Archive of Our Own

The laboratory air was thick with ambition, chilled and humming with the quiet thrill of scientists playing god. Lex Luthor stood before the central regeneration matrix, a monolithic cradle of chrome and crystalline conduits, its core dark and inert: a monument to failure. Behind him, Dr. Donovan shifted his weight, leather soles squeaking against polished floor.

"Report," Lex commanded, his voice flat and dangerous.

"The simulations continue to fail, sir," Donovan began, his tone carrying the practiced deference of a man whose survival depended on his employer's temper. "The cellular degradation is catastrophic. We introduce the blood-derived DNA, and the matrix initiates cellular division, but the Kryptonian code is too aggressive. Too alien. It burns through our scaffolding, refuses to anchor. Within hours, we see runaway necrosis. The samples essentially dissolve themselves."

Lex's jaw tightened, a subtle twitch the only sign of fury coiling in his gut. "Why didn't this happen with Ultraman?"

Sweat beaded on Donovan's forehead. "That was muscle wrapped around a single-celled brain. You said you didn't want that."

No, Lex didn't want that. He wanted a super-soldier capable of matching his intellect. "Then reinforce the scaffolding. The problem is the medium, not the sample."

"We've tried everything, sir. Every conceivable protein bath, every synthetic growth hormone." Donovan took a hesitant step forward, holding his datapad like a shield. "The issue is more fundamental. The Kryptonian genome doesn't just need replication; it needs coaxing. In natural development, this would be provided by Kryptonian birthing matrices, a process we cannot replicate."

He paused, swallowing hard. "However, there is a theoretical workaround. An anchor. A way to convince the embryo it isn't in a hostile environment."

Lex finally turned, eyes cold and brilliant. "And?"

"It requires a host, sir. A living incubator. A human surrogate."

The word hung in the sterile air, obscene and organic. Surrogate. A vessel of flesh and blood. Messy. Unpredictable. Weak.

"You propose I outsource the creation of the most significant being in human history to some hired womb?" Lex's voice dripped with contempt. "To a stranger whose genetic detritus and emotional instability would inevitably taint the specimen? Unacceptable."

"That's the other component, sir." Donovan's voice dropped to a whisper as he tapped his datapad. A complex double helix bloomed between them, one strand vibrant, regal blue, the other dull, earthen red. "The rejection isn't just environmental. It's genetic. The Kryptonian code treats our matrix as foreign. To prevent self-destruction, the embryo would need splicing with the host's genetic material. Genetic camouflage. The surrogate wouldn't just be an incubator; their genes would be the key that unlocks Kryptonian potential without rejection. Biologically speaking, they would be its other parent."

Lex stared at the floating strands of code, blue and red twisting around each other like fated lovers in a death spiral. A stranger's DNA woven into his masterpiece? His legacy polluted by some faceless creature, her body a mere container, her mind a wasteland, becoming mother to his creation?

Unthinkable.

His mind began to churn. A human host was required, the host's genes required. Control was paramount, secrecy needed to be absolute. Who could he trust with such a secret? Who could he bind so completely they would never betray him, never exert their will over his project?

The answer was no one. Anyone he chose would be a flaw in the design, a crack in the foundation.

The host needed to be someone he could trust implicitly, whose loyalty was beyond question, whose every breath he could monitor and control. The genetic material spliced with Kryptonian code couldn't be flawed, mediocre human stock. It had to be exceptional. Perfect.

It had to be his own.

A slow smile, terrible and beautiful in its dawning, spread across Lex Luthor's face. He looked at the inert, failed matrix, then at his own pristine reflection in its surface. When he turned back to Donovan, his eyes burned with terrible excitement.

"You are correct, Doctor. A surrogate is necessary." His hand moved to rest flat against his own stomach. "And I have found the perfect candidate."

Donovan stared, struggling to comprehend. "You?"

The smile widened in confirmation. He would be the vessel. He would have them craft him a womb. His genes, the pinnacle of human evolution, would anchor the alien god in earthly soil. He would give birth to Superman's child and finally own a piece of the world's beloved hero entirely.

"Who else?" Lex's tone carried the finality of a king signing a death warrant. "Prep the lab for genetic modification. And Doctor..." His voice rang with absolute authority. "Get me another DNA sample. Whatever it takes."

Just outside Project Cadmus, covered in mud and shielded by the hip length grass growing unbidden in the empty lot behind it, sat a journalist with questionable ethics stumbling onto an even more questionable scenario.  Clark Kent pressed his ear to the cold, sterile steel of the facility’s outerwalls. He filtered out the building's ambient hum, the distant traffic, the very heartbeat of Metropolis, until only the conversation in the lab remained, sharp and clear in his super-hearing. At first, the words were just clinical jargon, a project name-- "Chimera"-- that sounded ominous but vague.

Then came the specifics. "Viable epithelial cells... suspended in their natural medium... saliva….blood..." And finally, Lex Luthor's voice, dripping with cold fury and impatience, "A human host."

You?

Who else?

Clark's first reaction was a jolt of pure shock, so profound he almost pulled back. 

He couldn’t have heard that right.  He couldn’t possibly have heard what he thought he had. 

But as the plans developed before his very ears, and as that sinking feeling in his gut grew, Clark came to the sickening understanding that Lex Luthor was just that crazy.

This was insane. This was a new, deeper level of his obsession, a violation so personal and grotesque it felt like a fever dream. He felt ill. There's no way this would happen now, he thought.  And in the moment, the thought comforted him. Now that he knew what to anticipate, there was no way he’d allow for Luthor to steal his genes for his sick, twisted project.

But then, his mind dredged up a memory he kept buried deep: the empty, blue-glaring eyes of Ultraman. He remembered the raw, mindless power, the sickening feeling of fighting a creature that wore his face but had nothing behind it but slavish devotion and brute force. And Lex had been the one to make it. Without Clark’s knowledge, Lex had stolen his genetic material before, and could do it again if he was tricky enough.

And Lex was always tricky enough. 

The shock receded, replaced by a cold resolve to stop it.  He could be careful enough.  Clark was well practiced at carefully monitoring his every moment, of the force he put behind his actions, of the details about himself that could give him away as alien. He already had to be mindful of his strength, he could keep track of his spit. 

But then, his mind made another, unintentional, traitorous leap. The scientists had said "baby," not "clone" or "specimen." And for a split second, an image bloomed in his mind, unbidden and unwelcome. Not a monster like Ultraman, but a baby. A Kryptonian baby, with a shock of dark hair and tiny, grasping fists. A child who could, one day, look up at the yellow sun and feel its power awaken in its veins.

A profound longing feeling shot through his chest, and a single, damning thought flashed through his mind. My child.

No. Clark stood from the grass defiantly and began marching back towards Metropolis.  No way.  Don’t follow that thread, Kent. 

But the journalist inside him wouldn’t shut the frick up. It kept prodding, poking, pulling at that want and watching it unravel with a sick curiosity.  Clark found himself digging deeper into the implications. It wouldn’t be a child, not really.  Lex wasn’t after fatherhood. No, his true goal was a weapon to be forged in the crucible of his enemy's ego, a slave to be born from a non-consensual act of creation. It was a monstrous plan, and he had to stop it. 

Yes, stop it.  This was nothing but another one of Lex’s bad bad plans.  It was no different from stopping a villain from, say, poisoning the local well, or shoving a little girl down a well, or hiding in the local well to scare passersby. Bad bad plans needed stopping. He clung to that thought, repeating it like a mantra. 

Once he was a distance away, he shot into the air, desperate to return home and leave this mess behind.  But Clark’s thoughts were not so easy to quiet.  He could shut out Lex, he could shut out the scientists, but he couldn't erase the image from his mind. It remained at the back of his head, a quiet, persistent, and deeply troubling whisper.

Days later, Clark sat at his desk, the fluorescent lights of the Daily Planet newsroom buzzing overhead, a sound that usually faded into the background but now felt like a swarm of angry insects inside his skull. He stared at the blank screen of his monitor, the cursor blinking a steady, mocking rhythm. 

He was supposed to be writing an exposé on government corruption, the money funneled out of public funding towards Project Cadmus, a story that yesterday would have felt vital and engaging. A story that should’ve been published yesterday, for Superman’s sake. Today, it felt like pulling his own teeth from his skull.

The words from Lex’s lab were a corrosive echo in his mind: “A human host.” “A baby.” His initial shock had given way to a roiling mix of anger and a strange, disquieting sorrow that he couldn't name.

He typed a few words, then deleted them. He couldn’t do this.  He felt a desperate need to talk to someone who could understand the Kryptonian side of it all, the weight of a lost world resting on this monstrous act of creation.

He pushed back from his desk abruptly, the wheels of his chair squeaking in protest. Perry would yell, but he didn't care. He needed air. He needed Kara.

The door to Kara’s apartment slid open before he could knock. She stood there, a half-eaten bowl of something that looked suspiciously like Superman brand-affiliated chocopuffs in her hand, a questioning look on her face. Behind her, a white blur of fur was systematically destroying what appeared to be her couch cushions. "Hey there, Smallville. What's wrong?"

He bypassed a greeting, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. “Kara, what do you remember about babies on Krypton?”

Her smile faltered, replaced by a confused frown. She floated back into her apartment, and he followed, the door hissing shut behind them. "Babies? Kal, that’s a weird question, even for you. Why? Did you finally knock up one of your harem members?”

Clark flushed and scowled.  “No! I mean, there is no harem,” he insisted, “you know that.  I’ve just… been thinking.”

“Thinking?” Kara gave him a lopsided side-eye.  “Thinking about babies? Kryptonian babies?”

He nodded a little.  “I mean… don’t you?”

She blinked.  “Not really.. I guess I sometimes do, when I see a cute kid here.  Or when I think about..” she trailed off.

Clark pressed his lips together.  He knew what she meant.  He understood her lingering pain, and he understood that she was several degrees closer to the tragedy of an entire lost planet than he.  He pivoted. “Humans have a lot of… rituals when it comes to their babies.”

Kara nodded, “I do see a lot of gender reveal parties on my feed.  Seems like a lot of fuss over nothing.”

Clark nodded.  He remembered aiding in the firefighting efforts when a reveal-gone wrong had blown up an entire city-block with a fuschia pink fire. “But there’s also baby showers. Christenings. First Haircuts.  Stuff like that.” 

Kara looked wistful now as she thought further.  “Now that I think about it, we used to have something a bit similar.  At least, The House of El used to perform this ceremony, I can’t speak for the whole planet.  We had a Sun-Naming.” 

Clark leaned forward. "A Sun-Naming?"

"When a child was born, the parents would take it to a place with a clear view of Rao," she began, her voice taking on the melodic cadence of a cherished memory. "They would hold the infant up, and together, they would speak the name they had chosen. The first ray of sunlight to touch the child's face was considered Rao's blessing, sealing the name to their spirit and the parents' vow to the child in the light of our star."

A loud crash from the kitchen interrupted the moment. Clark winced as he heard what sounded like dishes hitting the floor, but Kara didn't even glance over.

"But that was a tradition from a different Krypton," Kara continued, her tone shifting, becoming more clinical and melancholic. "A Krypton that died long before the planet did. Centuries ago, sexual reproduction was prohibited."

Clark was shocked out of his wistful reverie. He stared at her. "What? Sexual Reprodu- you mean sex?" His voice rang out like that of a scandalized schoolmarm’s.

Kara smirked at him.  "Don’t sound so put off, Clark.  I thought you grew up on a farm.”

Clark shook his head, aghast. “It’s not that… I mean.. How can you even prohibit sex?”

She shrugged. “I dunno. It was deemed inefficient. Our people became more rational over time. Reproduction eventually became the job of the Genesis Chamber, which would grow a fetus from genetic material donated by two parents. The Chamber could predict their physical features, medical history, and even their occupation."

The coldness of it settled over Clark like a shroud. A society that engineered choice out of the creation of life.

"Why?" he asked quietly.

Kara sighed. "Trauma, mostly. Centuries ago, Krypton had perfected cloning, and each Kryptonian had a trio of clones kept as living organ banks."

Kara’s words were casual, but they held a note of disgust. Cloning. That’s exactly what Lex was trying to do, had done. A cold shock coiled around Clark’s gut. The more and more he learned about Krypton, the more alien he felt. But Clark, despite himself, was still sitting on the edge of his seat.  He leaned even closer.

Kara’s voice took on that of a historian’s. “The protests for their rights escalated until a group called Black Zero detonated an atomic weapon in the heart of Kandor and killed forty million people. After that horror, we became afraid of messy biology, of passion. The Genesis Chamber was the logical, sterile solution."

The nagging feeling in Clark's mind sharpened by the shock, now settled into pure dread. Lex’s ambitions were perfectly aligned with Old Krypton’s. He was, in a way, parodying Krypton's own past, twisting it with his own deeply personal, human obsession.

Clark stood to leave, his mind reeling, when a white missile of fur shot past his legs, nearly tripping him. Krypto had apparently found Kara's running shoes and was now proudly parading around with a thoroughly mangled sneaker in his mouth.

"Kara, the dog-"

"Oh, he's fine," she said dismissively, not even looking at the destruction. "He's just being playful."

Clark left Kara’s apartment with the beautiful, aching image of a Sun-Naming in his mind, and the grotesque reality of Lex Luthor's plan churning in his gut.

And he still had no idea what to do or how he felt.

Attempt #1:

From his office throne overlooking the city, Lex watched the violet smoke climb into the bruised twilight. He had designed this blaze himself, a precise chemical cocktail burning hot and fast, leaving behind one impossibly stubborn ember. A glowing heart that would resist everything but the most direct application of moisture.

Perfect bait. He waited, breath held, for his star's dramatic entrance.

Superman's arrival was breathtaking offense incarnate. He moved with physics-defying grace, a crimson and blue prayer against the encroaching night. Lex's fingers tightened around his whiskey as he watched the alien dismantle his careful chaos with contemptuous ease.

The flames vanished. The smoke cleared. The ember sat there, glowing defiantly on scorched steel.

Lex leaned forward, breath fogging the window. Come on, he thought desperately. Do it. Spit.

Superman descended, hovering before the ember. Those perfect lips pursed, and for one heart-stopping second, Lex thought he'd won.

But what emerged was soft, focused super-breath. The ember hissed and died, leaving frost-rimmed black ash.

Lex cursed, grabbing a desk statuette and hurling it at the wall. It bounced off harmlessly with an irritating thonk, which somehow made everything worse.

Below, surrounded by firefighters, Clark looked up at Lex's office with sinking certainty. He knew exactly what had been orchestrated.

You don't get that part of me, he thought. Not this time, Lex.

Attempt #2:

Humiliated, Lex stooped to baser methods. In Gotham's putrid underworld, he found his instrument: a C-list villain called "Corrode," equipped with glandular mutations and pathetic delusions of grandeur. Lex funded him, provided an advanced containment suit, and unleashed him on the financial district with two directives: make a mess and get a sample.

Through his cloaked drone feed, Lex shuddered at the carnage. Corrode was disgusting, the vile way he hacked up streams of acid that melted pavement and pitted steel made Lex gag. But when Superman arrived, moving like a dancer through the vile projectiles, Lex forgot everything else.

Please, Lex found himself praying to a god he didn't believe in. Just spit. Fight back.

But the god wouldn't stoop. As Corrode gathered for another volley, Superman slammed him into a broken fire hydrant's spray. Then those lips pursed again- and released freezing air instead. The water crystallized instantly, encasing the villain in jagged ice.

Another sterile victory. Superman's hair wasn't even mussed.

Hovering above his ice sculpture, Clark spotted the LuthorCorp tech gleaming in the villain's suit. Pathetic. This whole desperate affair was pathetic.

Attempt #3:

Desperation drove Lex from his ivory tower. The press scrum outside the courthouse was a descent into a hell of sweaty bodies, cheap cologne, shouted questions crushing in from all sides. 

But his prize was so close at hand. Tucked under his arm, disguised as a news tablet, was a ridiculously advanced acoustic resonance collector. It was designed to isolate and capture micro-droplets from the air, a silver marvel of technology that felt less like a tool and more like an extension of his own ravenous want. With this, he would get close enough for a saliva sample.

He pushed through the crowd, his heart hammering against his ribs in a way that felt distressingly human. Superman would be leaving the courtroom and inevitably come to talk to the reporters. Sometimes he evaded them, but this time Lex knew he wouldn't. Because this time, the case had involved a kid. And when a Superman rescue involved kids later testifying in court, Superman was always there to walk them in and out, and more importantly, personally "handle" (or field off) the press.

The device locked onto the courthouse entrance. Victory tasted warm and wet on his tongue.

"Excuse me- oh, gosh, sorry!"

Kent. Daily Planet's bumbling farm boy, all ill-fitting glasses and graceless stumbles. Time slowed as a coffee cup tilted in brown despair, splashing across the collector with a dying scream. Cheap, burnt coffee filled the air. Delicate electronics fried, wisping smoke like a departing soul.

Lex stared at the ruined device, then up at Kent's babbling apologies. Through gritted teeth: "No problem."

But for one searing second before he turned away, Clark Kent met his gaze. The mask slipped. The bumbling reporter vanished, and behind cheap lenses, a god stared out with cold, silent triumph.

Nice try.

The Last Attempt:

Of course, things had to come to a head.  When Lex finally caught him, it was thundering over Metropolis.  The skyline was obscured with dark, angry clouds. Rain came down in hard, silver needles, plastering the iconic gold of the Daily Planet globe until it wept slick, metallic tears. Below, on the rooftop that served as the world’s most famous welcome mat, Superman  stood waiting, his red cape a slash of blood against the bruised purple of the sky.

He was always going to have to do this himself.  It wasn’t until now that Lex understood it.  He descended in a controlled, furious hiss of hydraulics in the best warsyit he’d crafted yet.  “Still playing sentinel for this city of insects?” Lex’s voice, amplified and distorted, boomed through the thunder.

Superman didn’t move. The rain slicked his dark hair to his brow, dripped from the sharp line of his jaw. He looked patient. He looked bored. And that, more than anything, was what made the acid churn in Lex’s gut.

The fight, if it could be called that, was a clumsy, one-sided, pathetic stumble. Lex threw punches that could level a building, his fists encased in powered gauntlets, and they glanced off the Kryptonian’s chest with a dull, pathetic clang. He fired energy blasts that sizzled into nothingness against that infuriating, diamond-hard skin. It was as though he were nothing but a child throwing rocks at a mountain, and the mountain was not even deigning to notice.

Whatever.  He didn’t care.  He could endure the humiliation, withstand the judgement in the superhero’s eyes. He wasn’t trying to win. He knew the chances of breaking skin were slim to nill, and Superman’s hair always seemed to be out of reach. So, he was trying to provoke the alien fucker. He needed a shout, a roar, a guttural cry that would carry a fine mist of biological gold. He needed him to spit.

But all he got was that damnable, placid silence.

It was infuriating. The rational part of Lex, the cold strategist, grasped for control, but the pounding sound of adrenaline in his ears and the roar of years of his repressed, obsessive need for Superman was beginning to take over what little cool logic was left. Fuck the sample. How dare he stare and say nothing.  How dare he just float there silent. Where was his pithy speeches about the good of humanity now? Why was he just staring? Why couldn’t Lex provoke him? Why?

Why?

WHY?

In a moment of pure, incandescent rage, strategy burned away, leaving only a raw, hot, aching nerve of need. Lex disengaged his helmet, the hiss of the seal breaking was lost to the thunder surrounding them both. Cold rain hit his face, a shock to his skin. He was exposed now.  With a scream of straining servos and protesting metal, the suit lunged and seized the alien by the shoulders. The gauntlets clamped down with force of the grip designed to hold a tank in place.

Before Superman could process the change, Lex surged forward and crashed his mouth against the Kryptonian’s.

It was more invasion than kiss. A grinding, angry claiming of territory. He bit down, tasting the faint metallic tang of ozone from a nearby lightning strike, tasting the rain, tasting him. His tongue pressed up against Superman’s.  It was warm, Lex thought.  Soft and warm.

For a single, eternal second, Superman was utterly still, a statue of shocked perfection in the heart of the storm. Lex felt a flash of wild, triumphant power. He had done it. He had surprised a god.  Triumphantly, Lex’s ran his tongue alongside the length of Superman’s, all the way to the tip, before pulling his bottom lip into his mouth with a soft suck.

Then, the world broke.

The alien’s arms of steel, which had been passive, wrapped around his warsuit. It wasn’t a gentle embrace. It was the crushing grip of tectonic plates shifting, and Lex was the victim caught between them. Lex felt the advanced alloy of his armor groan, dent, and scream under the impossible pressure. Alarms blared inside his HUD, red lights flashing warnings of catastrophic structural failure. His metal suit now felt like an impenetrable cocoon, he’d probably have to be pried out of it later by a team of inept scientists and the jaws of life.  

He was trapped.

And then Superman took control.

He deepened the kiss. Lex was stripped of his control, and it seemed Superman would not let him have it any time soon. Superman’s lips were firm, knowing, moving against his will with an authority that shattered Lex’s will. That damnable tongue tasting of nothing and everything, slipped past his teeth, exploring the interior of his with  slow, deliberate, and shockingly intimate purpose. If he’d wanted to, Superman could’ve bitten Lex’s tongue and tore it throat out with his teeth. He could’ve destroyed Lex like tearing through wet paper.

He didn’t. 

Instead, his tongue was a gentle muscle which prodded at places inside Lex where no one had dared to linger before.  He’d kissed other people before, models, heiresses, champagne girls.  Those had all been brief, transactionary, an honourable interlude between the main act.  This kiss was supposed to have been something similar, quick and business-like. Superman did not kiss quick and business-like, and Lex cursed Superman for not following the plan Lex had set out for the both of them.

That is, Lex would have cursed him, if he could focus for long enough. Superman’s kiss was overwhelming. It was a violation far deeper than the one Lex had attempted.  And in the wake of it, Lex’s mind, that fortress of intellect and ego, simply short-circuited. The blaring alarms, the groan of dying metal, the punishing grip that threatened to crack his ribs, the impossible, forbidden intimacy flooding his senses-- it was too much. His vision whited out. The only reality was the storm, the crushing pressure, and the mouth that was branding him from the inside out.

Just as the darkness at the edge of his vision threatened to swallow him whole, Superman pulled back. The release was as sudden as the capture. The pressure vanished. Lex stumbled, his suit’s gyros struggling to keep him upright. The metal skeleton of his suit was digging into his ribs.  He was breathless, trembling, the rain on his face mingling with something else, something hot.

He got the sample. It was on his lips, a wet smear on his tongue. But he had paid for it with his last shred of control. Humiliated and, God help him, Lex could not deny the presence of a traitorous heat coiling deep in his belly.

Lex didn't say a word. The helmet slid back into place with a pneumatic hiss, hiding his flushed, ravaged face. He retreated into the storm-blackened sky as though he was being chased, though Superman did not follow.

The silence in Project Cadmus’ lab was more damning than any scream. Lex stood, rigid and dripping, as the scientists --his scientists-- scraped the sample from his lips and tongue with a sterile swab. They handled it with the reverence of a holy relic, placing it in a cryo-vial, their movements clinical and precise. 

Thankfully, they did not bring up the kiss. 

Lex didn’t speak a word. He let Dr. Donovan drape a coat over his shoulders and escorted him out, the dented, groaning pieces of his warsuit already being hauled away for repair and analysis.  He shook Lex’s hand with a maniacal professionalism. Then he went back inside. 

Metropolis was a blur of refracted city lights through the rain-streaked windows of his Maybach. Lex drove himself, his knuckles white on the leather-wrapped wheel. He could still feel it, a phantom ache of metal pressing against his ribs, a ghost of a mouth on his own. 

The elevator shot straight to the apex of his glittering empire: his office. His throne room. The doors slid open with a soft, expensive hiss, revealing the familiar altar of his desk and the sprawling, glittering tapestry of his city beyond the floor-to-ceiling glass. He was home. He was in control.

The lie didn’t last for long. 

Lex’s rage was a wild animal clawing at the inside of his chest. He didn’t even turn on the lights. He stalked towards the window, the city lights his only illumination, and his hands went to his belt. With a grunt, he tore it free, his hands trembling, the leather groaning.  He could feel himself straining against the front of his pants.  He unbuttoned his trousers with furious fingers that shook with every moment. He didn’t bother taking them off entirely, just shoved them down his thighs, his expensive bespoke suit pooling around his ankles like a discarded skin.

He was already hard, a thick, aching jut of flesh that pulsed with a humiliating, desperate need. He pressed himself against the cold, unyielding glass of the window, the chill of it a shock against his heated skin. The city watched him from below, a million unblinking, indifferent amber eyes.

Let them fucking watch. Let them all see how far Lex had fallen.  He deserved it. 

His hand closed around his cock with a punishing grip. His fist was tight, twisting along his length, trying to reclaim ownership of his own body through pain. He squeezed his eyes shut, and the memory was immediately there, vivid and brutal. The rain, the thunder, the shock of being overpowered, and that kiss. That fucking kiss. The way the god had taken control and turned his act of theft into a lesson in submission.

The memory alone made his cock twitch in his hand.  He grunted, his hips involunarily bucking against the cold glass. Immediately, a fantasy began to form in his mind, filthy and depraved, taking control.  He was still here, in this room, but instead of looking over Metropolis from his window, he was bent over the edge of his onyx desk, pants around his ankles. With his eyes closed, he could almost feel the heat of Superman behind him, the shape of his broad chest against Lex’s back.  Almost, almost-

He imagined the alien’s hands, big enough to span his waist, digging into his hips, bruising him. He imagined the horrifying, thrilling weight of him as he pushed Lex’s face down onto the cool, polished surface of the desk where he signed deals that shaped the world. In his mind, he felt the blunt, heavy press of that impossible cockhead against his hole.  He could feel it leaking.  He could feel it twitch with a promise to split him in two. 

"Fuck," he moaned, his voice a ragged prayer in the empty room. He rolled his hips pathetically against his fist and tightened his grip. His own hand wasn’t enough. The fantasy was too big. He wanted to be filled, to be used, to be bred like a fucking animal. He wanted Superman to put him in his place.

He imagined the slow, brutal entry, the feeling of his body being stretched to the brim and claimed from the inside. He imagined the alien fucking him without a word, the only sounds the wet slap of their bodies, his own choked sobs, and the quiet, steady rhythm of a god taking what he wanted.

He’d dominate me, the thought screamed through his mind, and a wave of dizzying heat washed through him. He’d turn me into his own private breeding womb and fill me with his fucking kid.  He’d mold me to his shape and claim me with it.

The thought was so vile, so forbidden, so exactly what he ached for, that it was enough. His knuckles were white where he gripped himself. His hips slammed against the window, a frantic, punishing rhythm. He saw the alien’s face in his mind's eye, that placid, knowing expression, watching him come undone. He imagined that perfect mouth leaning down to whisper in his ear as he pounded into him, laughing, "This is what you wanted, isn't it, Lex? To have me inside you?”

A guttural roar ripped from his throat. He cried out unabashedly, for once not caring to censor himself.  He came with a violent, body-wracking shudder, a huge, hot load of cum splattering against the cold glass, a messy, obscene graffiti on the pristine view of his kingdom. It dripped down the window, a testament to his utter, complete undoing.

He stayed there for a long time, panting, his forehead pressed against the glass, the skyline blurring through the mess he’d made. The rage was gone, burned out, leaving only a hollow, vibrating ache. He had his sample. The zygote would be implanted. He would have his victory.

But as he stared out at his city, he knew, with a certainty that chilled him to the bone, that the sterile, clinical act awaiting him in the lab was nothing but a pathetic consolation prize. A cheap imitation of the terrifying truth he had just screamed into existence in the dark.

His eyes flickered to the white mess smeared on the window pane. He watched it as it slowly dripped down, feeling nothing but resigned defeat. 

No matter.  He would win, in the end.  He just had to be patient and let his well laid plans play out.  This was nothing but a momentary lapse of control.

He was an idiot.

The thought cut sharp and clear through Clark's mind as he hovered in the churning, rain-washed sky across from LexCorp tower.

He shouldn't have kissed him back.

His mind had become a terrifying, confusing loop, replaying the raw, desperate fury in Lex's eyes, the sudden, shocking vulnerability of the helmet retracting. He hadn't expected it. He had been so focused on de-escalating, on being the immovable object, that the sudden, violent press of the other man's mouth had simply... broken his composure. His reaction had been pure instinct. Something deep inside him had burst through to take control, something primal and dark. And in doing so, he had given Lex exactly what he needed.

He was a sorry excuse for a hero.

The moment Lex's car had disappeared into the subterranean entrance of LexCorp tower, Clark should have flown straight to Cadmus, staked it out, and waited. He should have followed the sample, found a moment when it was isolated in a lab, and destroyed it.

But he had hesitated. Instead of acting immediately, he had told himself he needed to be sure Lex wasn't planning an immediate double-cross. Even now, it sounded like a flimsy excuse.

And so Clark had remained paralyzed by a morbid, horrified fascination he had never known before. Through his super-hearing, he had caught the harsh, ragged breaths, the slick, desperate sound of skin on skin, the low groan that was half rage, half pleasure. He had heard it all. Worse, he had watched, face burning, as Lex, the most controlled man he had ever known, writhed against his own hand.

Clark's face had burned hotter than it ever had before. He had been frozen there, watching against every tenet of his Smallville upbringing as Lex's hand moved on himself in a punishing, angry rhythm. He had seen the fury in the set of his shoulders, the tension in his jaw. He had seen the lustful haze in his eyes. He had seen the desperation in his movements.

And in the aftermath, he had felt the twinges of his own perverse, heated curiosity pooling traitorously in his lower stomach.

Then had come the climax. He had watched Lex's body go rigid, a violent, shuddering spasm that seemed to wrack his entire frame. And he had heard it. He swore he had. A roar, ripped from the depths of Lex's throat, a sound of pure, agonized release. And woven into that raw, guttural cry had been a syllable, a name, a sound that hit Clark's ears and deciphered itself in his brain as his own name. Superman.

Clark had shot upward, rocketing into the cold, clean air of the upper atmosphere as if the rooftop itself had burned him. He flew until the city was just a distant, glittering circuit board below, but he couldn't escape the image, the sound. The heat in his face had been unbearable. He had felt sick with shame.

He thought of the cold, logical Kryptonians and their Genesis Chamber, and then he thought of Lex Luthor, coming undone against a window with Clark's name on his lips.

An unwelcome thought had shoved everything aside to make itself known: You could have fucked him right there and then. He wouldn't have complained.

He flew faster.

There had been nothing clinical or passionless about it. It was the most human, and most terrifying, thing he had ever witnessed.

He didn't go to Project Cadmus that night.

Clark told himself it was a tactical decision. To fly there immediately would be reckless. They would be on high alert. It was better to wait for morning, for the lull after the storm, when their guard was down. It was a perfectly logical and sensible lie.

He went home to his quiet Metropolis apartment, the sounds of the city a familiar lullaby, but sleep did not come easily. When it finally did, it brought the dream.

He was standing in the fields of the Kent farm, but the sun was warmer, heavier, the light golden-orange like a Kryptonian dawn. In his arms, he held a baby. The child was small but had a surprising weight, a density that felt solid and real. It had a shock of unruly black hair and eyes so dark they seemed to hold the starfield. The baby wasn't crying. It was looking up at him with a placid, knowing curiosity. He held the small body to his chest, feeling a tiny, impossibly strong hand fist around his finger. In the dream, he knew with a certainty that settled in his very bones that this was his son.

He awoke with a gasp to the gray light of a Metropolis morning, the dream already dissolving like mist. But the feeling remained, a deep, hollow ache in his chest, a phantom limb sensation for the warm weight he had just been holding. It was a longing so sharp and specific he couldn't put a name to it.

He needed to go. He knew he should go, now. Time was of the essence. He pictured the cryo-vial in the Cadmus lab, cold and clinical, a sterile piece of science waiting to be neutralized. Then he pictured the dark-haired baby from his dream, the feeling of that tiny, perfect hand in his.

Clark Kent got out of bed, showered, and put on his suit and tie for a day at the Daily Planet.

He didn't retrieve the sample.

The procedure was a success. The confirmation came via a single, encrypted message on Lex's private terminal: CHIMERA-SEQUENCE: VIABLE.

A slow, triumphant smile spread across Lex's face. Victory. He had done it. He was Prometheus, unbound and unafraid. He had stolen fire and would now nurture it into a sun of his own making.

But the feeling of triumph was a fragile, glass-thin thing, and the memory of the kiss was a hammer. In the middle of board meetings, while eviscerating his head of R&D, he would feel it: a phantom pressure on his lips, a ghostly echo of that overwhelming strength, the taste of rain. He would unconsciously touch his mouth, the gesture momentarily breaking his cadence, and the searing memory of his will crumbling under the weight of a man who looked like he'd walked off a magazine cover would sour his victory into ash.

The pregnancy was a constant, ticking clock, a monument to his genius, but it was also a brand.  It was a permanent reminder of the moment Superman had wormed his way under Lex's defenses.

The psychological haunting soon found a physical companion. The fetus, name to be determined at a later date, began to make its presence known.

Lex was on a conference call with his board in Tokyo, his voice a low, angry growl as he tore into their quarterly reports. The numbers were soft, his directives had been ignored, and the agitation was a hot, coiling serpent in his gut.

"This is unacceptable," he snarled, his fist tightening on the arm of his chair. "Your offer is barely that, it's more insult than actual business-"

He stopped. On the polished obsidian surface of his desk, a heavy crystal paperweight, a gift from a senator he had ruined, was trembling. He stared at it. As another wave of fury washed through him, the paperweight lifted a clean inch into the air, hovering, vibrating with a low, contained hum. A sterling silver pen next to it rolled slowly, deliberately, uphill into its holder.

The voices from Tokyo faded into meaningless static. He slowly disconnected the call with a flimsy excuse, his eyes never leaving the impossible sight. He focused on the levitating object, the anger draining out of him, replaced by a cold, prickling dread mixed with terrifying awe. The alien power growing inside him was no longer some abstract biological process. It was a tangible force, a silent passenger responding to his own rage, a constant, unnerving reminder that he was no longer alone in his own body.

He was really carrying a baby. An alien baby.

He had big plans for this child, this living legacy forged from his own body and the alien's stolen essence. Plans that did not involve a moralizing, self-righteous father figure in a cape. The child would be his, and his alone, molded, taught, and weaponized into the perfect heir. But for that to happen, he needed absolute secrecy.

The revelation of the child's emerging powers only reinforced his paranoia. The next day, he organized for a tailor to come to his mansion and take measurements for a custom, lead-lined suit. He couldn't trust that Superman's prying, X-ray gaze couldn't penetrate flesh and bone to see the impossible truth nestled within him. The thought of those blue eyes seeing his vulnerability, seeing the tiny, growing fetus, was a violation Lex would not tolerate.

But his new armor could not protect him from the enemy within. The pregnancy was, in a word, a betrayal. His own body, the one vessel he had perfected and controlled his entire life, was now rebellious territory. Mornings were a nauseous blur, spent kneeling before a porcelain throne in his private bathroom, spitting up bile and cursing the alien parasite inside him.

Worst of all were the cravings, the vague, maddening hungers for flavors and textures he could not identify, left him irritable and perpetually unsatisfied. His body was no longer a finely tuned instrument. It was a traitorous vessel, and he hated it.

It was in this state of frayed, nauseated tension that he agreed to the interview. And of course, it had to be with Kent.

Clark Kent sat opposite him, exuding an aura of earnest, farm-fed simplicity that Lex found profoundly irritating. He asked his questions, scribbling in his little notepad, the picture of a harmless second-stringer. But his eyes, behind those cheap glasses, were unnervingly observant.

When the official interview concluded, Clark paused while packing his things. "Are you feeling okay, Mr. Luthor?" he asked, his voice laced with gentle, disarming concern. "You seem a little pale."

Lex's jaw tightened. "I'm perfectly fine, Kent."

"It's just, all this stress," Clark pressed on, oblivious. "My mom always swears by ginger tea for an upset stomach. An all-natural remedy. Works wonders."

The word "stomach" landed like a physical blow. The accuracy of the comment, veiled as it was in oafish sincerity, was uncanny.

Lex felt a hot flash of paranoia. He lashed out, his voice sharp and laced with condescension. "Fascinating, Kent. Perhaps you can pass on your mother's wisdom to your alien confidant next time you're polishing his boots for an exclusive. I'm sure he's fascinated by the frailties of human biology."

Clark simply gave him a placid, unoffended little smile and left. The encounter left Lex feeling shaken, the lead lining of his suit suddenly feeling thin and useless.

An hour later, a nameless assistant entered his office holding a small, unassuming white bakery box. "This was left for you at reception, sir. From Mr. Kent."

Lex's first instinct was to have it incinerated, or thrown from the window. But a small, handwritten note was attached to the string. He tore it off.

Thank you for your time. - C.K.

Contemptuously, he opened the box. Inside, resting on a piece of wax paper, was a perfect, glistening strawberry tart. The crust was golden-brown, the berries were a deep, luscious red, and the glaze shone under his office lights like a captured jewel. The smell hit him first- sweet, earthy, sun-ripened. The aroma went straight to the ravenous, primal need that had been plaguing him for weeks.

This. This was the flavor. This was the craving he hadn't been able to name.

Once the door slid shut, he fell upon the tart like a starving animal. All reason went out the window instead of the pastry. He didn't even use a fork. Instead, his fingers tore at the sweet treat, stuffing crumbling pastry into his mouth with ravenous intent, the burst of fresh strawberries on his tongue an explosion of sublime relief.

His eyes fell upon the small, simple card that had been tucked into the box.

He stared at the neat, unassuming handwriting. He didn't know how, couldn't prove it, but he knew, on a deep, instinctual level, that he was being played with. He crumpled the card in his fist, his composure not just frayed, but pierced clean through.

The ghosts of Lex's past schemes had a way of returning when least expected. His failed PR campaign, the one that had subtly painted Superman as a being of unchecked appetites and whispered of a harem hidden in his Fortress of Solitude, had mostly faded from public memory. The news cycle in Metropolis was a quick and vicious machine that chewed up stories and spat them out at dizzying speeds, especially when it came to the Man of Steel. But its echoes remained, fueling the imaginations of the city's most rabid and desperate.

He was watching the evening news when the latest ghost materialized. A tearful woman from Hub City, face blotchy and sincere, was accusing Superman of being a deadbeat dad. She spoke of a mysterious child, fathered and then cruelly abandoned alongside its mother.

Lex watched, a glass of something expensive, nonalcoholic, and untouched in his hand. At first, he felt the familiar, cold satisfaction of a successfully planted seed sprouting years later. Chaos. Doubt. A stain on the golden image. It was good work.

But as the woman's story continued, a new and unfamiliar emotion began to curdle in his gut: a gnawing, territorial annoyance.

This woman, with her cheap theatrics and poorly rehearsed tears, was an impostor. She was a pretender to a throne she couldn't even conceive of. Lex's throne. His hand, as if with a mind of its own, moved to rest on the slight, firm swell of his own abdomen, hidden beneath the lead-lined weave of his suit. The gesture was unconscious, instinctive.

Then the broadcast cut to Superman, standing before a throng of reporters. He looked, as always, infuriatingly calm.

His answer, too, was calm and measured. "When I do have a child that needs me," Superman said, his voice carrying over the din with perfect clarity, "I will be there."

The words had an instantaneous effect. The news anchors began fawning over his integrity, his quiet strength. A live poll flashed on screen, including snapshots of social media responses: Superman's public approval rating was soaring. The public, it seemed, loved the idea of their hero as a tragic, honorable father, even a hypothetical one.

Lex's face twisted into something heinous. And as he watched the wave of public sympathy swell for the man he sought to destroy, he felt a sudden, untraceable twinge of something sharp and cold in his chest. It wasn't anger. It wasn't frustration either. He hunted for a name for the feeling, for the hollow ache in the pit of his stomach that seemed to echo in an empty room.

Loneliness.

The realization was a shock, followed by an uneasy dread. He was the silent, invisible co-parent in a drama that, if played poorly, could unfold viciously on a global stage.

He switched off the screen, plunging the office into heavy silence broken only by the distant hum of the city. He stood there in the dark, his hand still resting on his stomach, feeling more isolated than he ever had in his life. The dramatic irony was thick and suffocating, and for the first time, Lex Luthor felt choked by it.

Lex hadn’t wanted to attend the gala, but as the largest donor to the latest wing of the Metropolis Musuem of Art, it would be uncouth if he didn’t show his face.  He was risking discovery by stepping out in public now, the swell of his belly would give him away in an instant, but he had no choice. He prayed that if the weight gain was noticed, it would be chalked up to something else, a poor diet, a newly acquired interest in beer, a benign cyst, anything but the truth of the matter.

If the public knew, he would never recover.  It would be over. Well and truly over.

When the blasted event finally finished the last of the speeches and the desert was being brought out, he left. Lex was cutting through the museum's grand marble lobby, the polite goodbyes of the city's elite echoing behind him, when a familiar, unwelcome presence blocked his path. Clark Kent, looking absurdly wholesome in a slightly-too-big suit, held a reporter's notebook like a shield.

"Mr. Luthor, a moment? I have a few questions for you on a lead about some irregularities in your third-quarter projections for the aerospace division- "

"You have a lead," Lex cut in, his voice dangerously soft, "on a headache, Kent. It's late, I have sponsored this city's access to priceless antiquities, and I have no desire to discuss fiscal minutiae with a man who probably still balances his own checkbook."

He made to step around him, but Kent, with that infuriating, farm-boy persistence, moved in step with him. "It's just, the numbers don't seem to add up. Sources say-"

"Your sources are likely as fictional as your journalistic integrity," Lex snarled, his patience already worn thin by hormones and exhaustion, finally snapping. He jabbed a finger toward Kent's chest. "You are a parasite, a lapdog who fetches whatever scraps your alien master throws you. You orbit him, hoping to catch a glimmer of his light, but all you do is-"

He stopped. Not because he had run out of insults, but because a sudden, sharp, and entirely alien jolt had just occurred deep inside his own body. It was like a muscle spasm, but it was not his muscle. It was a definitive, powerful kick.

Lex froze. The breath left his lungs in an involuntary gasp. His hand, as if with a will of its own, flew to his abdomen, pressing against the spot beneath the fine wool of his lead-lined suit. The anger, the irritation, the world-weary contempt, it all vanished. For a single, unguarded second, his face was a picture of unadulterated wonder.

And Clark saw it.

Their eyes locked. The noisy lobby faded into a dull, muffled roar. The air between them grew thick, heavy with unspoken, impossible knowledge. And then, Clark’s expression shifted. The earnest, slightly goofy look of the reporter was gone, replaced by a soft, gentle, and utterly knowing smile that made Lex Luthor's blood run cold.

Panic, sharp and immediate, seized him. He knows. Lex prayed that the sharp tailoring of his suit was enough, that Kent's eyes couldn't see the slight, but undeniable, swell of his midsection. This was his last public appearance for months. He couldn't be discovered now.

He feigned a lurch, pressing a hand to his mouth. "Nausea," he gritted out. "The canapés, I imagine."

Clark’s Boy Scout charm snapped back into place, but it was different now, layered with something else, a worrying glint Lex couldn’t quite place. "You look pale, Mr. Luthor. I can drive you back to your office."

"I can drive myself," Lex replied sharply, the words a reflex.

"Are you sure? It's no trouble." The concern in his voice was so genuine it was insulting.

"If you're so concerned, Kent," Lex snapped, not knowing why he was saying it, why he was offering this insane compromise, "you can see me to my car."

He didn't know why he said it, and he certainly didn't know why Clark immediately agreed, his knowing smile softening into something warm and infuriatingly kind. "Of course."

Clark placed a hand on his lower back to guide him, and the touch was a brand. Lex was acutely aware of the solid, warm pressure through the layers of his suit. He was aware of the heat radiating off of Clark’s body as they stood unbearably close in the mirrored silence of the elevator, the low hum of its descent the only sound.

In the cool, cavernous quiet of the parking garage, their footsteps echoed off the concrete. When they reached his obsidian-black Maybach, Clark stepped ahead and opened the driver's side door for him with natural ease, a gesture of such old-fashioned, gentle courtesy that it left Lex momentarily speechless.

"Are you sure you're fine to drive, Mr. Luthor?" Clark asked again, his large frame silhouetted against the garage's fluorescent lights.

Lex’s defense mechanisms kicked back in. "And how would you get home, Kent, if I wasn't?" He asked pointedly.

Clark just smiled, a little goofy and entirely sincere. "I don't mind the bus."

Lex rolled his eyes, a theatrical display of his own annoyance. "I'll be fine," he said, moving to slide into the driver's seat.

But for one, terrifying beat, he paused. He seriously, seriously considered it. The image flashed in his mind: handing the keys to this gentle giant, sinking into the passenger seat, and letting himself be taken care of for the ten-minute drive home. The thought of surrendering that small piece of control, of accepting that quiet, steady strength, was so appealing it felt like a physical blow.

And that scared him more than anything else.

Everything shattered at 2:38 AM. A sudden, violent siege from within that ripped Lex from a dead sleep with a guttural cry. He jackknifed in his silk sheets, his body seized by a pain so profound it felt like his bones were being ripped apart, then ground into dust. He fumbled for the chrono on his nightstand, the glowing numbers a cruel, mocking joke.  He sat up in his wet, soaked sheets.

Four weeks early.

Panic, cold and absolute, washed over him. He was alone. It was the dead of night. His assistant was off-site. His on-call medical team wasn't scheduled to be on standby for another twenty-one days. There was no one to call, no one who could know.

Another contraction hit, a brutal, giant’s fist twisting his insides, and he collapsed onto the floor, the plush carpeting doing little to cushion the agony. He had to get to the med-bay, in the basement of his mansion. The thought was a distant lighthouse in a hurricane of pain. He began to crawl. The journey from his bedroom to the hidden panel in his study was a harrowing eternity. He clawed his way across priceless rugs and polished floors, his tailored pajamas soaked with sweat and amniotic fluid, his dignity stripped away and left behind with every ragged gasp.

Keep going, he ordered himself, getting his teeth with every moment.  There’s nobody coming to help you.  You’ve only got yourself to fix this.

He finally slammed his palm against the biometric panel, the wall sliding away to reveal the sterile white sanctuary of his med-bay. In the center of the room sat the Caduceus Pod, a marvel of automated surgical technology, his salvation. But as he staggered towards it, his vision swimming, he saw the flaw in his perfect, solitary plan. The pod required calibration, a steady hand to input his vitals on the touchscreen, a calm state for the biometric analysis.

He collapsed against its cool, sterile side as another wave of agony crested over him. His hands shook too violently to even attempt the screen. His own genius, his perfect machine, was useless to him. He was going to have to do it naturally, he thought with a surge of hysterical despair, alone in his secret room, split apart by his own magnificent, impossible ambition.

It would be fine.  People have been giving birth on their own for thousands of years before medical intervention, with only woo-woo witchdoctors and medicine women to guide them through.  Lex could do this.

He could.  Birth was such a primitive, lowly event, it wouldn’t be anything he couldn’t-

Another contraction hit, and Lex keeled over with a small, pathetic noise.  His body gave up, sliding off of the Cadeceus Pod and to the floor, pressing his cheek to the cool laminated floor.  His eyes were heavy, his limbs heavy, but fear shot through his nerves.

Breathe, Lex, you idiot!  His mind cursed. A single tear rolled down his cheek, followed by another. He could. And even if he couldn’t, he had to.

He was scared.  He was scaredest he’d been in his entire, pathetic life. 

It was in that moment of ultimate vulnerability, as he lay snivelling on the floor in a heap of pain and surrender, that a shadow detached itself from the others in the dimly lit room. A soft whisper of fabric, the sound of a cape settling, was the only warning he got.

Lex looked up, his eyes wide with a horror that transcended pain. There He stood, a silhouette of impossible strength against the cool glow of the medical displays.

"I told you I'd be here," Superman said. His voice was quiet, devoid of malice, devoid of triumph, devoid of anything but a calm, steady certainty. And that was somehow the worst thing of all.

Before Lex could spit a curse or a denial, the man was moving. He knelt, and with an absurd, impossible gentleness, slid his arms under Lex's back and knees. Lex was too weak, too wracked with pain to fight as he was lifted as if he weighed nothing. He was laid carefully onto the padded surface of the Caduceus Pod.

"The pain," Lex gritted out, the words a surrender. "Make it stop."

Superman’s eyes scanned the pod's interface, his focus absolute. He tapped the screen, navigating menus with an unnerving quickness. A small, articulated arm extended from the pod, holding an auto-injector. "This will help," he said, his voice still that same, infuriatingly calm murmur. He placed the injector against Lex's spine, and with a soft hiss, a wave of blessed, numbing cold began to spread through him, chasing the fire away.

The pod whirred to life, its diagnostic arms scanning and preparing. A laser scalpel began its precise, bloodless work. Panic, cold and sharp, began to rise in Lex's throat. This was it. This was real. He was being cut open, vulnerable, at the mercy of his own machine and his greatest enemy.  He started to tremble from the weight of the moment, everything was happening so fast, his heart hammered in his chest like a jackhammer.

He was still so scared.

And then, a warm, impossibly strong hand covered his. He flinched, his first instinct to snatch his hand away, but the grip was firm, steady. He looked from his own trembling hand to the one holding it, then up at the face of the man standing beside him. Superman wasn't looking at him with pity or scorn. He was watching the machine, his expression focused, his presence a silent, solid anchor in the terrifying  storm.

|Against his own will, Lex's fingers curled, loosly gripping back.

The moments that followed were a blur of beeps, mechanical whirs, and the strange, detached pressure of the procedure. But through it all, there was the constant, grounding weight of that hand in his.

Then, a new sound. A thin, reedy cry that cut through the clinical hum of the med-bay. The pod's robotic arm retracted, and cradled in its sterile basin was a baby. A tiny, perfect, and furiously screaming baby.

A half assembled nurse-bot popped out from a nearby panel swiveled into place, cleaning the child with practiced efficiency before swaddling him in a soft thermal blanket. It turned and placed the warm, wailing bundle into Lex's waiting arms.  “Congra- gra -gra -gra -gra -gratulations!” It beamed in a robotic voice devoid of emotion. “It’s a b-b-b-b-b-baby!”

He was so small. He had a tuft of shocking black hair and, when his eyes finally fluttered open, they were a startling, impossible blue that held the depth of his father's gaze. The plans, the anger, the years of obsession…it all felt distant, muted. All that existed was the warm, solid weight of the child in his arms. His child.

He looked up at Superman, who was staring at the baby with an expression of such pure, unguarded wonder that it momentarily stripped the god from his face, leaving only a man. The sight made something buzz in the back of Lex’s head, something pleased and warm.

"Conner," Lex whispered, the name a claim, an anchor, a beginning. "His name is Conner."

Superman reached out to gently brush a dark curl off of Conner’s forehead.  “Hello, Conner,” he cooed with a smile that was a little goofy, entirely sincere, and as pleased as could be.

Lex couldn’t help his own smile.

It turned out that a body augmented by sheer, indomitable will and the best medical technology money could buy healed remarkably fast. The two months following Conner's birth were a blur of uncomplicated recovery for Lex, and a slow, creeping, deeply infuriating invasion.

Superman, it seemed, was moving in.

There was no discussion, no U-Haul, just a gradual colonization of Lex's pristine penthouse, one of many he owned in the city and had babyproofed months prior. It started with a diaper pail appearing in the nursery, then a ridiculously complex bottle sterilizer claiming territory on his kitchen counter. The final declaration of war, however, was the crib.

Lex was trying to close a multi-billion dollar deal when the rhythmic banging started, a concussive hammering that vibrated through the floor and into his teeth. He stormed from his office to find Superman hunched over in his full, ridiculous costume, assembling a handcrafted wooden crib in the absolute geometric center of his living room.

"What, in God's name, are you doing?" Lex demanded over the hammering.

Superman paused, looking up with that infuriatingly earnest expression. "The instructions are in Swedish. I'm a little rusty, but I think I've got it figured out."

"I don't care if the instructions are in ancient Kryptonian! This room has carefully curated sight lines. I just had this place furnished, perfectly mind you! You're destroying the feng shui!"

Superman looked around, genuinely perplexed, as though he was looking for the perfect furnishing Lex was talking about (and having trouble finding it). "It has the best airflow here,” he insisted. And from this spot, he can see the sky." He gave the frame one final, definitive bang and smiled with proud paternal satisfaction that made Lex want to scream.

The alien invasion continued in full force, and Lex as always was powerless to stop it. Superman was always holding the baby. When he was there, Conner never touched the ground or his expensive, temperature-controlled bassinet. He lived permanently in the crook arm of a god, cradled against that perfect chest.

"You're going to spoil him," Lex said irritably one afternoon, watching Superman bounce a fussy Conner while humming a low note that made the crystal glasses tremble. "He needs to learn self-soothing. Sometimes you have to let them cry themselves to sleep."

Superman looked at him like he'd suggested throwing the child from the window. He pulled Conner closer, his large hand protective across the tiny back. "No! There's no way I can do that. His heart is beating so fast. He's scared. He just needs to know he's not alone."

The most maddening part was that Superman never stayed the night. Lex would lie alone in his vast penthouse until Conner's cries echoed from the nursery at two, three, four AM. Just as Lex reached for the baby, he'd feel it-- air pressure shifting, wind from the balcony. And there he'd be.

Superman would simply appear like a silent specter, wordlessly taking Conner from Lex's arms. He'd pace soundlessly until the cries softened, then silence as Conner nestled against that impossibly broad chest. After minutes of low, alien humming, he'd place the sleeping baby back in his handmade crib, nod at Lex, and vanish into the city's embrace.

Lex would stand there, arms strangely empty, rationalizing: Of course he can't stay. There's only one bed. Where would he sleep? The sofa? Ridiculous.

But watching his son's peaceful breathing, hollow loneliness would settle over the room, colder than the skyline beyond his windows. He had a child, a co-parent- and yet the quiet of his perfect, sterile home had never felt more like punishment.

The domestic nightmare continued. Superman’s presence in the penthouse had become a given, an infuriating fact of life like gravity or taxes. But nothing could have prepared Lex for the sheer, mortifying absurdity of their first official outing: Conner’s two-month check-up at Project Cadmus.

Superman insisted on coming along, as if they were heading to a normal pediatrician instead of a clandestine facility literally designed to neutralize him. The sight of Lex Luthor's Maybach at the research compound was expected. The sight of Superman emerging from the passenger seat, carefully unbuckling a state-of-the-art baby carrier, was decidedly not.

The guards went rigid, hands drifting instinctively toward weapons they knew were useless. The scientists behind reinforced lab windows pressed themselves against the walls, staring with the wide-eyed paralysis of prey animals. Everyone knew what Cadmus was built for. Everyone knew Superman was the primary target of ninety percent of their research. And yet here he stood in their lobby, cradling an infant with the casual ease of any other parent.

No one moved. No one spoke. The silence stretched until it became suffocating, thick with the weight of a thousand contingency plans that had never accounted for this scenario. The only person who seemed entirely unaffected was the alien-god himself, who only quietly rocked the carseat and cooed at the baby, as though he was meant to be there.  Lex, with tightfaced, teeth gritting embarrassment, marched them forward and ignored the questioning gazes.  But he could still see the question in everyones eyes: Was Superman still the enemy, or had they become something else entirely?

In the medical consultation, Dr. Donovan's hands shook as he reviewed Conner's preliminary scans, sweat beading along his hairline despite the climate-controlled environment..

"The cellular development is... accelerated," Donovan began, his voice barely steady. "Bone density is approximately three times the human baseline. Cardiovascular systems show enhanced efficiency."

"Is that dangerous?" Superman asked.  Donovan, who had been avoiding Superman’s gaze this entire time, suddenly looked to him with eyes filled with suspicion, and the question hung in the air like a loaded gun. Was he asking as a father, or was he gathering intelligence on potential weaknesses?

Lex watched the exchange with calculating eyes. "Define 'enhanced,'" he said quietly, and Donovan's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard.

"Muscle fiber development suggests strength capacity far beyond normal parameters. The central nervous system shows remarkable integration with... unusual energy pathways."

Superman leaned forward slightly. It was just a shift in posture, but Donovan flinched as if facing down a predator. "What kind of energy pathways?"

The doctor's eyes darted between his two audiences: the alien whose genetic template they'd been studying for years, and the man who'd ordered those studies. "Bioelectric signatures we've never documented in human subjects. Electromagnetic field generation. Solar radiation absorption rates that should be... impossible.  But he is Kryptonian so…" he trailed off.  “We’ll need more data.”

Donovan stared at Lex this time, and he understood the underlying message behind his words.  He wanted to do tests on Superman.  He wanted more Kryptonian data.

Lex scowled and looked to the ground.  Yeah, good luck with that, he thought to himself bitterly. He had very little, likely zero, command over the hero whatsoever. Fat chance of convincing him to lay down on a mad scientist’s examination table. 

Superman stared at Lex, but said nothing. The unspoken weight settled between them both. This child was becoming something beyond either of their expectations. Something that belonged fully to neither of them, yet bound them together in ways that made the sterile air feel dense with implication.

The ride back was tense and silent, save for Conner’s soft snoring in the backseat. When they stepped out of the elevator into the penthouse, however, the scene was… different. A single, slightly deflated Mylar balloon that read “NEWBORN!” was taped haphazardly to one of Lex’s priceless floor lamps. A string of sad, drooping blue streamers was strung between a potted ficus and a Modigliani sculpture. Krypto the dog gnawed on the leg of a very expensive coffee table.

And standing in the middle of it all, beaming, was a tipsy Kara Zor-El.

She held a small, badly wrapped gift and gestured, only swaying slightly in the process, to pile of brightly wrapped gifts. She completely ignored Lex.

“There you are!” she chirped, her smile blindingly bright. She only slurred a little bit. “Kinda hard to start without the man-baby- of the hour. We still have to play ‘Guess the Melted Candy Bar in the Diaper’!”

Lex stared, his mind struggling to process the sheer audacity, the tackiness of the super cousin and her violation. “What,” he said, his voice a low growl, “is the meaning of this? And what have you done to my Noguchi coffee table?”

Krypto only growled in response and continued to work his teeth around the coffee table. Lex was seriously, seriously, seriously close to growling back. 

Kara waved a dismissive hand, her eyes still locked on her cousin. “Oh, relax, Baldy. It’s a baby shower. For Cl-Kal.”

Superman, for his part, looked deeply touched. He handed the baby carrier to Lex as if it were a coat he was checking, and strode forward to envelop his cousin in a hug that lifted her off the floor. “Kara, you didn’t have to do this.”

“Of course I did! You’re a dad now!” she laughed, her voice full of genuine, uncomplicated joy. “I even got him his first book.” She handed over the small, brightly wrapped package she’d been holding. Superman carefully unfolded the package as though he meant to reuse the wrapping paper. It was a copy of Love You Forever, Robert Munsch.

As Lex stood there, awkwardly holding the high-tech carrier and a diaper bag slung over his shoulder, he watched them. He saw the way Superman’s entire posture softened, the way the weight of the world seemed to lift from his shoulders as he laughed with his cousin. He saw the easy, unthinking affection between them, a warmth that filled the room and made the dollar-store decorations seem almost cheerful.

And he felt some type of way about it. A sharp, bitter, and profoundly lonely feeling. He was standing in his own home, next to his own son, and he was the intruder. He was watching a family have a moment, a moment he had no part in, a language of warmth he did not speak. It was a club with two members, and he was just the guy who owned the clubhouse. The unrequited longing was a cold, hard knot in his chest, a feeling so alien and unwelcome he didn't even have a name for it.

Of course, the peace couldn't last. It was a fragile, impossible thing, a ship in a bottle built in the heart of a hurricane. Lex had almost been stupid enough to believe they could exist in this strange domestic limbo forever, a silent, undeclared truce held in the name of the sleeping child in the nursery. He should have known better.

The confrontation, when it came, started quietly. Superman was standing by the window, the city lights reflecting in his eyes, holding a sleeping Conner against his shoulder. Lex walked in, fresh from a series of calls that had secured his dominance over the South American lithium market, and he looked at his son. His mind a whirl of emotion.

Superman glanced up at Lex, and Lex could’ve sworn his arms held Conner closer. As though Lex were a threat. He met Lex’s eyes. A beat passed. then two. When it became clear that Lex was not returning to his work, Superman relented and laid the baby down in his high-tech bassinet. The dark haired baby gurgled in his sleep. "What do you see when you look at him, Lex?" Superman asked. His voice was soft, but the question landed like a stone.

Lex didn't miss a beat. "I see potential," he said, moving to the bar to pour himself a drink. "Something you, with everything handed to you, could never comprehend. I see a future where power is guided by intellect, not naive altruism."

"Potential for what?" Superman turned, his eyes losing their soft light, replaced by something harder. "Another Ultraman? A mindless weapon with your face and my power, loyal only to the dictator who built his cage?"

Lex swirled the amber liquid in his glass, jaw tightening. If anything, the baby would have Superman's face. He could see it even now in Conner's features, the nose, those ice-blue eyes, the chin. "Please. He won't be a weapon, you sentimental fool. He'll be a king. I'm going to give him the world." He took a sip, smug. "Something you'd never be able to do."

"You mean you're going to aim him at the world like a loaded gun." Superman's voice dropped, taking on that familiar resonant authority. "Do you even see a baby when you look at him? Or just another way to get back at me?"

That hit a nerve. "This stopped being about you the moment he was conceived!" Lex snapped, slamming his glass down. "This is about legacy! About ensuring someone with his power isn't neutered by your pathetic need to kneel before inferiors!"

"And you want to teach him to see people as insects!" Clark's voice was rising now, a rumble of thunder. He stepped away from the window, away from the sleeping child. "You're incapable of love, Lex. You only understand possession. You didn't have him because you wanted a son.  You had him because you couldn't stand not owning something more powerful than yourself."

"And you'd rather he grow up to be like you?" Lex roared, advancing into the center of the room. "Drifting through life, reacting, pretending you're not a god while you waste your time saving cats! I'll teach him to be a creator, a ruler!"

"You'll teach him to be a monster. Just like you."

"Better a monster than a slave!"

"He's a baby!" Superman shouted, and the windows rattled. "He's not your project or your revenge fantasy, he's a child!"

"He's my child!" Lex shot back. "Mine! I carried him, I birthed him, I-"

"You used him!" The words exploded out of Superman. "From the moment you stole that sample, he's been nothing but a weapon to you. A way to hurt me, control me, prove some sick point about superiority!"

"Don't you dare-" Lex started forward, his face twisted with rage.

"What? Tell the truth?" Superman took a step to meet him. "That you're so empty inside, so desperate to matter, that you'd twist an innocent child into another version of yourself? That you'd rather he be feared than loved?"

"Love?" Lex laughed, sharp and ugly. "Love is what weak people cling to when they have nothing else! I'll give him power!"

"You'll give him nothing but your poison!" Superman’s voice was dangerous now, barely controlled. "Every day I'm here, I'll undo whatever sick lessons you try to teach him. I'll show him what strength actually means- something you've never understood in your miserable, hollow life!"

"Get out of my house," Lex snarled, his hands shaking with fury.

"It's his house too." Superman's voice went deadly quiet. "And unlike you, I actually give a damn about what's best for him. So no, Lex. I'm not going anywhere. And if you think you can poison my son-"

"Your son?" Lex's voice cracked. "You contributed genetic material! That's all! You're nothing to him, nothing to this family-"

"We're not a family!" The words tore out of Superman like a bullet. "We're two people who can barely stand each other, trapped together because we made something beautiful and you're too broken to see it!"

The silence that followed was deafening. They stood there, breathing hard, the weight of what Clark had said settling between them like a challenge. Beautiful. He'd called their son beautiful.

Superman took a step forward. Then another. His movements were deliberate now, controlled in a way that was somehow more threatening than his earlier rage. Lex found himself backing up instinctively, his heart hammering against his ribs, until he felt the cold, hard shock of the penthouse window against his back. There was nowhere else to go. The lights of Metropolis glittered below, a sprawling, indifferent galaxy that had once been his kingdom, but now only served as a witness to his cage.

Superman’s expression shifted from anger to a terrifying calm. He leaned in, his voice dropping to a murmur that was somehow more menacing than his rage.

"All you had to do was ask, Lex," Superman murmured, his voice a low thrum that vibrated through the glass at Lex’s back. "You were so desperate for a taste. You went to all that trouble, when all you had to do was admit you wanted me."

No-

Lex faltered, falling more against the window in shock. The words were a quiet, surgical incision into Lex’s pride. A raw, primal fury erupted in him, his last line of defense. No, he wasn’t going to let Superman have this, he wouldn’t let him get under his skin again- 

"You arrogant son of a bitch," he spat, his voice shaking with a rage that was half terror. "This was never about you. It was about your genetics. A resource to be harvested. A means to a fucking end."

Superman took a step closer, the space between them shrinking to nothing. He was a mountain of warmth and solid power, and Lex could feel the heat of him, could smell the clean, impossible scent of ozone and starlight. "Was it?" he asked, his voice still that same, gentle, soul-stripping murmur. "Was the fire you set about genetics? Was hiring that villain from Gotham a clinical act? Was that kiss on the rooftop... just data collection?"

Every word was a nail in the coffin of his denial. Lex, stripped of his arguments, left with nothing but the raw, screaming truth of his obsession, did the only thing he could. He lunged, shoving with all his human strength against the Kryptonian's chest. It was like trying to move a planet. His hands might as well have been made of paper.

Superman didn’t even flinch. He simply absorbed the useless assault, and then his hands came up, impossibly fast, and closed around Lex's wrists. It would have been more bearable if Superman had crushed them in his grip. This was worse. It was too casual, too effortless. He pinned Lex's hands to the cold glass on either side of his head.  Lex wished he had shattered his wrist bones instead.

"You're trembling," Superman observed, his blue eyes searching Lex's face, peeling back every layer of fury and leaving the quivering nerve of want exposed. "All that power, all that anger, and you're just shaking. What do you really want, Lex?"

Superman, with those damning hands still manacled to Lex’s wrist, brought one of Lex's hands to his chest, pressing the palm flat against the iconic 'S'. Lex could feel the slow, steady, powerful beat of his heart beneath the unyielding muscle. "Is this what you wanted to feel?" he whispered, his breath warm against Lex’s cheek. Then, he slid Lex's hand lower, down the hard plain of his stomach, until his fingers brushed against the thick ridge of the alien’s cock through the suit. "Or was it this?"

A choked, broken sound tore from Lex’s throat. It was the end. His fingers, traitourous digits, twitched.

"Admit it," Superman breathed, his mouth hovering just over Lex's.

"Fuck you," Lex gasped, the words a prayer. His eyes flickered down to Superman’s mouth.

"Later," Superman promised, and then he closed the final inch.

Superman’s mouth was firm, knowing, taking Lex’s with a possessive thoroughness that was both a punishment and a sacrament. He plundered Lex’s mouth, a hot, wet exploration that left no corner unclaimed. Lex’s mind, already reeling, simply shattered. The rage, the fear, the humiliation, it all collapsed into a single, roaring wave of need. He kissed him back as though he needed Superman’s mouth to breathe.

When Superman finally broke the kiss, Lex’s mouth had futilely tried to follow. He was left panting, his head thrown back against the glass, a string of saliva connecting their lips. And then the destruction began. Superman's hands went to the front of Lex’s bespoke silk shirt, and with a single, brutal pull, ripped it open, buttons scattering like tiny, useless shrapnel. Lex’s belt was unbuckled, his trousers torn down his legs with a sound of rending fabric, leaving him exposed and shivering in the cool air of the penthouse.

Embarrassingly, he was already half hard, and Lex’s member twitched at the attention of Superman’s knowing eyes on him. He was laid bare, a shivering, pale form against the vast, glittering darkness of the city he owned. The cold of the window was a shock against his skin, but the heat of Superman’s gaze was a brand. 

The argument was over. And Superman was the winner. He’d seen through the pretense of a battle of wits, stripped it away and exposed Lex for what he was, leaving only this raw, physical truth.

Superman’s hands, which had been so brutal in their destruction, now roamed Lex’s body with a slow deliberation. His fingers traced the sharp line of Lex’s ribs, the dip of his waist, the flare of his hips. Lex shivered and struggled to swallow. 

“All that planning, Lex,” Superman murmured, his voice a low rumble against Lex’s ear. “The fires, the pathetic villains scrambling for your approval… all the intricate, beautiful machinery of your mind, all bent towards a single, simple goal.” His hand slid down, cupping Lex, his thumb stroking the rapidly hardening flesh. “All for this. To feel my hands on you.”

Lex gasped, a traitorous, needy sound. His pride, already in tatters, tried to rally. “It’s not- This is… a biological imperative… a tactical--”

“Stop lying,” Superman commanded, his voice soft but absolute. He turned Lex around, pressing his chest and stomach flush against the cold glass. The city sprawled before them, a billion indifferent lights. Lex could see glimpses of own reflection, a pale, naked form caged by the dark, powerful silhouette behind him. The humiliation was so profound it was dizzying.

“Look at you,” Superman whispered, his body pressing flush against Lex’s back, a wall of heat and muscle. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it? To be exposed. To be seen.”

His hand moved from Lex’s cock, tracing a path down the trembling plane of his stomach, and then lower. Lex’s breath hitched.  His body clenched in anticipation, a pathetic, involuntary response. “You wanted me badly,” Superman breathed.  His voice was one of awe, as though until this moment he did not truly believe it, and that’s when Lex knew there was no coming back from this.

Lex felt him moving lower, crouching down.  He felt the god’s strady hands spreading his ass cheeks and laying him open. He felt the cool air of the room against his puckering asshole.

“Let’s make sure you’re dripping with me,” Superman murmmered, and his voice was so low, so close to the many fantasies Lex had carried close, that he felt his asshole clench around nothing. He could feel Superman’s eyes dissecting him. 

And then, he felt the wet, warm splash of spit landing directly against his clenched hole.

A weak, strangled moan escaped Lex’s lips against his will. His knees trembled, threatening to buckle. He’d been after Superman’s DNA, his saliva, for so long, that for it now to be used on him like this, as a cruel lubricant, shattered the last of Luthor’s pride.  He arched his back and moaned again, surrendering to the moment.  Surrendering to the God. 

Seeing and feeling the surrender, Superman chuckled. Lex could feel his ears heating up, but all he could do was moan again. With one hand still gripping Lex’s ass, the other came up to gently circle the pad of his index finger against Lex’s hole. It twitched. Then Superman murmured something Lex couldn’t hear over the sound of his blood rushing in his ears.  Then, he slowly, deliberately, started to press forward.

Lex’s body met the intrusion with a trembling acceptance. When Superman was finally knuckle deep, Lex let out a breathy, satisfied sigh. Superman’s fingers were big, bigger than his own. But he already wanted more, and pushed his hips back deliberately to urge the hero into moving faster.

Superman moved that finger in and out for a moment.  Then a second finger joined the first, stretching him, forcing him open with a deliberate, almost scientific curiosity that was more intimate and exposing than Lex could bear. He was a puzzle being solved, and the answer was submission.

“You know,” Superman started conversationally, as though he didn’t have to fingers up Lex’s ass, “I saw you...that night, nine months ago. After our fight on the roof."

Lex’s body went rigid. The memory was instant, searing-- the rain, the kiss, the raw, aching fury that had sent him back to his penthouse. He started trembling again, but Superman's fingers were still inside him, a firm, undeniable presence, and a hand settled on his hip, holding him steady.

"I was across the street," Superman continued, his voice a low, intimate murmur against Lex's ear. "Watching through your window. You were... quite worked up."

A cold, sickening wave of humiliation washed over Lex, so profound it made him dizzy. He squeezed his eyes shut. No.

"You were incredible," Superman breathed, the words both a confession and a condemnation. "And right at the end, when you came... you said my name."

“I didn’t,” Lex moaned, clenching around Superman’s fingers.

“You did,” Superman insisted. Then his finger brushed up against that tight, hot bundle of nerves, and all Lex could do was whine.  

Superman stilled.  "Tell me to keep going," he breathed.

"Please," Lex choked out, his thighs trembling violently. "Don't stop."

He prodded there gently, pressing the pads of his fingers against the sensitive spot.  All Lex could do was mewl. By the time the third finger joined, Lex’s mind was a maelstrom of shame and undeniable pleasure. He could feel his hips starting to twitch with a will of their own. His thighs were tensing, twitching from the overwhelming sensations, from the way Superman’s fingers were crooked up inside him. Drool had begun to gather at the corner of his mouth.

Just as he felt he was about to break, to shatter under the relentless, stretching pressure, Superman leaned in, his lips brushing against the shell of Lex’s ear.

“Let’s see if we can make another one,” he whispered, his voice a silken threat. “A sibling for Conner.  But this time, you’ll have to beg me properly for my genetic material.”

The last vestiges of his resistance crumbled into dust. He wanted it.  He wanted it bad, more than he’d ever wanted anything. He wanted to cling to the words like a promise. He wanted it, a future of this. A future of being owned. A broken, sobbing sound escaped his lips, and it sounded terrifyingly like a yes.

He felt the thick, blunt head of Superman’s cock press against his entrance. It felt hot against his hole.. He arched his back and raised his knee higher, giving Superman a better angle.  And then Superman slowly began to push into him.

Pain and pleasure blended into one. Lex was stretched to his absolute limit, and all he could do was gasp for air as Superman filled him to the brim. Superman’s saliva had begun to drip down his perinium, and Lex’s toes curled with the overstimulation.  He was losing his mind.

But it was too slow.  “Hurry up,” Lex grunted, trying to push himself onto Superman, rolling his hips to urge him faster.

Superman’s hand held his hips stubbornly in place.  “I don’t want to hurt you,” Superman said patiently, though his voice was strained. “It’s- I’m a little big.”

“I noticed,” Lex grunted again.  His voice had become a bit ragged.

“It have to go slow if it’s going to fit,” Superman continued, his own voice tight.

Lex’s thighs were shaking. “Make it fit,” he whined, bracing his hands against the glass window. 

Superman obeyed. With his hands on Lex’s waist, he slowly began to pull the other man flush to him.  Lex gasped as inch by inch, second by second, Superman took him. His mind was roaring with hot white pleasure. Before he knew it, Superman bottomed out, balls pressed up flush against Lex’s ass.

“Oh God,” Lex gasped.  His thighs were trembling from the effort, and his cock was leaking.

“Lex-” Superman moaned quietly.  He rocked forward, just a bit, but Lex still cried out. The motion caused Lex’s cock to make an incriminating smear against his once pristine windows.  The glass was cool, and Lex’s eyes rolled into the back of his head.

“Keep going,” Lex begged, “Move, god dammit.” 

Superman’s hands gripped Lex’s waist tighter.  Lex’s heart and knees buckled in anticipation.  Then Superman began to truly fuck him.

Superman’s first movements were slow, a deep, rhythmic rocking that pushed Lex’s body flush against the window with each inward stroke and pulled him back with an agonizing friction. Lex gasped, his mind short-circuiting as every nerve ending caught fire. He was so incredibly full, and yet everytime Superman rocked out, he couldn’t deny the emptiness that followed.   He wanted it.  He needed it. Superman’s hands were a steady, grounding grip on his hips, guiding Lex’s body.  His chest, flush against Lex’s back, was a wall of impressive muscle.  Lex could feel every flex, every roll.  And then Superman groaned, and Lex could feel the rumble. Lex couldn’t help but arch his back.

The pace quickened, the slow rock hardening into a powerful, driving rhythm that stole Lex's breath. Coherent thoughts shattered, replaced by flashes of light from the city below and the raw, undeniable pleasure building in his core. He whimpered under the percussive slaps of skin meeting skin that filled the room.

“Please,” he sobbed, the word torn from him, his face pressed against the cold, cum-smeared glass. “Fuck… please, don’t stop.”

Superman, the fucking bastard, took that as a cue to toy with the man.  His pace, which had not faltered once since they started, slowed to a torturous drag. 

“Beg for it,” Superman commanded.

“I’m begging,” Lex cried, his voice breaking. “Please, I need it. Fuck me. Please, fuck me.”

That was all Superman needed. With a heavy grunt and lust-lidded eyes, he resumed his merciless pace. Lex was lost, crying out, his body a trembling conduit of pure sensation.

Their climax, when it came, was a shattering release that felt like taking in a star. Lex screamed, a raw, open-throated sound of pure ecstasy, his own release exploding against the glass as he felt the hot, heavy gush of Superman’s seed flood him from within.

He was left a wreck, boneless and trembling, held up only by the body still inside him and the window at his front. Superman stayed buried deep within him for a long moment, letting him feel the sticky, warm proof of his conquest.

“See,” he whispered, his voice a final, damning verdict against Lex’s temple. “Was that so hard?”

That night, the war ended, and the occupation began.

Superman didn't leave much anymore. He was often gone saving the world, but it wasn't uncommon for Lex to round a corner and find him helping himself to expensive coffee beans or reading to Conner in the nursery. He just... stayed. Lingered. Lex had bought the penthouse solely for the baby, but found himself abandoning his mansion more often than not. The once sterile apartment had become shared territory, a bizarre domestic battleground.

Life took on strange new rhythms. Clark Kent's articles in the Daily Planet shifted tone, still covering LuthorCorp's strategies and endeavors, but now peppered with insidious double entendres. A piece on corporate legacy would linger on the importance of a "worthy heir." An aerospace contract analysis would overflow with metaphors about "uncharted futures" and "reaching for the stars." Lex would read them over morning coffee, eyes narrowing with suspicion. The bumbling reporter seemed to be mocking him in a secret language meant only for the other man who sat at his breakfast table, patiently coaxing Conner to eat mashed bananas. But he could never prove it.

Conner grew in this crucible of obsession and denial, a toddler whose blocks would levitate into crystalline structures and who occasionally needed rescuing from balcony edges by a red and blue blur as he attempted flight.

The nights were a differerent kind of battle. Superman stayed over more often than he didn’t now, a silent, watchful presence in the sleeping fortress. And half the time he was there, the quiet truce of their co-parenting would shatter. The arguments would start, old wounds would be reopened, and the tension would inevitably spiral into a different kind of confrontation. These nights always ended the same way: with Lex’s face buried in a thousand-thread-count pillow, his teeth clamped down on his lip to muffle the raw, ragged moans being fucked out of him. It had become a dark, constant rhythm in their lives.

But in the quiet moments between corporate battles, nightly surrenders, and near-disasters with a flying toddler, something else was happening. Lex was beginning to soften.

He was finalizing a hostile takeover late one night, the city glittering below his office windows. On screen, his opponent was cornered, terrified and defeated.  He was a sorry excuse for a businessman, he couldn’t even meet Lex’s eyes without trembling. It should have been just another easy acquisition.  But Lex could see a family photo on the man's desk as he prepared to deliver terms that would bankrupt the company and shred the CEO’s life into confetti.

Then he heard it, drifting from the living room. Conner's laugh-- a high-pitched shriek of pure baby joy, followed by Superman's deep, gentle chuckle.

The sound cut through Lex's predatory focus like sunlight. He paused, his crushing demand dying unspoken. The man on screen looked beaten. The family photo seemed to watch him accusingly. For the first time in his life, strategic victory felt... hollow. The laughter from the other room was warm and living and it caused his cold satisfaction to crumble to ash.

"I'm withdrawing the motion to dissolve your assets," Lex said, the words alien on his tongue. "My buyout offer stands. You remain on the board. Final offer."

His subordinate looked baffled. "Sir?"

Lex ended the call without explanation. He stood in the pressing silence, a mysterious feeling coiling in his chest.  He didn’t know why he did that.  It was as though something had taken over his body and forced him to be gentler.  To be kinder.

A presence made him turn. Superman stood in the doorway holding Conner, who was happily gnawing a plush Earth. Superman wasn't smiling in triumph.  He looked Lex over with those steady eyes that saw far too much.

He knew.

Lex turned away, staring at his reflection in the glass, heart hammering with terrifying new emotion. He was furious at being seen, at being changed. But he couldn't deny the truth. The temptation was still there, the abyss of his ambition still beckoned. But for the first time, he felt a gentle, unyielding pull away from the edge.

Six Months Later

The Sun-Naming ceremony took place on the penthouse roof at dawn.

It had been Superman’s idea, of course.  He didn’t ask for much, and so when this whispered suggestion after one of their quieter nights, when Lex lay spent and unexpectedly vulnerable against Superman's chest, Lex felt more inclined to hear him.

"Kara told me about a Kryptonian tradition," he'd said into the darkness. "Something about naming children under their first sun."

“He already has a name,” Lex had insisted.

“He can have more than one,” Superman had replied.  “A Kryptonian name.”

Lex had dismissed it initially. Sentimental nonsense. But the idea had taken root, growing until he found himself researching Kryptonian customs with the same obsessive thoroughness he'd once applied to Superman's destruction.

Now they stood on the roof in the pre-dawn cold, Conner bundled between them as the sky lightened from black to deep purple to rose. The city spread below them, still mostly sleeping, unaware that above the towers and noise, something sacred was happening.

"The parents speak the name together," Superman said softly, adjusting Conner in his arms. "When the first light touches his face."

Lex nodded, throat tight.

The sun crested the horizon, painting the sky in gold and amber. The first ray stretched across the rooftop, illuminating Conner's sleeping face. Lex could see Superman’s smile in the curve of the baby’s mouth.

"Kon-El," they said together, their voices carrying across the morning air.

Conner stirred at the sound, opening eyes that held flecks of both ice-blue and dark gray. He looked up at them with that peculiar infant awareness, as if he understood the weight of the moment.

"Rao's blessing," Superman whispered, and Lex found himself nodding, feeling something settle in his chest. 

A peace he'd never thought possible.