Chapter Text
Look. The "kryptonite rings that give you Hand Cancer" are silly but IF. IF. They got trapped in a room together that didn't let them out until they fucked.
Lex pacing the walls growling "are you going to contribute to this at all, Clark?" while Clark lies on the floor, feeling a little sick and a little shaky because it's not a lot of kryptonite and he's gotten better from his teens but it's not nothing. And the kryptonite makes the steel floor feel so cool and good against his skin, like. Things don't feel like this in real life. Is this how people always feel? It can't be: Anyone would go crazy, to feel this much all the time.
And Lex is a genius, right? So it doesn't take him long.
Fifteen minutes later Lex is on top of him, the way he smells making Clark a little insane, saying "so is it better like this?" and suddenly instead of his warm, callused, manicured hand, there's the left hand, this one with a band of body-hot metal on one of the fingers, a bite of pain, a little sting, and Clark whines without thinking about it and makes fists in his own hair (the only safe thing to do, when he feels like this) because he's going to come in five seconds. His whole skin feels like one wild nerve. He can't open his eyes, because Lex is seeing this. He can't open his eyes because he could hurt someone, feeling this out of control.
(The kryptonite ring gets Clark off. Lex wants to put himself so far in this man he'll never be forgotten, and he's going to kill the freak who locked them in here without lube. Clark is still panting and shocked, coming down from it, and mostly Lex wants to make him come again. Maybe three or four times.
He takes himself in his fist instead (kryptonite ring, which will always be included in his sexual fantasies from this point on) meaning to politely – oh, coming on someone's stomach isn't such a social indignity, right? Not after you've given them a handjob?
Clark (incredibly! unbelievably!) catches his breath, blushes (of course) and says "wait. no. my mouth," and then, again, un-fucking-believably, "your hand? in my hair?"
It is obvious which hand he means.
Lex has hated Clark's lying mouth for ten or fifteen years, at this point, and it seems too good to be true, like something out of his wildest fantasies.
Instead (it's a wild night) he says "Don't bite: not all of us are invulnerable" and Clark laughs, obviously still a little sex drunk, needy in a way Lex has never seen before.
He's not the fifteen year old Lex hit with his car, all those years ago. It's obvious he's new to this. It's obvious he's loving it. If Lex had assumed, he would've assumed Kryptonians had no gag reflex, but he has to gentle Clark, doesn't want him to hurt himself.
It takes about two minutes. Lex considers himself practically heroic for holding out that long.
Clark makes a face and spits, on the floor.
Luthors pride themselves on their ability to recover themselves quickly in all circumstances.
Lex says "Not everyone likes the taste. It's a matter of science to compare: Lie down. Keep your eyes open this time.")
Clark knows the door unlocked about ten minutes ago. He heard it, which doesn't necessarily mean anything, most people can't hear what he hears, but Lex had said, a little savagely, "don't even think about leaving," and bitten him hard, on the tender skin of his inner thigh, and kept going. Slow. Syrupy sweet.
He'd thrown his arm over his face. His eyes, specifically, because that was the real threat, the one thing he couldn't control, at this point. Lex's mouth was criminally soft, wet, and the ring on the hand pulling his thighs apart still made his whole skin tingle.
Lex pulled off (and Clark gasped for air, the lack of it and relief of it shocking, hips jerking a little involuntary) and said, still savage, still unwilling to bend, oh, Clark had missed this, all of Lex's attention on him, practically burning his skin: "Clark. I want your face."
It felt like a sob. It felt like every confession he'd never been able to make at fifteen, sixteen, seventeen. It felt like erasing every stupid lie he'd told as a kid when he panted "Lex. I can't. I'll – hurt you."
Lex snorted (a sound Clark had never considered finding attractive, but he twitched, and Lex watched it with interest, and he was going to die) and Lex crawled up his body, shoved his jaw to the side, and said "this is high school physics, Clark. Open your eyes."
He uncovered his face. The deadly heat from his eyes reflected onto the floor, puddling the steel, a foot or so from his head: he thought, briefly, it's going to take steel wool to get that out, Lex, and then he didn't think about anything at all, because Lex was good at this, better than anything he'd ever had, better than anything he'd thought people could feel. It hurt. He wanted it to go on forever.
Perhaps ten minutes later, the room still reeking like melted steel, Clark reached for his pants. He couldn't think of anything to say.
Lex was already seated, still nude, what most people would call composed, but Clark saw the tension in his wrists.
"You've hated me for years," he said. The obvious. The murder attempts had made it – obvious.
"Yes," Lex admitted, and the hungry look never left his face. "Come home with me, Clark."
In Smallville, it was hard to be Lex's friend. Worth it, but difficult: People talked (some people talked a lot) about what was probably happening at the mansion.
It had never, obviously.
His parents had given him one serious and motivated conversation about when to report someone (mortifying) and they'd left it at that.
He's barely had his pants on for five minutes since they left the room. His shirt's buttoned wrong. Lex has an iron grip on his wrist (left handed, the kryptonite ring) still stinging, making him feel a little floaty, and is dragging him through downtown Metropolis. Clark doesn't need it: at this point he feels leashed to Lex, like he'd follow him forever. Saying it out loud feels stupid: once they'd acknowledged the door unlocked, Lex's mouth had twisted a little and he'd taken hold of Clark like he was never letting go.
Clark has printed some insulting things about Lex's real estate habits and how he's taken out his competition. None of them were untrue.
The penthouse was acquired honestly, and Clark has never seen it before, and it seems – masculine? Elegant? Modern?
Lex is pulling him through the whole thing too quickly to tell, honestly.
And then he's on his back in Lex's bed, that smells like Lex, that makes him crazy, and he's being kissed within an inch of his life and his hips go up and his thighs go around Lex's waist and things get a little wild, for a minute. Before he remembers to relax the tension in his thighs and put his arms down and do all the things that make sex safe, if you're a superpowered alien.
His shirt's off. He's not quite sure how that happened.
Lex gives him a thoughtful stare, from across his hips. It makes him feel sixteen again, more naked than being shirtless.
"I know the rumours about you coming hard enough to hurt people are bullshit." Ruthless little smile. "Can I fuck you without getting my dick squeezed off, Clark?"
There's no breath in his chest and Lex wants him to talk. Sadist.
He has to gasp for a couple of minutes, while Lex watches him panting for air, not touching him.
"Maybe?" he says, finally, because it's true, he's not sure, there are things he can do to protect people he's had sex with but this isn't one of them. He has no idea.
Lex smiles like a shark.
"Excellent," he says. "Let's find out together."
It turns out Lex can put two fingers in him, sweet and slippery, zero problem, his fingers aren't hurt.
It turns out Kryptonians have some version of the prostate, which they discover when Clark yells and Lex does it again and Clark begs him to stop, it feels too good, he can't control it.
"Let me turn over," Clark begs, again: "it's safer for you that way, it's easier for me to _ control it."
"I'm seeing your face," Lex says, evenly, for someone three fingers deep in Clark's –
Clark shuts his eyes, dials down the heat vision (that still keeps coming up, and up, and up) takes three deep breaths, relaxes his thighs (almost impossible) and says "do it, then."
Being fucked is like nothing else.
His cock is wildly hard.
It feels bizarre when Lex's stomach, entirely free of hair, meets his.
It feels so shockingly good, Lex's left hand still on his wrist, the zing and sparkle of kryptonite, the giddy feeling of his powers dipping in and out.
"Do you need more?" Lex asks. "You're very...controlled, Clark." He's panting like he's running a race. "If you need more, I can get that." He shoves in a move that makes Clark want to scream.
More.
More would mean that he wouldn't need to think, constantly, about keeping his hands off someone's easily crushed shoulders or wrapping his thighs around someone's easily shattered pelvis or.
The noise he makes isn't one he's ever made in his life.
He can't open his eyes.
Lex shoves, again, making his toes curl, and says "all right, then."