Archive of Our Own ^beta

“It’s, uh. Usually it’s green,” said Superman, looking at the pinkish, vaguely crystalline lump sitting in the corner of his cell. 

“It’s not like they’re handing out samples at the National Rock and Mineral Convention,” Lex said crossly. “Look, is this going to be a problem?”

“Um,” said Superman. Sweat was beading at his temples and neck, just barely starting to dampen the material of his uniform. He sat down heavily in the corner of the cell. 

“Well?” Lex demanded.  

“Um,” said Superman again. He panted, mouth open and wet like a dog. Lex, self-consciously, licked his own lips. “I, uh—it’s not good. Luthor, I’m gonna—”

“There’s no Geneva Convention in the pocket dimension,” Lex snapped. “You can’t weasel your way out of this by faking sick.”

“I’m not,” said Superman. He really was looking peaky, and not in the way Lex had anticipated. None of the computer models had predicted the flushed skin, the bulging varicosity of his veins, the way his sweat now smelled of musk and copper and, strangely, faintly, like the pulpy insides of overripe passion fruit, when usually he smelled of nothing at all. Superman didn’t have a dynamic—or at least not one he spoke of—but it had always been clear that he was an alpha or ought to have been, his broad shoulders and thick legs and that indomitable, pathetic protective streak, and now, with that smell—

“You’re—rutting,” Lex said, pole-axed. 

Superman shook his head, tilting his head back. “I can’t be. Kryptonians—we don’t—”

“You are,” Lex said, brows furrowing and that look of condescending indignation his press secretary was always bemoaning playing across his face, instantly disgusted by the blatant show of raw, sweaty, sensuous, animal alpha sexuality. 

“Oh shit,” said Superman, and collapsed into a sweaty heap in the center of the cage.

-

Lex left him. 

What else could he do? He wasn't prepared to deal with a rutting alien, much less a rutting alien who hadn’t known he could rut at all. He needed to take a step back, reassess. 

The main problem was this: he had no way of interrogating a Kryptonite with ischemic priapism. Approximately four world governments, eight weapons manufacturers, and seventeen mercenary groups wanted answers, and he’d promised to get them. Normally he’d go the route of find-someone-Superman-cares-about-and-torture-them-to-death, but he felt it was unlikely that he’d get the answers he needed when the suspect in question was hard enough to register on the Mohs scale. [1] 

The other problem was slightly more complicated. He’d made plans to run several tests on Superman, tests which couldn’t be performed on the defective Ultraman, but his research methods for all of those tests had depended on a Superman incapacitated by normal, green kryptonite, not whatever the pink offal in the cell was. So it was not only his political inquiries which had been stymied, but his scientific ones, too. 

Lex was under no illusion that he’d be able to contain Superman forever, which had been the main thrust of his scientific research. The second thrust, as it were, had been a targeted exploration of the Kryptonian genome. Not that he didn’t still have samples from the cloning of Ultraman, but—

Lex frowned. Maybe there was still some way he could get the answers and the DNA, all at once. 

-

He went back to Superman’s cell that evening. Well, it was around what would’ve passed for evening outside of the pocket dimension. Superman was no longer curled up on the floor. Instead he was half-out of his suit, sitting upright, feverish but shivering. He was sweat-drenched, glowing with it, and Lex felt the clench of his own stomach at the look of him, the humanity of it. There was something beautiful about it, knowing that he could sweat. 

The cube opened with a hiss. “Superman,” Lex said. 

Superman looked up at him. “Luthor,” he said. His voice was strained. “You’re—”

And then Lex was getting crushed against the glass wall of the cube, and there was nothing but that glass behind him and that heat, the heat of that unyielding, inhuman muscle against him, and the smell—the musk and the copper and the passion fruit, all welling up—

As soon as it was there it was gone. “Luthor,” Superman choked out. “Get out—I can’t—”

“Finish a goddamned sentence,” Lex snapped. 

“Control myself,” Superman growled, and he was on Lex again. 

It took longer to pry him off this time. Lex was tempted to call in Ultraman, but he wasn’t sure what the impact of the pink kryptonite would be on one of his greatest financial investments, and being... fondled was not an immediate threat to his life. 

Lex did his best to wrestle Superman’s hands off, but it was like fighting an especially clingy octopus. Every time he pried a hand off his neck, another would appear at his waist. After what felt like seconds but might have been any unknown stretch of time, Superman managed to release his grasp. He tore himself away and retreated to the farthest corner of the cube. Lex reached for the controls and activated the privacy screen around the cube. Then he located the syringe he’d used on Ultraman and all of his precursors and jabbed it into Superman’s forearm. 

“Ow!” 

Lex didn’t respond. Instead he drew twenty milliliters of blood. Then he placed the vial in the pocket sized centrifuge and spun it carefully, until he could see the plasma separate from the red blood cells, leaving a thin layer of white blood cells and platelets between the two. He looked at the vial. It was the same thing that he had seen in every other dead clone of the alien. There was the thin, greasy film that clung to the red blood cells. He’d analyzed the compound up and down, but it was not of this world, and he did not know how to treat it. 

Superman was rubbing his arm. “What’s—”

“You’re dying,” Lex said bluntly. “That compound—it’ll kill you.”

“What?” Superman asked. “The yellow sun—won’t it—”

“No. Fuck,” said Lex. He kicked the side of the cube. 

“You don’t care if I live or die,” Superman grunted. It was the most coherent he’d been since Lex had brought the pink kryptonite out. 

“I wish I had the freedom not to care about your continued state of existence,” Lex hissed. “Unfortunately I have several governments breathing down my neck, and if it turns out public enemy number one’s kicked the bucket before everyone’s had their pound of flesh—”

He glanced up. “You don’t care.”

“I do,” said Superman, painfully earnest, in spite of his own labored breathing. “Luthor, you’re in a bad spot. I can—”

“You can’t do anything,” said Lex. “You—Christ. That’s your problem, isn’t it? You think you can fix everything.”

“Well,” said Superman, pushing himself up with a grunt. “I’ve kind of been managing it the past couple years.”

Lex stared at him. “You’re an idiot,” he said flatly. 

“Look,” Superman said. “I feel like—it’s physical.”

“Physical.”

“Yeah,” he gritted out. “If you—maybe you could call, um—”

“You want me to make a booty call on your behalf.”

“Yeah, um. I know I don’t get a phone call, and it’s not—ideal, but—I think—”

“You think you’ll be able to hold back?” he sneered. “Whoever your pretty little girlfriend is, you think she’ll be able to take it? Whatever it is you’ve got building up?”

Superman stared at him. Lex could see the power in his shoulders, hunched as they were. He saw the size of those hands, so broad he was sure they could span his waist. “No,” Superman said finally. “No, she couldn’t.”

“That’s what I thought,” Lex sneered, turning to leave. “And so the great Superman proves a disappointment yet again.”

“Luthor, wait,” Superman shouted after him. “She’s not—she’s a beta.”

Lex paused at the entrance to the cube. “Your girlfriend.”

“Yeah. Yeah. She’s a beta. We don’t have—not that it’s a problem, but—it’s not because of what’s wrong with me. She’s not—”

“Not what?”

“An omega,” Superman growled. 

Lex could feel heat curling in his stomach. He was sure it was just residual heat from Superman’s laser vision—perhaps that was another negative consequence of the alien’s presence on Earth that he’d have to research?—but it was there all the same. The heat felt like warm water, a rush of it running down his spine. 

Superman inched closer, kneeling in front of Lex. He couldn’t deny the primal appeal of it, an alpha—or whatever Kryptonians called someone like Superman—on his knees before him. “I can smell you, you know.”

“Superman,” he hissed. 

“What? I can. You’re—it’s fucking indescribable.”

“You’re out of your mind.”

“Lex—”

“Can it,” he snapped. 

“Please.” 

It was the plea that got to him. Or maybe it was the alpha on his knees before him, desperate and wanting. “Lex, please, I gotta—”

“Fine,” Lex sighed. 

He had barely said it before Superman was on him, tearing at his clothes. Their bodies slid down to the cool slick glass floor of the cube. 

His bespoke wool suit jacket was going to be completely unsalvageable. His heart thrummed with what could have been either fear or anticipation, or perhaps a mixture of both. Superman dragged the slacks off of Lex’s body, then tore open his immaculately tailored silk shirt, scattering the mother-of-pearl buttons everywhere. They clattered against the glass floor.

“Superman...” Lex growled, ready to give him an earful about proper garment care. 

“Clark,” the alien breathed, flipping Lex over and wrestling him onto his hands and knees. Was he going to mate him in a lordosis pose? That was... degrading. “Call me—Clark.”

“You’re so dumb,” Lex realized, not for the first time. “Christ, you’re so stupid. Don’t tell me your name, you absolute—”

“Yeah, well, I’m not in the habit of making love to people who don’t know my first name,” said Superman. 

He didn’t have time to unpack the fact that Superman had just called what was clearly just no-strings-attached, I’m-trying-to-keep-you-from-dying-because-it’s-politically-and-financially-solvent fucking making love, because— “Kent,” he realized. “Clark Kent. Fuck. That hick reporter. The one who gives Superman all the softball questions.”

“One and only,” Clark said from behind him, and attached his mouth to Lex’s neck, presumably to shut him up. He shut his eyes. He should be scared. Clark had enough power to snap every vertebrae in Lex’s body with his pinky. And his mouth—the instrument which he knew to be capable of exerting over four thousand pounds of force—that mouth was on his neck, hot and wet. 

“Fuck,” Lex wheezed. He was soaked. He was sure Clark could tell. 

“You want it?” Clark asked. A finger slipped down in between Lex’s folds. “Fuck, yeah, you want it bad.”

“Shut up,” said Lex irritably. “You might recall I’m only doing this as a favor to save your life.”

“Hmm,” said Clark. He gripped Lex’s waist, manhandling him so the lips of his pussy were kissing the tip of Clark’s cock. Lex shuddered with anticipation, eyes fluttering shut. His hands really did span Lex’s waist. “Yeah, doesn’t look like that.”

“Yeah?” Lex breathed. “Then you can wait for it.”

He ground back slightly, and—hell, that was a big dick. The bulge of it—

“Oh, no, I can’t—” Clark broke off. “Fuck, Luthor, please, can I—”

Lex squeezed his eyes shut. “Fine,” he said. “Fine.”

Clark pressed in. 

It felt impossible. Clark was thick—thicker than any alpha Lex had ever had before, deliciously so, and Lex had that moment, where he became certain that he’d been ruined for sex with any other alpha, certain that no one else could fill him in this way. 

“You feel so good,” Clark panted against Lex’s neck, nose pressing into his scent gland. He hadn’t released his death grip on Lex’s waist, but he wasn’t moving. “You’re so tight. Lex. Baby.”

“Hnngh,” Lex breathed. 

“Can I—baby, can I move?”

Lex nodded, a minute movement that Superman nevertheless picked up on. And then he was fucking, these deep, heart-stopping movements that punched noises out of Lex—noises he hadn’t known he could even make. Every one of Clark’s thrusts felt like the best part of sex—that first, impossible slide in, where anything could happen. 

Clark moaned in his ear. “You sound so fucking good, baby, you’re so wet. I wanted it so bad, I couldn’t wait—” 

And frankly the restraint he could now see Clark had exercised was—impressive. If he’d wanted it this much, if it had hurt that badly—and yet he’d waited, for Lex. 

But now the gloves were off. Clark pressed him even deeper into the mating pose, forcing him to present his ass and pussy for the alien’s pleasure, face down on the glass floor. He used his grip on Lex’s waist to piston into him, their bodies slapping together, wet and sticky. Lex’s breath came so heavily the glass fogged underneath them. It felt like no sex had ever felt before and it filled him with the sick, impotent rage: the fury that no human alpha could ever possibly compare to this, to the sheer raw power, the inhuman perfection that he feared and admired in equal measure.

His forearms and knees hurt. Their sweat dripped onto the floor. The glass squeaked under them with each thrust. But Christ, if it didn’t feel good. 

“Take it, take it, fucking take it,” Clark grunted. “You were made for this, you’re so—”

“Yeah?” Lex gasped, breathless. “Was this what your mother was talking about, when she said you needed a harem? That she knew you’d get like this?”

Superman shook his head. “No,” he panted. “No, I never—gosh, I hope she didn’t know about this.”

“Don’t tell me it doesn’t turn you on,” Lex breathed. 

“It doesn’t,” Clark whispered. But he was lying: it seemed impossible, but his thrusts got even harder and deeper, the intensity of the fuck ratcheting up.

“You want it,” Lex taunted. “Want it too much, right? It’s why you’re dating a beta, you aren’t gonna knock her up. But you think about it all the time.”

With a roar, Superman pulled out. But instead of doing what Lex expected—namely, slapping him so hard his eyes popped out of their sockets—he didn’t do anything but flip Lex over and hoist his legs over his shoulders to get the omega in a textbook-perfect mating press. If possible, this was even worse than the lordosis pose. There was no escaping the eye contact. If Clark wanted, he could use his laser vision and burn Lex to ash. He could probably also see the insides of Lex’s brain, which felt almost more invasive than the sex itself. But for all that the only thing Lex could see in those blue, blue eyes was earnest, almost pained lust. Lex’s legs were sprawled open and slutty, and he could feel the way it let Superman get in even deeper, sliding all the way home, his heavy nuts slapping against his asscheeks. It felt pornographic, like he was just spreading his pussy for some animal of an alpha to get, and to get good.

“Believe me, Luthor, I’m thinking about it,” Superman growled. He was really going for it now, hips rabbiting into the warm wet hole Lex had offered up like it was worth nothing. “Fucking thinking about knocking this perfect pussy up ever time I see you. You’d look so pretty pregnant, full of my baby, I just know it.”

Lex whimpered. Part of it was that the mating press let Clark get deeper, made Lex feel even fuller, but the other part was what Superman was saying. Immediately he thought of Experiments One through Twelve, the painstakingly thorough protocols he’d outlined in his notebook, the failures that each one had ended in. Maybe this—with Clark, the old-fashioned, messy way he’d always scorned—maybe this was the solution to all the genetic quiddities he’d found in Kryptonian DNA—getting bred. 

And it really was breeding. Clark used him like a sex toy, clutching Lex’s waist to keep him from sliding across the floor with the force of his thrusts. “Gonna—”

“Yeah,” Lex panted. 

“Good,” Superman said. He was breathing open-mouthed, that one curl flopping against his forehead with every press deeper into Lex. “You’ll take better if you come on my cock.”

Lex whined and came, as if his body was surrendering to Superman’s orders. It was utterly humiliating but delicious in the humiliation: he was nothing but Superman’s little omega slut, only good for a hard fuck and bearing his superior alien babies. Something about the expression on Lex’s face must have said all of this, because Clark pressed in one last dreamy time and his breath hitched and his face scrunched up unattractively, mouth hanging open like a dog’s—and wasn’t that gratifying to know, that even Superman had a stupid-looking O-face?—and he came inside of Lex, cock and nuts pulsing deep and hot inside of him. 

Superman didn’t knot—it didn’t seem like that was something Kryptonians did—but he did collapse on top of Lex, panting with relief. “Fuck, you felt so good.”

“Hrm,” said Lex, unwilling to concede that it had, in fact, been the best sex of his life. Instead he reached over to the discarded syringe and centrifuge set-up and used his free hand (the other, of course, was being crushed by Superman’s massive, clearly overdeveloped chest) to switch it out with a clean needle  and jab Kent, once again, in the forearm. 

“No afterglow, huh?” Clark asked, hiding his wince this time.

“Let’s see how much you can relax with the UN and every arms manufacturer on the eastern seaboard breathing down your back.”

They were quiet as the centrifuge did its work. When it was done, Lex inspected the sample. The greasy film coating the red blood cells was gone. 

Superman was watching him. “It looks—”

“Fine,” Lex finished. “I figure you’re not going to stick around for the Q&A portion?”

“Sorry, not if I can help it,” Superman said. He sat up and stretched, dick slipping out with a wet, nasty popping noise as he did. They both watched the obscene volume of come and slick dripping out of Lex’s cunt with fascination—disgusted on Lex’s part, but normal and possibly slightly horny on Clark’s. 

“You don’t have any undisclosed mind control powers, do you?” Lex asked. 

“Not that I know of,” said Superman. “Your memory of my dick will remain intact.”

Lex scoffed. “As if.”

Superman half-grinned. “A baby should know their father.”

Before Lex could respond to that, he was off, somehow already dressed, busting through the glass wall of the cell like the chestburster from that movie about the alien parasites. [2] Maybe that would be happening to Lex’s stomach in a few months. 

“Leave the damn dog here,” Lex shouted after him, but he could already hear the sounds of Superman destroying the virtual reality squirrels. 

-