. It’s not a rare occurrence, but there’s something in her oddly knowing smile that’s different. She’s brunette, a bit short. Looks familiar.
“Do I know you from somewhere?”
She just smiles at him like she knows something he doesn’t.
“Bite his ear.”
“Pardon?”
“Bite his ear. If you thought saying his name got him hot, give him a little nibble. And call off work the next day.”
Lex has never been more confused but she’s vanished back into the crowd before he can ask any clarifying questions. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say he just got a bit of insider trading. He starts the email to his secretary and hopes she’s right, but something tells him she knows what she’s talking about.
Notes:
Some notes:
- It was so important to me that you know Clark eats it for his health
- Magenta is an optical illusion
- There are a few beds bigger than a California king, the Alberta king being one of them
- My sibling has a Lex Luthor funko pop that they keep on their desk and genuinely adore and he jumpscared me constantly so I'm the real victim hereThanks for reading this long experiment, and if nobody told you today you deserve to feel like the whole world.
ily all <3
Chapter 3
Notes:
10k... my bad
I really think it could have gone longer but docs was struggling with this big time and after a real scare I decided to just wrap it up as best I could
anywho I hope yall like it
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Easy does it. Gentle, now.
He has to close each finger manually around the cap and hold his breath to gather enough strength to grip hard enough to turn it. The seal on the bottle cracks and the ginger ale hisses, and Lex exhales. Spite carried him to work this morning, but if it’ll carry him through the day remains to be seen. It’s too damn loud, too damn bright, too many damn people buzzing around his office like flies. He asked for this, though.
“Mr. Luthor?” his assistant asks, somehow directly into his temporal lobe. “The menus are ready for review. If you feel up to it.”
“I don’t know what you mean. I’m in peak physical form.”
He takes the file from her, and the weight of all three sheets of paper combined with the manilla folder drags his arm down to the surface of his desk. It's a heavy, expensive cardstock. That’s why.
He flips the folder open and can’t even read what’s on the page before the overhead lights reflect off the violently white paper into his retinas and flashbang him.
“God, turn half these lights– You know what? Turn them all off. Cut the power to the building.”
She puffs out something like a laugh. Lex cuts a bloodshot side eye so brutal it makes his optic nerve ache. She gasps it back in.
Ten minutes later everything in the building is powering down and his employees are lining up at the pencil sharpeners. It won’t kill them to work the old fashioned way for a day. Once they’re done and that terrible whirring and crunching stops he finally gets some peace in the dim and slightly more quiet. Peace is a relative term, however. His whole body hurts in at least three different ways and the ginger ale isn’t hitting for shit but better to be sore and a bit hungover in the dark than under 4000K lighting. It doesn’t do anything for the emotional duress, unfortunately. That’s what the bourbon was for, and now look at him, trying to figure out if he can silence the second hand on his watch. He came in today despite his body trying its damnedest to shut down on him in order to run away from his problems, but they just clocked in right alongside him.
Now that he’s not being blinded he looks over the menus: dinner, dessert and wine. The dishes he selected are all there, all the specifications he requested have been honored. Vegetarian, vegan and pescatarian options, dairy and gluten free. Anyone could find something to eat. None of that has anything to do with him, it just came with the catering package. The desserts are all decadent and hand prepared. All chocolate ethically sourced, all vanilla ethically farmed. Gag him. The wine, arguably the hardest of the three to fuck up is, of course, where it goes wrong. He hits the intercom button for his assistant’s office but just closes the line right after. The buzz is all she needs.
Soon after she’s there in his doorway, notebook in hand.
“Yes, sir?”
“Accident? Took a fall? Head trauma of any kind in the last thirty days?”
“No, sir. Not that I recall.”
“Good, good. Then I assume this is someone else’s fault and you didn’t completely ignore me when I gave you the list of wine to order.”
She bites her lip. “About that.”
His left temple is splitting open and lava is pouring out. Or in, he can’t tell.
“About what? About the one wine I told you was off-limits sitting right at the top of the damn page?”
“The sommelier wouldn’t take substitutions. It’s all paired to the dishes and he–”
“Jessica. I just spent more than I’ve ever paid you getting the pictures of my ass off the internet from the last time I drank Zinfandel. That’s not a memo line I want to write again. I don’t care if you have to squeeze the grapes yourself, get it switched out.”
She drops her head and mumbles something affirmative. As soon as she does something happens. It’s a new problem, something that only started recently. Something’s wrong with him. He’s almost definitely overdue for his annual MRI.
Lex feels a little guilty. Not very much, but enough.
“The rest is fine, I guess.” he sighs. “The design is…suitable. Works with the…rest of it.” There’s a word he’s looking for. “...Approved…work.” That’s not it, but it’s as good as he’s willing to give, and more than she was expecting if the look on her face is any indicator. She has the sense to go without saying anything about it, and not long after he gets an email with the updated file, sans Zinfandel.
With the menus out of the way he’s got real work to do now, phone calls and emails and a meeting at two. Preparations to make for this thing he’s taken it upon himself to do for some reason. He gets his laptop out and pulls up the contact, opens the email draft, and sets up the virtual meeting room. That’s as far as he gets. He can’t focus past the throbbing in his skull and the ache in his knees and the memories dripping down the back of his neck. They didn’t have very much time last night but if there’s anyone who can make quick work of him it’s Clark.
He doesn’t go particularly long without seeing him, around the same frequency as before, but when he does it makes the time between feel like years and regretfully they act like it. All fine, satisfying, mindblowing, but the health consequences have been getting closer in the rearview for months and now they’re snatching him out the window. Clark’s no worse for wear, but Lex? The human body isn’t meant to withstand reunion sex of that caliber twice a month. His back has started cracking if he bends more than forty-five degrees and when he sits or stands the joints of his hips make an interesting sound best described as a warning creak. The physical pain is worth it to him, though. Last month Clark spanked him sobbing and then fucked him against a wall like he didn’t weigh an ounce until he begged for mercy. Once he’d had a nap and half a turkey club he fucked him again, on the floor, honey slow and filthy, talking to him in the most condescending way, just how he likes. Look at you go! You want it so bad, don’t you? Hold on, hold on, I’ll help you. Better? Oh, listen to you, yeah it’s better.
Never, as long as he’s lived has he ever been so thoroughly slutted out. If the deterioration of his musculoskeletal system were the only drawback it wouldn’t even be a question. He’s got blueprints for robotic osteoprosthetics on a hard drive somewhere, ready to go. It’s what comes after that’s been twisting him up. How Clark treats him. When they’re showering and getting dressed and he’s telling him what a good job he did like they’d just played an overly spirited game of chess. When he mentions reading about the big Christmas bonus LuthorCorp employees got, and says probably the most heinous thing language can express.
“That was such a great thing to do, Lex. Think of how many happy holidays you made! I’m really proud of you, you know.”
Lex would rather Clark had shot him with a gun.
That would make him one of…he’s not even sure. He can count on one hand the number of times he can even recall anyone ever saying that to him. Worse than what that says about him, his childhood or life up to now, worse than any of it, Clark is the only one he thinks actually might be. If he says he’s proud, then Lex genuinely believes he’s proud, and that’s something that’s been terrorizing him for weeks now.
What does he do with this? Where is he supposed to go and who is he supposed to be now that he knows that: a) It is possible for someone to be proud of him; and b) That someone can be Superman. Lex would be the first to admit that altruism is not something that comes naturally to him. The heart of him has always been just a bit malevolent by nature and it might always be. Even so, Clark can smile in his face and kiss him and say I’m really proud of you, y’know. It’s completely bittersweet, an idea as intoxicating as it is horrifying. It was like fever, burning hot and freezing cold, satisfaction tingling and shame aching all together indistinguishable.
Lex pushes away from his desk, dizzy and nauseous and fearing he may hurl any minute. His head is about to detach from his body. From that day a demon has been standing in his doorway, daring him to look. Last night, after Clark kissed him goodnight he tried to hide from it at the bottom of a bottle but the thing didn’t budge an inch. It just stood there, whispering to him, taunting him. You just might be enough, Lex. He may think you’re enough just the way you are. What will you do then? Are you still you if you’re enough? He didn’t have an answer then, and he doesn’t now. He refuses to even contemplate it. All he knows is that there’s a new high to chase, something else to want, and nothing soothes like a single-minded drive to self-serving ends.
There’s a soft knock on the doorframe, and he suppresses his flinch fairly well. It’s his assistant with lunch and packet of ibuprofen, and blessedly the guiltiest pleasure he has: an off-brand cola. Full sugar, 70% synthetic dye. It tastes terrible and makes his teeth feel like they’re coated in rubber but for some reason it hits the spot every time. He pops the medicine and thanks her. For all he puts her through she’s a damn good assistant. That reminds him of the work he’s been too otherwise occupied brooding to do. After lunch.
–
From antagonist to philanthropist: inside the first annual LuthorCorp charity gala and Metropolis’ newest humanitarian
By Lois Lane for the Daily Planet
Luthor was once a household name, both the billionaire and his namesake company which once occupied a significant share of varying markets including cybersecurity, finance and federal contracting. That would change following the exposure of Lex Luthor’s illegal dealings with the now sanctioned country of Boravia, and attempts to inspire malice toward Metropolis’ most trusted figure, Superman. Luthor was indicted on a list of charges yet to be unsealed to the public, and spent three years in the maximum security Belle Reve Penitentiary. There was much speculation from both governmental agencies and the public around Luthor’s potential activities following his release nearly a year ago. Some feared rekindled conflict with the newly independent nation of Jarhanpur, while others argued that he posed a more direct threat to the public, and to Superman himself.
It would come as a pleasant surprise that LuthorCorp’s projects were largely humanitarian in nature, including funding for public health and education, programs that aid students with tuition and related expenses, and most recently the announcement of the first annual LuthorCorp charity gala set to be held in downtown Metropolis in early spring. The event aims to honor local heroes, both super and everyday, for their hard work making our city a better place. All proceeds will benefit charitable initiatives across the city, including the Malik Ali Memorial Grant available to small businesses starting summer of next year.
Clark chokes on his smoothie. He reads the article once, then again, and it reads the same as the first time. Not his eyes, then. It’s nearly one in the afternoon, Lois should be awake by now. He hits her speed dial button and waits while the line rings so long he’s expecting her voicemail when it finally connects.
“Clark?” she grumbles, not awake in the slightest. “What are you calling so early for?”
“LuthorCorp charity gala? How did you find out about this?”
She yawns. “How didn’t you? I thought you were the one who put him up to it. I figured it was from that one night you came back covered in powdered sugar.”
He pinches the bridge of his nose. Something told him he should’ve just showered at Lex’s but nope, he just had to wait ‘til he got home. “No, this is the first I’m hearing about it.” Clark pauses. “Did he reach out to you?”
“I have my own sources, thank you. If you want to know any more go contact your own. Anything else you called me in the middle of the night for?”
“Do you even know what time it is? Seen the sun lately?”
“Not if I can help it.”
Clark ends the call, I love you, and Lois responds layutoo, more yawn than words, and he’s sure the exchange rate is even.
If Lois is reporting on it, then it’s definitely happening. The only question is why Lex didn’t mention it to him. He just saw him the other day, not counting the weeks before that he had to have been planning this during. If he’d said something, Clark would’ve–
He stops himself midthought. Lex didn’t, and still doesn’t, have to tell him anything. He’s allowed to do good independent of whatever their situation is. It’s a great thing, and that’s the full stop of it. Clark nods, to only himself, and decides his lunch is over. Time to finish editing–
It’s great, yes, but Clark would’ve liked to know. Not because he had to, but so he could celebrate with Lex, reward him. No, no. Maybe he didn’t want it tied to this whatever-it-is. Maybe he’s got his own reasons. That’s far enough. Lex’s good deeds don’t belong on a ledger for Clark’s review.
Now, the last time he checked this piece it was over word count. He’s pretty sure he can whittle some off somewh–
How is it a contact got in touch with Lois but not him? She’s not the only reporter at the Daily Planet. He’s literally right here. Maybe if he asks Lex he’ll tell him–
Enough. That’s enough. Clark sucks the last of the smoothie from the bottom of the cup, perturbed. This is upsetting him, he has to admit. He’s upset. Recently he’s gotten this notion, this wild idea that maybe, just possibly, he and Lex were approaching the distant horizon of friendship. The idea of friendship after months of fucking like the last two people on Earth. They’ve chatted about all sorts of things by now, over dinner or breakfast or in the hot tub easing Lex’s T11 and T12 discs back into alignment. Apparently just not this. It’s alright. The next time he sees Lex he’ll congratulate him all the same. He can’t wait to read about the honorees and all the charities later. That’s who this is really about, right? Now’s not the time to start making this about himself. Right?
Clark doesn’t feel much like editing anymore. Something else, then. He’ll find something else to do to fill his time. He could go to the store. Jog to Saudi Arabia. Fly into the sun. He’s already done his housework for the day. Dishes, laundry, put out the trash and checked the mail. It dawns on him that it’s been a while since he checked his PO box. The post office is just around the corner, and it’s a nice day. A walk sounds great. It’s that or mop his ceiling, or maybe vacuum his kitchen cabinets. Idle hands and all that.
A day like this and only Lois’ blackout curtains could keep all the sun out. Not a cloud in the sky, clear and blue as far as he can see. The cold won’t let anyone forget it’s still winter, but the bright green buds on the trees promise change before long. Everything changes, given time.
He’s so deep into his own head that the first two funny looks he gets go right past him. He catches the third, and for a second he fears he left the house without pants like in his nightmares. A glance down and the denim is on, zipped and everything. What is not is his coat. Just a few degrees above freezing and he left in only a tee, too absorbed to grab his coat. The rest of the walk he puts on his most convincing shiver, hoping it’s not too obvious that he’s not even chilled.
He doesn’t get mail to this box very often. It’s really only for work correspondence. He wouldn’t give his mailing address out if he were an average Joe, no less, well, himself. The little door squeaks open and he sees a few letters inside, but nothing of real importance. Or so he thinks. Flipping through he can feel one envelope on the bottom of the stack is thicker than the rest. He gets to it and finds it stamped with an honest wax seal. Imprinted in the black wax is a logotype he’d know anywhere. It takes all he has not to rip into it right there, to blow his cover and just fly straight home. He doesn’t even bother to shiver on the way back. The second his door closes behind him he drops the other letters on the floor and focuses on the one. The one that matters.
Carefully, more gingerly than he’s ever touched anything he pries the seal up and the envelope opens, revealing a midnight violet card and the barest whiff of cologne. There’s nothing on the outside but smooth matte texture, and text laid in jet black ink on the inside. The dark words on dark paper seem impossible to read at first, but then it catches the light, and the gloss on the ink makes them shimmer to life on the card. Dramatic ass.
Mr. Kent,
You are invited to attend the first annual LuthorCorp charity gala
5th March, 6 pm
as a personal guest of Mr. Luthor.
All necessary accommodations have been arranged for you.
Clark sits down, staring at the card in his hands. He stares for so long his eyes start to go cross. He feels like the dumbest–
The envelope was postmarked a week ago. The dumbest–
A week. He’s seen Lex since then and he didn’t say anything. Clark almost drops the card. Neither did he. Lex probably thought he wasn’t interested, or worse, he was rejecting his offer. Sweating bullets doesn’t cut it. Clark’s sweating artillery shells unlocking his phone and sending a text to a number that isn’t saved under a contact.
Busy? << 2:06
Knowing his schedule he won’t hear back from him until at least tonight.
2:07 >> Always.
2:07 >> What.
I want to see you << 2:08
2:08 >> Unbelievable.
2:08 >> My appointments are booked six months out.
2:10 >> 10th & main in 15.
This time when he leaves, he leaves his coat on purpose. He’d just overheat in it.
The first time they met on the rooftop of this brownstone they worried about getting caught. Since then Lex bought the building and now keeps the top floor apartment vacant. He says for the tax benefits. Clark’s pretty sure it’s because it’s central between his apartment and Lex’s main lab, and the brick doesn’t let any noise at all slip. Of course, not mentioning the great sun the place gets, and in a beam of evening sun Clark might as well be plugged into the wall.
“I’m sorry,” he breathes into Lex’s mouth. “I’m so sorry, I wasn’t ignoring or rejecting you.”
“Clark-” he starts, but doesn’t finish once Clark’s teeth close on his neck.
“I didn’t see the invitation until today. I’m so sorry.” He nips his collarbone once, and when he moans he nips again, harder. “I would have never–”
“Clark.” Lex says, forceful enough to catch his attention and make him pause the bruise he’s steadily marking him with. “Relax. Worrywart. I knew you hadn’t seen it.”
“How?”
Lex doesn’t hesitate a second. “There’s a heat sensor in the card. It hadn’t gotten any readings yet so I knew you hadn’t picked it up.”
Clark blinks. “You put a heat sensor in it. So you’d know when I read it.”
Lex shifts his eyes and blinks back, as if Clark had stumbled upon an obvious conclusion about water. For a second he forgot who he was dealing with. Suddenly a number of things make sense. And he has the nerve to call him a worrywart. Still, Clark spends the afternoon apologizing with his fingers, and Lex forgives him with his tongue, and by the end the whole thing was just a big, one-sided misunderstanding.
“I take it I should put you on the RSVP list,” Lex rattles once he can see straight again.
“Yes.” Clark plants a kiss between his shoulderblades. “You should. I’ll be there.”
“You’ll get the details the week of. And your outfit should arrive in the next few days. That should give time to account for any necessary fittings.”
“Outfit?”
“Oh, no offense to whoever’s been dressing you when we go to dinner. I just can’t take any chances on you coming in a parachute. Or tweed. But don’t worry, it’ll look great on you until I can tear it off with my teeth.” Lex freezes fastening his belt, eyes buck and wild with confusion. “I said that out loud. I have to start getting enough sleep.”
He’s about to leave in an embarrassed scuttle but stops, wavers in place for just a second, then doubles back to kiss Clark goodbye. The kind of kiss that, if Clark had his way, would mean neither of them would be going anywhere but the granite countertop anytime soon. He doesn’t, though, not today, and Lex leaves him with sunwarmed skin and kisswarmed lips, and a little static shock in his chest.
“We’re friends, right?” he blurts, almost too late. Lex stops in the doorway but doesn’t turn around.
“If this is how you treat your friends I’m never going to look at those justice freaks the same way again.”
“No, come on. We’re good. Right?”
Lex is quiet, standing there for so long Clark starts to worry.
“It takes longer for me to tire of your company than most. I guess I like spending time around poor people like you. It puts my wealth and achievements back into perspective.” And he’s gone. Clark laughs harder than he has in a while. This is probably the most neurotic little man he could possibly have gotten involved with. Lex with his quirks, and Lois with hers. Maybe he just has a knack for loving eccentric people.
If only he knew the half of it. Lex almost collapses down the stairs with relief. He’d been watching that sensor like a hawk for days. The last few nights he slept with the reader by his bedside. He slips into the car, legs still a little jelly. Twice up there he let his mouth get away from him. Really, it’s going to get him into trouble someday. He’d probably leak state secrets if he came hard enough beforehand. Another time and it would’ve made him paranoid; the alien weakening his mind and lowering his defenses with his otherworldly seduction to trick him into giving away vital information. Now he knows that what’s seductive about Clark is the exact opposite of otherworldly, and the only kind of information he’s after is what Lex wants for breakfast, if he believes in ghosts and what his favorite color is. From distrusting the very dimples in his cheeks to trusting him with his vulnerability, the soft underbelly of him in every sense. French toast and turkey bacon, no, #0d0317. He justifies it by telling himself it’s all part of the transaction. He doesn’t get to know how he likes to be held in his sleep for free. If this goes right he’ll pay up.
Everything is exactly how he planned, margin of error nonexistent. The guests are all lined up, the plaques and awards have all been cast. Clark will be there. Strictly for media coverage, of course. No matter that he’s not going to be sitting at the press table. There wasn’t any more room. His clothes will arrive to him any day now. For control of the optics. Not at all that Lex saw it in a store display in Paris, and salivated at the thought of it on him. Teases his thumb across the front of his pants at the thought of it now.
It’s all perfect. Of course it is, it was his idea. Now he just has to keep it together for the next few weeks, and hope that he doesn’t let anything slip between now and then. No details, no deep inner thoughts, no confessions of any kind, class or order. He could stay away from Clark until then, or at least just not come, but frankly he’d rather die than do either. That one doesn’t count. He didn’t say it out loud.
-
“Wait, wait!” Lois scoots the standing mirror to an angle and hops up to perch on the foot of the bed. “Okay, you can come out now.”
Clark steps out of his closet, and her jaw hits the bedspread.
The box came to his door, thankfully. It was bigger than he expected, and when he picked it up, much heavier, too.
“Oh, my god.” she breathes.
He had no idea what to expect. Knowing Lex the only guarantee was that it would be expensive. The first thing, wrapped in parchment paper like a steak, was the shirt. Sleek black silk, front pockets and hidden buttons, and what he thinks are called bishop sleeves. He picked up a few things listening to him go on about men’s fashion. Next the pants, a deep, dark olive in thick fabric, buttery smooth. The two alone likely would have cost more than every other stitch of clothing he owned. But, like most things Lex did, there was more. A belt and shoes, because apparently the ones he had already weren’t good enough. An oblong velveted box. Clark knew what he thought was inside, but to his relief it was not. He probably couldn’t wear one of those in public for long without incident. Instead it was a gold necklace. Much more tame, but just as shocking. A delicate figaro chain, medallion pendant. He thought it was a mistake at first, but there was no way anything that wasn’t supposed to get to him found its way into that box. Lex really meant the whole outfit, then. He had sat on the bed next to the supposedly empty box and something inside shifted. What he thought was the bottom of the box was a cardboard divider, and there was something underneath.
“Is that a necklace?” Lois asks in pure disbelief. “I’ve never known you to wear jewelry.”
“I think it looks okay, actually. I didn’t think I looked good in gold until now.”
“It looks more than okay.”
She’s right. The whole thing is actually very flattering. The shirt is oversized but not in a way that makes it ill-fitting. It drapes over him, the thin fabric outlining the shape of his shoulders and chest where it lays close. The pants fit him like a glove and make his ass look much more impressive than it is. Looking at her through the standing mirror he notices something in her eye, watching him T pose like an idiot. He gets the suspicion he doesn’t have long before he’s separated from these clothes. Showing her the rest won’t buy him any time for the shoes, but in for a penny. One by one he slips the buttons undone, and the further the shirt falls open the wider her eyes get. Underneath is a harness, thin leather straps running down parallel from his shoulders, down his chest and around to his sides to secure to another that buckles around his ribs. In the back the straps connect to a ring in a Y between his shoulders and a third runs down his spine to secure like the others. The buckles and metal details are gold rather than silver, matching the necklace. He never thought he’d be interested in anything of the sort–does it count as lingerie? It feels like lingerie, even if it’s not lacey and sheer. Maybe he’s been too narrow minded about it, and it’s kept him from enjoying something like this. He understands the appeal now. It’s a rush knowing he’s wearing it, feeling it against his skin under his clothes. Even if it’s not for Lex or Lois, he’d wear this just to feel that little pulse of warmth at the idea of it on his own body. It helps that it’s surprisingly comfortable, and he likes the way it frames his muscles. Clearly Lois does, too.
“Is there any more?” The intensity in her voice tells him that even if there was, he wouldn’t be able to cross the room to get it.
“Nope.”
“Good.”
He starts to pull the shirt off but she shakes her head.
“Leave it on. Leave it all on.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
And how would Lex know if there’s a few miles on it all when it’s his turn to take it off? Unless there’s sensors in these, too, in which case he’s welcome to play along at home.
-
When it came to venue there was no second or third choice. If Lex couldn’t book this one, he was going to buy it. The hall seats five hundred and overlooks the city’s botanical garden, and at sunset the skyline is something out of a painting. When he first thought this up, the picture in his mind was this hall, and so there was nowhere else he could possibly hold his gala. Nowhere else he could kiss Clark on a moon drenched balcony like this. It’s not lack of sleep at this point, and he doesn’t know how much longer he can keep acting like it is. God, this was so much easier when all he wanted was to get torn in half.
While the controlled chaos of setup is live he can put it out of his mind. There’s work to do and orders to give, and those are conditions he thrives under. Then the guests start to arrive and the drinks start to flow, and he’s obligated to be the center of attention. For those first couple hours he’s a regular Gatsby, not a care in the world. He’s posing for photos and shaking hands, giving empty compliments and his best practiced courteous laugh. The rich and famous are coming in from the red carpet outside, the money’s rolling in. For a while it appears he has control of the situation. He’s hiding out near the staff area for a breather, drinking his wine down before he tops it back up.
“You sure look like you’re enjoying yourself.” And all the air in the five-hundred-seater hall is sucked out, stolen by the baritone crooning over his shoulder. He’s almost afraid to turn around. After a deep breath Lex gathers the courage.
Clark is behind him, six feet of cornfed heartstopper dressed to death like a secret weapon engineered to get him on his back. Whatever he thought that outfit would look like on him was a joke. They should discontinue production of every item he has on because nobody else should even try.
“You’re late,” he attempts, but it’s got no power. It’s taking all of it to keep from causing a scene in this auditorium. Clark rolls his eyes, smiling. And it’s obvious that he knows how good he looks, that he feels good in what he’s got on. It rolls off him in waves, a tide pulling Lex into his orbit. Fuck, is he in trouble. This is a monster of his own making. A monster he wants to die underneath.
“Blame your fancy car. It got stuck at a crosswalk ‘cause it thought a coffee cup was a pedestrian.”
Lex is about to make a comment of some kind, he hadn’t decided yet, when the slightest shape on Clark’s chest catches his eye. No more than a wrinkle in the fabric, but he knows the truth. It’s the buckle of the harness.
“Come with me,” he chokes instead.
The corridor he drags Clark into is empty. He knows it is. He made a note of the ones that weren’t going to be in use beforehand. His intentions must be on display on his forehead, because as soon as the door closes behind them and they turn the corner out of sight Clark’s taking position to allow himself to be pinned to the wall, stupid, smug little smirk on his face. Lex does exactly that, and nothing more. He doesn’t kiss him yet, even though his jaw tenses with how badly he wants to.
“Lex,” Clark admonishes. “Have a little self-control. We’re in public.”
“Oh, shut up. You don’t get to look like that and then talk down to me about self-control. Self-control is me bringing you here instead of the dessert table.”
Solid muscle under the smooth silk. Pants hardly containing those thighs. And he smells so fucking good. Where his hand is pressed to his chest he can feel the harness underneath, begging him to tear the shirt open and–
“Lex,” he says again, scolding. “You can wait. I know you can.” He takes him by the chin like a dog and Lex melts into it like the pathetic mess Clark turns him into. Why do the glasses make it so much sexier? “Let’s have a good night and after this is done I won’t stop you. Promise.”
With great effort he stands straight and adjusts his tie, pulling himself together.
“I do look pretty darn good, though, if I say so myself.” Clark teases.
“Go directly to hell.”
Was Lex really about to get on his knees in the middle of a charity fundraiser? If Clark didn’t intervene, quite possibly. And he still might, yet. The night is still young. On their way out, passing the refreshment tables he stops them next to one in the corner. He reaches underneath and pulls out a covered wineglass of something the wrong shade of red to be wine. Clark takes it from him, confused until the fumes hit.
“You’re kidding.”
Lex shrugs, trying his best to seem uninterested but that boat has sailed and sunk. “I wasn’t about to waste wine on someone who couldn’t really appreciate it. Besides, it was cheaper.”
Clark looks at him like he wishes he hadn’t just told him no, and turns the glass up. Doesn’t even flinch. “Thank you, Lex.”
And he has to turn away, because he has too much wine in his system to be looked at like that with no consequence. “Just don’t nurse it. I don’t want to have to explain why it smells like a gas station in here.”
Through the evening he has more to do than sit around and stare at Clark. Not that he’d want to do that. He catches glimpses of him, though, kept company by his assistant just like he told her to. Both of them are chatterboxes, they get along perfectly well. Although Lex would’ve been perfectly comfortable in the spotlight alone, just knowing Clark is here settles something in him he didn’t know could be settled. Is this what it’s like having an emotional support animal? If so, he’s going to donate some more to that foundation.
The time comes for the awards to start, and for him to give his opening speech. He didn’t practice, he didn’t need to. Working a crowd is nothing to him. How much he’s learned and changed, what giving back means to him and how inspired he is by yadda, yadda, whoop. By the time he’s done he knows he won’t need PR work for another good couple years. When the applause starts and the people rise to their feet he looks over their faces until he catches Clark’s. He’s clapping and smiling, and even from a distance high on the stage it’s painted on his face. Pride. Approval. Lex feels hot, and it’s not the stage lights or the wine. Everyone in the building’s pouring out praise for him, but all he wants, all that means anything is the validation of one man. He allows himself exactly ten seconds to bask in it, to acknowledge how good it feels, and then it’s time to go on. The show must go on.
He gives out the very first award of the night, then: recognition for outstanding work and dedication to his assistant Jessica. She’s caught completely off guard, handing Clark her drink to hold and hurrying up onstage, trying not to trip on her dress. As he hands her the plaque she’s teary and grateful and hugs it to her like it means the world, and sure, it’s a good bonus, but Lex did it to score one last point with the audience and start the awards with a bang. Nevermind the handwritten card thanking her for all she does and puts up with. That’s irrelevant.
The rest of the night goes exactly to plan, on cue and schedule to the second. When the last award is given and the final count of donations is revealed the last zero doesn’t even fit on the screen. After, in the mingling crowd he meets eyes with Clark, who tilts his head toward the balcony before walking away. It’s all a success in every metric he was aiming for. He’s gotten just about everything he wanted.
There are windows looking out over where they’re standing, so he knows to be on his best behavior. But, it’s much too loud inside to overhear. Clark swirls the last of what’s in his glass, and Lex can’t believe what he’s seeing. Dilated eyes, rosy cheeks. Clark is tipsy.
“How’d you even find that out?” he asks. “Did you try unleaded first and it just didn’t cut it?”
Clark giggles, a straight up, bubbly giggle, and Lex can’t breathe.
“I was trying to siphon the gas out of an old tractor my folks had. I accidentally swallowed a little and the next thing I knew I was dancing in the irrigation sprinkler in my underwear. I did actually try regular gas, though. Nothing. I think it’s the dye that does it.”
“Well, there’s a whole gallon of it leftover. Knock yourself out.”
The sun is setting fast, steadily dipping behind the skyline. They stand on their opposite ends of the balcony, watching it go by. It’s in his head, Lex knows it is but the silence feels loaded. It’s like the quiet is waiting for him to say something, and it won’t let either of them say anything else until he does.
“I don’t know why you did this, Lex,” Clark starts suddenly, and breaks the hold the moment has over him. “I don’t know what your reasons were, and you don’t have to tell me.”
“How about the goodness of my heart?”
Clark gives him a flat look, and they both know there’s no way that was ever going to work.
“Really, it doesn’t matter. Not to me, not to all the people this is going to help. You made something great happen, something that’s going to make a real difference, and that’s what matters.”
Something starts to cast a shadow in the light from inside, and when he looks the staff are drawing the curtains over the windows. Just before it’s all blocked out he notices his assistant speaking to the venue staff, giving them the direction to close them if he had to guess. Damn her, she’s good.
Clark drinks his last sip, and the sun disappears, leaving them in darkness. “You don’t have to tell me why,” the shape of him says. “But thank you, all the same. For doing this, for letting me share it with you. I’m so proud that I get to call you my friend, Lex.”
The sensation that rises in Lex is compound, happens in stages. There’s the visceral urge to gag that he gets when faced with any genuine sentiment. Once he fights it off the next is the compulsion to say something insulting to deflect. He bites his tongue and it passes. That leaves him with what lies underneath: fulfillment. Satisfaction. This time he gives it more than ten seconds, letting the full depth of it sit with him in a moment of uncharacteristic honesty. All he has ever wanted is the care of a real friend, and he’s found it. Despite trying to kill him, and all the myriad other terrible things he’s done to Clark he’s found it in himself to be exactly what he needed. And he’s glad for it. Gratefulness is not a concept he’s intimate with but he will acknowledge it as a favorable outcome. Because he…values Clark’s company. He values Clark. He–
Fuck.
Lex claws at his face, tortured. “This is the worst thing that’s ever happened to me. The worst. I’ll never recover.”
“What is?”
He’s too upset to even consider sugarcoating it. “I’m almost definitely in love with you. Damn. I think some mood stabilizers could take the edge off but it’s probably too late to manage chemically. Damn!”
The humor is thinly masked in Clark’s voice. “You need mood stabilizers to deal with being in love with me.”
Lex nods sadly, knowing he can see him in the dark. “I react poorly to SSRIs. No time for cognitive behavioral therapy either. This is the lowest point in my life. Lower than being in the penitentiary.”
“Well, if it helps you cope at all I–”
“No, no, no. We’re not doing that. That’s for prom dates and romcom leads, and we’re neither of those.”
“What are we, then?” For the first time Clark inches toward him. “If you…experience an emotion, and I do, too?”
Lex’s nervous system is breakdancing but he finds the calming effect Clark has on him is doing its thing.
“What did you call it? Fre-inds?”
Clark laughs, wheezy, like Lex just told a real sidesplitter. Maybe he did, in a way.
“Friends. With emotions. I like it.”
Friends with emotions. Lex likes it, too. He’s still not happy about this, but he thinks he can live with it with a little trial and error. It becomes less pressing an issue when he realizes Clark is still closing in, cornering him. He learns something else about himself, stalked down in the dark with nowhere to go. Almost involuntarily he puts his hands to Clark’s hips where the Ferragamo belt sits cinched, not to stop him, only to run them up his torso until he can feel the harness underneath. He shivers under the touch and Lex feels out of his mind.
“A promise is a promise,” Clark says, hitching when he passes his hands up over his chest. “I’m yours.”
“Okay.” Because he’s not about to unpack what hearing him say that does to him. Instead he roots his hands in Clark’s hair at the sides and brings him in, kissing him uneven and sloppy like there’s no time left on the clock. Immediately the taste of gasoline lingering is overpowering, but underneath is the unmistakable way Clark tastes, and Lex would drink a glass himself if he got to taste him next.
His glasses are digging into their faces with how hungry they are for each other. When Lex can stand to break for air he slides them up his forehead to sit over that insistent curl. Rather than leave them there Clark takes them off completely and drops them into Lex’s suit pocket, and then presses him against the wall so hard the plastic squeaks. This isn’t exactly how this particular part of the night went in his head. Clark nudges his ankles apart and starts to fumble with his belt buckle, and honestly? To hell with what he dreamt up. This is better. All he can do is hold on by fistfuls of his shirt when he finally snakes his hand down into his pants. His movements are slow and uncoordinated with how tipsy he still is, but even clumsy petting over his underwear is electric because it’s Clark’s clumsy hands. Lex’s knees are threatening to go weak, trembling trying to hold himself up and work against his hand at the same time, fighting to remember he’s technically in public when he feels Clark chubbing up against him. It’s getting hard to swallow his noises down, and even harder to give a damn about needing to. He’s trailing kisses around his jaw and up the side of his neck and Lex has to bite the inside of his jaw to keep from giving his opinion on it.
“Somebody’s coming,” Clark breathes into his ear between kisses and nibbles.
“Not yet. But you’re on the right track.”
He huffs a laugh into the bend of his neck. “No, someone is coming outside.”
Lex couldn’t be paid to care. Still, he pulls away because he knows Clark wouldn’t want to get caught in a compromising position like this. If it were up to him, though, he has a whole portfolio of methods proven to keep just about anyone silent about just about anything, and he’d use every last one on anybody dumb enough to open that door more than enough to hear what they’re doing. Whoever it is, they’re intercepted at the last minute, and they listen to their chatter and footsteps getting further away until it’s clear they’re not about to be interrupted.
“That was close.”
“So was I. Come on.”
At first Clark worries if they’ll be able to sneak out unnoticed, but when they step back inside there are multiple bottles of champagne foaming over on the crowded dancefloor. He’d only heard of how wild celebrity parties got. It's his first time seeing it, and he sees more than enough scurrying past to get to the service exit. Right as they step outside one of Lex’s fancy not-so-smart cars is pulling up. Not one of the sports models he normally uses. This one is a big, four door beast the size of a small bus.
“Lex. This is getting to be a bad habit. Safety is important, you know.”
He shrugs. “So wear your seatbelt.”
Lex climbs in and Clark follows, into the spacious middle row with plenty of room for two men their size to get comfortable. It’s Lex’s bad habit. Clark pleads peer pressure.
This late in the game it’s become difficult to tell who’s really influencing who, for better or worse. Clark’s lured a slightly better man out of Lex, and Lex has unlocked a side of Clark willing to hold him in his lap and fondle him in a moving car. He did put his seatbelt on, though.
Lex sits straddled in reverse with his back to his chest, spread out for Clark’s roaming hands. One strokes him too slow and too gently to be anything more than a tease. The other unbuttons his shirt and slips beneath, working over his nipples until he’s reaching down to grab at Clark’s knees between his own. His head is brushing the roof of the car, and if they hit a bump they’ll have a nice new sunroof in the shape of his skull, but the danger is the furthest thing from Lex’s mind. His mind is the furthest thing from him.
“I forgot to tell you,” Clark mumbles against the back of his neck. “I liked your speech. Did you write it?”
“My, mmh, speech writer wrote it.”
“What? You don’t write your own material?”
Clark closes his fist over him and pulls his first real stroke all night.
“Hmn, fuck. I’ll, hah, write it when I want a Pulitzer for my d-desk. Pinch harder.”
He obliges and Lex moans, open mouthed and shameless, starting to cant his hips back to grind and feel Clark, thick and hard beneath him.
“It’s not that difficult.” He sucks a hickey to the side of his throat. “I mean, writing is a craft but it’s not terribly hard. I believe you can do it. I could help you.”
“That’s w-what you’re, uhn, concerned about right now? Developing, hah, my writing style?”
“There’s never a bad time for self improvement.”
“Yes, there is, and it’s–oh, fuck–in the middle of–rubbing me off.”
Lex can feel Clark scrunch his nose. “See? There’s way more appropriate verbiage you could have used. You could say I’m stroking, caressing, pleasuring,” His hands speed up doing whatever verb it is he’s doing. “Lots of ways to convey how good it feels.”
“You, hm, are the biggest fucking dork I’ve ever met. Remind me to t-take your lunch money after I come.”
“Well, in that case.”
Suddenly his hands are pulling away, leaving him aching and so close his mouth is watering. Lex learns some new adjectives; incensed, ballistic, irate. It’s been a long time since he hated Clark so thoroughly, all the while feeling him suppress his laughter against his back. He doesn’t touch him the rest of the trip, only kissing the back of his neck and holding him around the middle. Lex could get off him. It would make sense to if he’s as angry as he claims. Despite his muttering and complaining he settles, leaning back comfortable and held.
Clark doesn’t know where they’re going, he rarely ever does. He’s just happy to be there, going wherever Lex takes him whether it’s one of his penthouses or a hotel or just far enough out to be off the main roads. Tonight it’s a house in the hills up a long winding road. Not another soul around for miles. It becomes clear right away that it’s for a reason. Lex is running white hot, hazy eyed and nearly drooling pushing him to sit on the bed, slipping the shirt off his shoulders. He makes Clark lay back to kneel over him, not even bothering with his own half-undone clothes.
“Don’t–just let me–shut up.”
Clark blinks. “I didn’t–okay.”
Lex descends, kissing over his sternum, then under the swell of his pecs to the side to where the leather sits. He drags his lips over the straps, up one, nosing the necklace out of the way to slurp kisses across his collarbones, and then down the other. Under him Clark can feel his heart thumping and breathing picking up, and the rumble of his moan when he runs his tongue under the strap across his ribs. He watches as whatever it is that comes over him takes hold. Kissing, biting, licking the skin under the harness, running his fingers over the tiny indents and thin lines it left. He’s falling apart all on his own, panting against Clark’s skin between kisses and laps of his tongue over skin and leather alike, stroking himself roughly in time with his fevered breathing. He’s obviously going through something. Clark just lays there and lets him work, holding all his questions and enjoying the touch paired with how pretty Lex is when he gets so desperate. He makes a strangled noise and stops abruptly, rushing to kneel higher up his body and squishing his pecs together to rut between, catching on the leather with every pass. His face, his noises could be mistaken for anguish but the way he shakes and spills over Clark’s chest and the harness is clearly ecstasy. He sighs and sits back once he’s done, still brushing his fingers over the straps idly.
“Can I talk now?”
“If you have to.” He shudders with a stray aftershock, eyes almost rolling. “Ugh, I’ve wanted to do that all night.”
“I could tell.”
Lex starts to say something but stops, struggling with the syllables of a word that doesn’t get all the way out.
“You wore this, and you didn’t have to. Th– I’m… app– You didn’t have to. But you did.”
Clark sits up on his elbows. “Are you trying to say thank you?”
“You’re welcome.”
Incredible.
“You don’t have to thank me. I actually liked wearing it. I’ll probably wear it again.”
It appears to somehow have been both the right and wrong thing to say. Lex is on him, kissing the air out of his lungs and all but tearing his own clothes off.
“Expect another box, then.” He composes himself long enough to work with Clark to get his slacks off, and then civility leaves him again. “A few of them.”
He could leave it, but he’s been holding it since Lex first laid him down, and he wants to know so bad. “What is it about it?”
“It’s the leather,” he huffs. “I don’t know. You in the leather, the leather on you. It’s not rocket science.”
“Well, if you’re buying leather, how about a pair of boots? Y’know, the ones with the buckle and the steel toe?” Lex sighs and grinds down like he said something dirty, and it takes Clark a little bit to realize he had. He wants a pair because he always thought they were badass, but it dawns on him their other applications that Lex might like. Oh, well. He doesn’t mind if they’re multipurpose.
“I’ll consider it,” he says, as if the idea didn’t just make him twitch between their stomachs. “Do you plan to fuck me or are you waiting for an invitation for that, too?”
Clark leans back on his arms, pulling his legs open under him, giving him more room where he sits. “Help yourself.”
“You’re such an ass,” he gripes, and then does as he’s told.
He rides Clark hard and fast, raising high and dropping back down, making the bedframe creak with the force of it. His knees scream but the pain just heightens the pleasure. When he’s stiff tomorrow he won’t think so, but that’s a problem for when he’s not staring down the barrel of his second in less than an hour. The angle, the pressure is perfect, the heavy, possessive hand Clark keeps on his hip is perfect. He misses it the moment he pulls it away, but then it’s taking him by the chin and making him look into his eyes. It seems tender at first, but then Clark moves and Lex squeals, and he realizes it was so he could watch his reaction when he started bucking up against him.
He smiles, that stupid smug smile Lex would go blind for. “Cute.”
“I hate you,” he whines, “I hate you more than anything, fuck, o-oh fuck! I hate you so much.”
Clark just keeps smiling, keeps twisting his hips and rearranging his insides. “Mmhm. You look like you do.”
In an act of blatant mockery he pulls Lex’s face close enough to kiss, but doesn’t. He just lets him open his mouth in anticipation and holds him back when he surges forward to chase it. “Hatred wants a kiss?”
“You big blue bastard, I’ll break–”
And he kisses the threats right out of him until he’s digging his nails into his shoulders and whimpering into his mouth, dropping down and not raising back up. He stops but Clark doesn’t, nudging up into him through the orgasm reaping his soul. There’s nothing he wants more than to keep going but while the spirit is willing his knees are locked up.
Clark, the damn nuisance, helps him roll onto his back, massaging the joints with his big warm hands.
“Do you want a hot pack? That helped last time, right?”
“Don’t have any here.”
“I packed some. Where’d you put my bag?”
Lex just looks at him, dumbfounded. “In the closet.”
Clark gets up and goes to the closet, rummages through his overnight bag and pulls out a box of instant heat packs. He pops one in each hand with no effort at all and shakes them until they start to warm. For twenty minutes he sits, pressing them to Lex’s knees and helping him work them loose. Naked as the day he was born, steadily going soft without so much as a single complaint. It should kill the mood entirely, should end their night right here but unfortunately for Lex, he finds now that he’s started to defy his repulsion to honesty it’s easier to do. It makes him feel sick, but he wants to. Clark makes him want to be honest with him, and worst of all, with himself.
“Feel any better? We can stop for tonight if it’s bothering you too much.”
“No.”
“No, it’s not better or…”
“No.”
Something must be evident in his voice or on his face because Clark is putting the packs to the side and easing down to lie between his legs. It’s the smallest thing but just laying together like this with no more between them but the thin leather straps, the gentle kiss he pecks to Lex’s lips makes the difference so obvious between him teasing the way he knows will irk Lex just how he likes and real affection, a real kiss. How he really feels.
“You meant what you said. What you didn’t say.” It’s not a question. He won’t phrase it as one.
“I did. Am I allowed to say it now?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Alright, I–” Clark breaks to stifle laughter against his chest. “I experience the emotion. Right now, actually.”
Lex believes him. Sickening, maddening.
“Show me. I want to feel it.”
He doesn’t have any particular expectation when he asks. Then Clark nuzzles into his neck, wraps his arms around him and squeezes, and it’s the last thing he could have seen coming. It feels alien and strange and like one of the hot packs blooming in his chest, radiating through his whole body. Lex brings his arms up and does the same, he thinks the right way. It’s a hug, a simple hug but it knocks him breathless and sends fire down every nerve in his body. He likes to think himself above begging but he’s prepared to if Clark doesn’t do more than just hug him. His hips start then, slow, delicious grinding. Not enough. Not enough. He reaches down and lines Clark up himself, and he gets the hint. Carefully he closes one hand over the inner bend of Lex’s knee, then the other.
“Does that hurt?”
“Even if it does, don’t stop.”
“Tell me if it’s a bad hurt. If any of it is.”
“It won’t be. Not from you.”
And it’s the last coherent thing Lex manages. Clark fucks him like a freight train and he takes it. Doesn’t run or squirm or shy away. He doesn’t stifle any of his noises or babbling. Lex takes it all, and gives it all. The headboard is about to knock a hole in the wall. The sheets feel damp beneath him. It’s so good he could scream.
“Okay?” Clark checks in at some point. Without stopping.
“Hnh, hnh, hnh,” Lex answers. “Hurts.”
“Bad hurt?”
“Good hurt. Oh, god, good fucking hurt.”
“Good.”
He kisses him on the temple and spends the next hour hurting him so well it leaves him sobbing into his chest and holding onto him by the straps over his shoulders, overstimulated but still so desperate for more. As much as it seems like Clark could go forever eventually he starts to get close, verging off rhythm, shuddering and panting broken whimpers. It pushes Lex to the edge. Not all the way over.
“Say it,” he pleads. “I need–say it. Please.”
And Clark breathes four words into his ear for only him to hear like a valuable secret worth keeping. Then he moans broken and pitiful, grinds in so deep it makes Lex feel like he has to pee and comes enough to fill him to the brim and spill over into a mess between their thighs. Lex gasps, filling his lungs preparing to scream, and blacks completely out.
Later Clark sits against the scuffed headboard and holds Lex to his chest. He’s been floating in and out, dozing and waking without realizing it. It’s rare to see him so calm, even in his sleep. He rests his chin on the top of his head. This isn’t where he thought they’d be about now. In the same position, sure, but where they are, where they stand is a surprise. Honestly, it was a little obvious that Lex felt something for him from the beginning. He just never guessed it was…emotion. Clark laughs quietly but Lex stirs anyway, sitting up and cracking his back.
“What time is it?”
Clark looks at the clock on the nightstand, something modern with no numbers and no hands.
“Around midnight? I think. Ready to call it a night?”
Lex turns to look at him.
“You wish. Open that mini fridge under the table.”
“There’s a mini fridge in here?”
Far too excited, Clark looks, and the door he thought was to the nightstand cabinet is the door to the mini fridge built in. Money may not buy happiness but apparently it can buy one of these, and he’d call that a close second. Inside, on ice are two glass bottles: one wine, Zinfandel by the label, and the other bright red, flammable by the label. He’s looking for glasses when Lex pops the top of his bottle, clinks it against his and turns the whole thing up.
“Here’s hoping nobody needs Superman tonight, ‘cause I’m about to put you to work.”
-
“You’re sure he’s okay? I’m telling you, the nanobots picked up .06 blood toxicity and depression of the central nervous system. And, one minute he’s at that gala that Luthor put on, the next he’s at some villa owned by a LuthorCorp shell company. He could be in real hot water.”
Lois chuckles. “Let me guess. His heart rate is up, too?”
Terrific pauses. “You know where he is?”
“No, but I know he’s just fine. Thanks for looking out, T, but this time he’s alright.”
Even over the phone the gears in his head are audibly turning.
“I don’t wanna know, do I?”
“No, I don’t think you do. Unless you do, in which case just ask Clark tomorrow. You know he’s an open book. I’m sure he’ll tell you all about how he’s been-”
“Good! I’m actually good!”
Terrific hangs up and Lois has a little laugh. He might not want to know but she sure does. It’s a good thing her boyfriend is an open book and his playmate is always looking for a cheat code. Either way, someone is sure to tell her all about it.
-
“Please, ple-ease—fuck! Oh, hah, harder!”
“Gonna say it again?”
A tortured groan, the violent knocking of the headboard getting louder.
“It’s yours, it’s yours, I’m yo-ours!”
A noise so wild that it glitches the audio out, and Lex turns the recording off.
It’s a good thing he doesn’t have a nemesis anymore, because he’s having a hard enough time on his own. He knew better than to leave his phone on. He knew better than to drink any red that late at night, let alone Zinfandel. Well, he wanted to get loose, and he did.
11:08 >> You don’t have to delete it
11:08 >> We could keep it yknow
11:09 >> For later
Hardly for nostalgia’s sake, he’s sure. Besides, if he wants to remember the night all he has to do is look at the hole they knocked in the wall.
I guess. << 11:10
11:10 >> We could even make another
A monster of his own making. His own personal bad influence. Still, a tripod, camcorder and fresh bottle of wine don’t sound like a bad way to spend a weekend. And some kind of liniment. His knees still aren’t right.
You’re ridiculous. << 11:11
11:11 >> You emotion me <3
And he does.
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