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Lex sat in his Porsche, letting the world move around him. Or, at least, Smallville. Across the street, a farmer stretched his russet-feathered wings. Broad, sturdy things built for lifting bales of hay and not much else. Lex curled his lip. Beside the farmer, his kid flapped clumsy fledgling wings, tripping over her own feet. Lex sipped his coffee.
His own wings twitched beneath the tailored fabric of his coat in an involuntary spasm. The pain was dull now, a familiar companion. He pictured Lana Lang wiping down espresso cups, her raven-dark wings flexing elegantly with each movement. Lex admired their precision, the way they folded neatly against her back when she turned. She didn’t waste them.
Then there was Clark Kent. Lex tapped his fingers against the steering wheel, recalling the way Clark’s wings, those massive, hawk-like things, rippled with suppressed energy even when he stood still. They shouldn’t be able to lift someone his size, not with that effortless grace. Lex had watched him once from the shadows of his barn, how Clark shot upward like a bullet, vanishing into the clouds before Lex could even blink. No human could fly like that. No human should.
The Porsche purred as Lex pulled away from the curb. The drive to the mansion was too short, the iron gates swinging open before he’d even really thought about it.
Clark was waiting for him in his office. Lex hadn’t invited him—he hardly ever did. The boy had a knack for just appearing places. His wings twitched slightly as Lex approached. Lex didn’t ask how he’d gotten in. Some things were better left unanswered.
Clark grinned at him, nearly bouncing on his heels. “Hey,” he said, his smile bright enough to burn.
“Hi, Clark. To what do I owe the pleasure?” Lex asked.
Clark leaned back on his feet, his wings rustling slightly, like he was holding back the urge to stretch them. Lex could tell he was practically vibrating with whatever thought had brought him here. “I finished that book,” Clark blurted out. “About Alexander and—”
“Hephaestion,” Lex finished smoothly, moving to sit at his desk. “What did you think?”
Clark didn’t sit. He never did when he was like this, full of restless energy, his wings shifting in small, restless motions against his back. “I liked it. It was—” He hesitated, fingers curling and uncurling at his sides. “They were together, weren’t they? Alexander and Hephaestion.”
Lex steepled his fingers, watching the way Clark’s feathers ruffled at the question. Lex leaned back in his chair. “Norms were different then. They worshipped friendship in a way we don’t anymore.” He let the pause linger deliberately. “But yes, I interpret it that way as well.”
“Did you—” Clark stopped, worrying his lower lip. “Did you like that? The idea of them being... like that?” The hopeful lilt in his voice was almost painful.
Lex gave a wry smile. “Legends don’t happen often, Clark—that’s why we still talk about them centuries later. But yes. The idea that someone could look at you, truly see you, and still choose to stand that close... That does give me hope.” His voice dropped lower, rougher. “Even if it’s rare.”
Clark swallowed, placing his hands on the desktop. He was quiet for a moment.
“I see you, you know, Lex.”
Lex arched a brow, fingers tightening around his coffee cup. “Oh? And what does Clark Kent think he sees?”
“I see a man who doesn’t let anything stop him,” Clark said. “Not other people, not your father—nothing. You care too much, Lex. About Lana, about me—” His voice hitched, wings shifting restlessly. “But you don’t always let anyone close enough to care back.”
Lex felt his lips curl into something sharper than a smile. He set the coffee cup down carefully. “There are sides of me you haven’t seen, Clark. Sides you might not like.”
Clark’s wings flared slightly on his back. “Try me.” His voice was earnest, almost painfully so—like he genuinely believed he could handle whatever dark corners of Lex’s soul he’d stumble into. Lex wanted to laugh. Or maybe break something.
Lex pushed back from the desk and stood, his coat rustling. He turned away, facing the stained glass windows. “You’re fascinated by broken things, Clark,” he murmured. “But not all of them can be fixed.”
Clark crossed the space between them in quick strides. He gripped Lex’s wrist—not hard, just enough to make him turn back. “Then why give me that book, Lex? If you don’t think we’re like them?” He paused, staring into Lex’s eyes. Too earnest as always. “I don’t want to fix you.”
Lex exhaled sharply through his nose, tugging his wrist free. “No? Then what do you want?”
Clark hesitated—just long enough for Lex to taste the victory—before stepping closer, his wings lifting slightly, feathers catching the afternoon light. They were breathtaking up close: deep russet fading to gold at the tips, each barb neatly aligned. Lex forced himself to look away.
“I want,” Clark said slowly, fingers grazing the edge of Lex’s sleeve, “to see you. All of you.” His hand drifted upward, hovering near Lex’s shoulder. “Even the parts you hide.”
“You don’t know what you’re asking for, Clark.”
“Call it a leap of faith?”
Lex scoffed, but the sound caught in his throat when Clark’s fingertips brushed the seam of his coat—right where his wings should flex. A jolt of panic tightened his ribs. No one touched him there. Ever. His pulse hammered against his collarbone as Clark’s hand settled warm and heavy between his shoulder blades, right over the twisted mess of scar tissue beneath the fabric. Lex stiffened.
“Easy,” Clark murmured, his breath hot against Lex’s temple. He didn’t pull away. Instead, his thumb traced slow circles over the hidden ridge of Lex’s left wing joint, the touch feather-light. Lex sucked in a sharp breath. It didn’t hurt. That was the terrifying part—it should’ve hurt.
Lex swallowed hard, his own pulse roaring in his ears. “They’re not—” He stopped, jaw clenching. “They’re not what you’re imagining.”
“Show me?” Clark asked. So fucking earnest. Too innocent. He really didn’t know what he was asking for.
Lex exhaled sharply through his nose and began undoing the hidden clasps of his coat with stiff fingers. He wasn’t sure why he actually did it. The fabric slid off his shoulders, pooling at his feet. The moment stretched too long. He stepped back and shuffled out of his suit jacket, tailored specifically to disinclude the wing holes which were standard in almost every item of clothing. He peeled back layer by layer and Clark watched with rapt attention until he was left in nothing but an undershirt, wing holes intact but wings pinned to his back all the same.
Lex turned, letting Clark see. The wing holes of his undershirt revealed slivers of white. The occasional silver-tipped feather peeked through, catching the light. Lex could almost feel Clark’s gaze tracing the contours, was sure Clark would be inspecting the damage beneath. Broken primary feathers, snapped shafts bent at cruel angles where they’d healed wrong. Lex braced for disgust.
Clark exhaled softly. His fingers hovered just shy of touching. “They’re beautiful,” he murmured, and Lex’s breath stuttered. Beautiful wasn’t the word. Ruined was closer. Unsightly. But Clark traced the jagged line of a misplaced secondary feather with something like reverence. Lex shuddered. No one had touched his wings since Lionel had wrenched them backward to teach him humility at nine years old.
“Can I—” Clark swallowed audibly. His own wings rustled behind him, restless. “Can I see them properly? All of them?”
Lex didn’t answer immediately. His fingers twitched at his sides before moving to the remaining buttons of his shirt, undoing them. The fabric parted, slid down his arms, his back, and pooled silently at his feet. His wings didn’t stretch out, didn’t unfold. They couldn’t. The left one sagged lower than the right, crooked where the bones had healed wrong after too many breaks. The right curled inward slightly, as if perpetually bracing for another blow.
Nobody in his adult life had seen Lex’s wings—not fully, not like this. Past partners only ever saw him with a shirt on, just one of his many eccentricities. The scars were ugly, the feathers patchy where they’d grown back wrong. Lex kept his spine rigid, his breathing even. He could feel Clark’s gaze tracing every imperfection, every jagged edge of what should have been pristine white.
“Can I touch them?” Clark asked, voice hushed. Lex almost laughed—of course Clark would ask. Nobody had ever asked.
Lex flexed the muscles in his ruined wings reflexively, a useless twitch that sent a dull ache radiating down his spine. He wanted to say no. He should say no. Instead, he nodded once, sharp, and focused on a point on the wall, on his bookcase.
Clark stepped closer. Lex felt warm fingertips brush the mangled secondary feathers first—gentle, almost hesitant. Then Clark exhaled sharply, like he’d been holding his breath, and his touch firmed. He traced the crooked arch of Lex’s left wing with both hands, following the jagged path of an improperly healed bone. Lex flinched.
“Does it hurt?” Clark murmured, already knowing the answer. His fingers skimmed the scars where feathers had been ripped out by the roots and never grown back properly.
Lex exhaled sharply through his nose. “Not anymore.” Not the way Clark meant, anyway. The pain wasn’t fresh; it was something older, deeper, calcified into the marrow of his bones.
Clark didn’t pull away. His fingers slid along the uneven edges of Lex’s primaries, smoothing the ragged barbs with slow, deliberate strokes. Lex shuddered—no one had touched him like this since he was a child, since his mother had still been alive to card her fingers through his fledgling feathers before bedtime. He swallowed hard.
“Hold still,” Clark murmured, plucking a loose secondary feather near the joint. The sharp tug should’ve hurt, but it didn’t—just a quick pinch, then relief as the dead weight lifted. Lex exhaled unsteadily. Clark worked methodically, his blunt nails scraping lightly against the skin beneath Lex’s covert feathers, dislodging dust and old keratin sheaths. The sensation was—Christ—unbearably intimate. Lex’s knees threatened to buckle when Clark hit a particularly sensitive spot just below his scapulars, his breath stuttering audibly.
Clark froze. “Too much?” His thumbs pressed soothing circles into the tense muscles framing Lex’s wing joints. The heat of his palms seeped through the thin membrane beneath Lex’s feathers, warmer than any touch had a right to be.
Lex’s vision blurred at the edges. He clenched his jaw. “Keep going.” The words scraped raw from his throat. Clark obeyed, smoothing the disarray of Lex’s upper coverts with infinite patience. His fingers moved with startling precision, aligning each displaced barb until the feathers lay flat.
“They’re strong,” Clark murmured, kneading the knotted muscle where wing met spine. Lex hissed—it hurt in the best way. “The way the white feathers blend into silver at the tips,” Clark continued, voice low, “it really is beautiful.”
Lex swallowed against the tightness in his throat. “Beautiful is a stretch.”
Clark didn’t argue. Instead, his fingers traced the jagged line of a snapped covert feather. “They suit you,” he murmured. “Winter colors. Sharp edges.” His thumb brushed the delicate skin where feather met flesh, and Lex inhaled sharply. “You’d be lethal if they weren’t—” He hesitated.
“Broken?” Lex finished dryly. His wings twitched involuntarily under Clark’s hands, sending a dull ache radiating down his spine.
Clark’s fingers stilled. “No,” he said softly. “I was going to say hidden.” He smoothed a hand down the curve of Lex’s wing, slow and methodical. Lex shivered.
Lex turned abruptly. He expected Clark to retreat—but Clark didn’t move. He stood there, close enough that Lex could count his freckles. Clark’s breath hitched. His gaze flicked down to Lex’s mouth, then back up—questioning, waiting. Lex saw no disgust there. No pity. Just heat and something terrifyingly close to tenderness.
Clark leaned in slowly. Lex could have stopped him. Should have. But he didn’t. Clark’s lips brushed his—chapped, warm, achingly gentle. Lex froze. He’d been kissed before, but never like this—never with hands still tangled in his broken wings, never with someone who knew this part of him and still—
Clark pulled back just enough to search Lex’s face. His breath shuddered against Lex’s mouth. “Okay?” he whispered. Lex swallowed hard. His pulse hammered against his throat. He should push him away. Should say something scathing. Instead, he gripped Clark’s biceps—too tight—and dragged him back in.
The kiss was harsh this time, teeth clacking, Lex pouring every ounce of frustration into it. Clark made a noise low in his throat and kissed back with equal fervor. His fingers curled tighter into Lex’s feathers, nails scraping against sensitive skin. Lex shuddered, his broken wings twitching uselessly against his back. Clark’s own wings snapped open in reflex, enveloping Lex in their span. Clark’s wings were warm, impossibly so, and when they folded around Lex’s shoulders, pressing him closer, Lex couldn’t suppress a groan.
Clark’s hands slid down Lex’s back, palms lingering before framing Lex’s hips. His russet-gold feathers were softer than silk, thicker than any blanket Lex had ever owned. Lex curled his fingers into them before he could stop himself, gripping the strong primaries just above Clark’s shoulder blades. He half expected Clark to flinch, but Clark only exhaled roughly against his lips, pressing closer.
Lex didn’t know how to do this—not like this. Sex had always been transactional before, detached and efficient, never with someone’s hands still buried in his broken wings like they were something precious. Clark kissed him again, slower this time, coaxing Lex’s lips apart. The heat of his tongue was almost unbearable. Lex dug his nails into Clark’s shoulders, reveling in the way Clark’s breath stuttered—Clark was strong, inhumanly so, but here, he shivered under Lex’s touch.
Clark’s wings tightened around them, shielding Lex from the world outside. Clark’s hands slid up Lex’s spine, thumbs pressing against the base of his wings with deliberate pressure. Lex gasped, his body arching involuntarily into the touch. Clark grinned against his mouth, smug and breathless.
“You like that,” Clark murmured—not a question, just a hushed observation. Lex could feel the vibration of his voice against his lips. His own hands clenched in Clark’s feathers, tugging just enough to make Clark hiss.
“Shut up,” Lex breathed back, but his voice wavered when Clark’s thumbs dug deeper into the knotted muscle beneath his wings. The pain bled into pleasure, radiating down his spine in waves. Clark made another low noise, his hands sliding back down to Lex’s hips, pressing their bodies flush.
Then—suddenly—Lex’s knees hit the edge of the couch. Clark had moved them both without him realizing, his grip insistent but never bruising. Lex blinked, dazed, as Clark hovered over him, wings still half-spread, casting shadows across Lex’s face.
“I don’t—” Clark swallowed hard, fingers flexing against Lex’s hips. “I don’t know exactly what I’m doing,” he admitted, voice rough. His pupils were blown wide, dark enough to eclipse the usual warm green. “But I want you. So much it—” He broke off, shaking his head as if words failed him. His thumb brushed the sharp jut of Lex’s hipbone through fabric, reverent. “Tell me to stop.”
Lex arched a brow. The vulnerability in Clark’s voice was... endearing. Lex had spent years perfecting control, and here Clark was, offering him the reins with such easy trust it stole his breath. Lex dragged a hand down Clark’s chest, feeling the rapid thrum of his heartbeat. “And if I don’t?”
Clark’s breath hitched. Clark opened his mouth, closed it, then huffed a laugh. “Then I guess—” His fingers tightened on Lex’s waist, pressing into the divots above his hipbones. “I’ll keep going.”
Lex exhaled sharply through his nose, fingers tangling in Clark’s feathers again and pulled him down. Clark went willingly, his weight pressing Lex into the couch, wings curving around them. Their mouths met again, less tentative this time, Clark’s tongue tracing the seam of Lex’s lips before slipping inside. Lex groaned—too loud, too revealing—but Clark swallowed the sound eagerly.
Clark’s hands were everywhere, skimming his ribs, sliding around his back, under his wings. Warm palms scraped over scars and taut muscle, mapping him like terrain. When Clark’s fingers finally brushed the sensitive skin just above Lex’s waistband, Lex jerked—untouched for too long, too starved for this kind of contact. Clark paused, breath ragged against Lex’s jaw. “Okay?”
Lex dug his fingers deeper into the golden-brown feathers, anchoring himself. “Don’t stop,” he gritted out, voice raw. Clark shuddered, his hips pressing forward in an involuntary roll that sent sparks spiraling through Lex’s nerves.
Clark’s fingers worked the button of Lex’s trousers, his breath hot against Lex’s throat. The drag of fabric against Lex’s hips was unbearable, each inch of skin exposed amplifying the ache between them. Clark’s wings twitched, feathers rustling softly, brushing against Lex’s bare shoulders, a gentle counterpoint to the urgency of his hands.
Lex’s own fingers curled into Clark’s shirt, twisting the fabric before tugging sharply upward. Clark made a startled noise but obeyed, lifting his arms just enough for Lex to yank the shirt over his head. The fabric caught briefly on Clark’s wings, snagging against the primary feathers before falling away, discarded somewhere behind the couch. Lex exhaled sharply at the sight—Clark’s bare chest, the broad expanse of muscle, the faint dusting of freckles across his collarbones. His wings, now fully unfurled, stretched wide, framing him in easily the largest wingspan Lex had ever seen up close.
“Lube,” Lex managed, voice rough. His hand fluttered vaguely toward the desk. “Top drawer. Somewhere.” Clark blinked at him, then grinned—bright, disbelieving, like Lex had just handed him the keys to the universe instead of admitting he kept supplies within reach. Lex scowled. “Don’t—”
Clark kissed him silent, already twisting toward the desk, wings knocking a stack of paperwork to the floor. Lex watched the muscles in his back shift, the way his scapular feathers flared with the movement. Beautiful. Infuriating.
He returned with the bottle, grip unsteady, eyes dark. Lex snatched it from him, popping the cap one-handed. Clark made a strangled noise when Lex slicked his own fingers without breaking eye contact. “Lex—”
Lex arched a brow, kicking off his boxers with deliberate slowness. “Undress,” he ordered, pressing two fingers inside himself with a sharp inhale. Clark’s throat bobbed visibly. His wings twitched, feathers ruffling in agitation—or anticipation.
“I—” Clark stammered, fingers hovering over his own waistband. His cheeks burned crimson. Lex crooked his fingers, watching Clark’s pupils dilate further. “God, Lex—”
“Undress,” Lex repeated, voice rough. He twisted his wrist just slightly, enough to make his breath hitch. Clark swallowed hard, fumbling with his belt buckle. His wings twitched erratically behind him, scattering loose feathers across the floor. The belt clattered to the ground, followed by the soft thud of Clark’s jeans hitting hardwood.
Lex watched through half-lidded eyes as Clark hesitated at the waistband of his briefs—ridiculously wholesome cotton things, pristine white.
“Does the farmboy need instructions?” Lex purred, twisting his fingers deeper just to watch Clark’s throat work.
Clark’s hands shook as he shoved his briefs down, his wings flaring wide in reflex—Lex caught the sharp hitch of his breath when cool air brushed bare skin. He looked obscene like this: all golden skin and sprawling russet feathers, hard and flushing darker by the second. Lex crooked his fingers again, tilted his head back, and Clark made a wounded noise.
“Please,” Clark rasped, knees hitting the couch as he crowded forward. His wings trembled, casting shifting shadows across Lex’s torso. Lex withdrew his fingers slowly, watching Clark’s gaze track the motion with rapt hunger.
Lex slicked Clark’s length with practiced efficiency—not that he’d admit to imagining this often—and Clark gasped, hips jerking forward into the touch. His wings shuddered, feathers brushing Lex’s thighs.
“Easy,” Lex murmured, though his own breath was uneven. Clark’s hands fumbled at his hips—too gentle, too hesitant—so Lex dragged him down with a sharp tug to his primaries. Clark groaned, forehead dropping to Lex’s shoulder.
Then, without warning, Clark shifted—one arm sliding beneath Lex’s back, the other hooking under his knees—and lifted. Lex’s breath caught at the effortless strength, at how Clark cradled him like something precious before lowering him gently against the couch arm. The position left Lex splayed beneath him, wings pressed awkwardly against upholstery, Clark’s legs bracketing his hips.
“Tell me—” Clark’s voice cracked. His fingers trembled against Lex’s thigh, blunt nails scraping skin as he adjusted his grip. “Tell me if I—” He swallowed hard, the tip of his cock brushing Lex’s entrance. The contact was fleeting, hesitant, but it sent a jolt through Lex’s spine. “Tell me if it hurts.”
Lex arched a brow, digging his heels into Clark’s lower back. “Clark Kent, if you don’t—”
The rest of the sentence dissolved into a choked gasp as Clark pressed in—slow, torturous, until his hips finally met Lex’s thighs. Lex’s wings spasmed against the couch cushions. Every inch burned—not with pain, but with the overwhelming fullness, the heat of Clark’s body bracketing his. Clark groaned, forehead dropping to Lex’s shoulder, his breath ragged against Lex’s collarbone.
“Oh my god,” Clark whispered. His fingers flexed against Lex’s hips. “I’m—I’m having sex. With a guy. With Lex Luthor.” His hips stuttered forward involuntarily, drawing a ragged moan from Lex’s throat. “I’m having sex with my—oh god—my best friend.”
Lex groaned, nails biting into Clark’s shoulders. He surged forward, sealing their mouths together, swallowing Clark’s next incoherent thought. He arched up, rolling his hips, hoping Clark would take the hint—and mercifully, Clark did. His thrusts were uneven at first, unpracticed, but the sheer heat of him was overwhelming. Lex broke the kiss with a gasp, his wings twitching against the cushions.
Clark buried his face back in Lex’s shoulder, his breath scalding against skin. His hands slid up Lex’s back before tangling in the feathers at the base of Lex’s wings. Lex shuddered violently, his breath hitching when Clark flexed his fingers, gripping tighter, pulling just enough to send a bolt of pleasure down Lex’s spine.
“God,” Clark gasped as he snapped forward again, deeper this time. “You feel—fuck—Lex, you feel so good. Like—like—” His hips stuttered, words dissolving into a groan when Lex arched beneath him. “Like you were made for this. For me.” Clark’s hands tightened. “Your wings—Christ—the way they—” He broke off with a shuddering exhale, pressing his forehead to Lex’s collarbone as his thrusts grew steadier, harder. “The way they twitch when I—ah—when I hit the right spot.”
Lex clenched his teeth against the litany spilling from Clark’s mouth—earnest, messy, relentless. He’d always expected Clark to be quiet, stoic, maybe a few choked-off gasps. A moan if he was lucky. But this? This was obscene. Lex’s nails dug into Clark’s shoulders, blunt and insistent. Clark responded with another deep thrust, exhaling sharply against Lex’s throat. “You’re so—” Clark’s fingers flexed in Lex’s feathers, pulling another involuntary shudder from him. “You’re so perfect, Lex. Like this. Always.”
Lex scoffed—or tried to. It came out strangled when Clark angled his hips just right, hitting that spot again, sending sparks up Lex’s spine. His wings jerked against the cushions. Lex didn’t care.
Clark’s breath hitched. His fingers tightened in Lex’s feathers—not painful, but claiming. “Mine,” Clark murmured against his throat, lips brushing the frantic pulse there. He rolled his hips. “My Alexander.” The words were rough, possessive, slipping out like a secret Clark hadn’t meant to confess.
Lex’s breath stuttered. His hands slid up Clark’s neck, tangling in dark curls and yanked. Clark groaned, his thrusts faltering for a heartbeat before finding a relentless rhythm. Lex arched beneath him, wings straining against the couch cushions. “Clark—” His own voice sounded wrecked, foreign to his ears.
Clark shuddered, his breath hot against Lex’s collarbone. “I’m not—I can’t—” His hips stuttered, the words fracturing into a moan as his wings flared wide.
Lex arched beneath him, breathless, fingers tightening in Clark’s hair. “Then don’t,” he said. “Come inside me.” The command was raw, edged with something desperate—an order, a plea, a surrender all at once.
“Oh god,” Clark groaned. He thrust faster, harder, his grip on Lex’s wings tightening as his rhythm unraveled. Lex could feel the moment Clark lost control—his hips stuttered, his breath hitched, and then heat flooded him in thick, pulsing waves. Clark gasped, shuddering through it, his forehead pressed hard against Lex’s shoulder as his fingers flexed against broken feathers.
Lex didn’t close his eyes. He watched. Clark was beautiful like this—mouth slack, lashes fluttering, golden-brown wings arched high and trembling. His skin flushed darker. Lex catalogued every detail: the way Clark’s breath came in ragged bursts, the flex of his shoulders as he trembled, the warm press of his body still buried deep inside Lex.
Clark didn’t pull out. Instead, he slumped forward—just enough to brace one forearm beside Lex’s head—and swallowed hard. “Lex,” Clark murmured, the syllable rough. He shifted slightly, hips rolling lazily, still half-hard inside Lex. Clark’s hand slid between them and wrapped around Lex’s cock. Lex bit out a curse, his spine bowing off the couch.
Clark’s thumb swiped over the head of Lex’s cock, smearing precome down the shaft. His grip was firm, strokes slow—almost teasing—as if memorizing the way Lex’s breath hitched with each twist of his wrist. “You’re still—” Clark swallowed. “So tense.” His lips brushed Lex’s jaw. “Let go.”
Lex’s laugh was ragged, his hips jerking into Clark’s touch. “Bossy,” he managed, though the word lacked its usual bite.
Clark grinned before pressing his lips to Lex’s pulse point, kissing the frantic flutter there. His fingers tightened, thumb circling the head of Lex’s cock with maddening precision. Lex’s breath hitched.
“Clark—” Lex’s fingers tightened in Clark’s curls, gripping hard enough to make Clark groan against his throat. Clark’s thumb swiped over the slit again—cruel—and Lex’s hips jerked involuntarily. All it took was one, two strokes and—Lex’s orgasm hit him hard, white-hot and obliterating. He arched off the couch with a bitten-off gasp, his wings spasming against the cushions as he spilled into Clark’s palm, striping his own abdomen.
Clark kissed Lex’s neck, soft and lingering, his fingers trailing idle circles over Lex’s hipbone. His breath was still uneven, chest rising and falling too fast against Lex’s ribs. His weight pressed Lex deeper into the couch. Clark’s lips brushed Lex’s pulse point again, slow and reverent, before he pulled out with a soft sigh. He collapsed against Lex’s side, his body warm and solid, curling into Lex like he wanted to share his skin.
Clark’s clean hand slowly drifted up Lex’s back, fingers brushing the edge of a broken feather. Lex tensed instinctively, but Clark didn’t pull away. His fingers traced the ragged seam where feather met flesh, gentle as if smoothing away old wounds, working it free. It made Lex’s breath hitch. Nobody had ever had permission to do this. Nobody until Clark.
Clark exhaled softly against Lex’s temple, lips brushing the crown of his head in a kiss so light it barely registered. “Thank you,” Clark murmured, lips barely moving against Lex’s skin. “For letting me see you.”
Lex allowed his eyes to flutter closed. “Don’t mention it.”