Stand By Me 8
2/10/05 07:49 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
roxyStil my memories refuse to reveal themselves! WTF? Grrrrrr.
I have another heaping helping of fresh baked fic, just for you! Mmmmm! And for desert--WHAT! Still no porn!! Grrrrrrr even more. No memories, no ass-sex...what is this world coming to. I'm gonna have to fix that. We'll just have to make do with inappropriate touching instead.
Alexander Luthor stood in the front yard of the house his father was renting. He sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. So- the old man’s decided to come to roost here in Hicksville. Fine. It wasn’t like he had a choice and he guessed Dad had a plan—and sometime soon maybe he’d let him in on it too. He couldn’t believe he was giving up the money the tent shows brought in—there had to be another angle here.
Lex walked up to the wide porch, plenty of room to sit and catch a breeze, he thought. He paused on the step and lit a cigarette. Nice, he thought, the way the flowerbeds flanked the steps and wrapped around the side of the porch to run down either side of the house. He pulled in a deep lung full of smoke and let it leak out through his lips. Hope he got someone to tend to these, because neither one of us knows a damn thing about horticulture. The two story white house, with cheery yellow shutters and bright gingham curtains in every window looked so friendly, so...aggressively homey. Lex sneered. Dad would take care of that.
Every place was hell when you traveled with the Devil, He snickered. He might not believe in God, but it was hard not to believe in hell when you’ve lived there all your life. He heard Lionel calling for him somewhere in the house. He walked up the stairs, head high and back straight and a little smile on his face. He took a final quick puff and tossed the cigarette in the flowerbed. Really, it was a very nice house.
######
“The cook seems adequate,” Lionel murmured and pat his lips with the linen napkin. The meal had in fact been very good, Lex thought, the roast was juicy and tender and the vegetables not boiled to gray salty mush, the bread was delicious…the housekeeper had hired an excellent cook. Mrs. Ross seemed to be a fine and efficient person for a colored woman. This might work out nicely in some ways.
Lionel pushed away from the table. “Have the staff gone for the day?” he asked. Lex snorted. Staff. Jesus. Who did the man think he was? Two coloreds did not make a staff, well… except in Dad's mind. He remained seated, sipping at coffee and trying to ignore the weight of Lionel’s gaze. Hateful old bastard “Yes?” he sighed.
“Bring me a brandy in the study, son.” And walked out of the room.
All right, which of these unbearably hot little farmhouse rooms have been designated the Study? Pretentious prat.
He poured a few inches of scotch in a cut glass tumbler and splashed brandy into a snifter, because Lionel expected it. It suited some image he had of himself as a country squire. Who happened to masquerade as a man of God.
He walked through the downstairs, a typical small town shotgun style layout, the rooms opened off the main room, the dining room was right beyond the main room and divided from the kitchen by stairs to the top floor and a wall. Two rooms were off either side of the main room. The ‘study’ was one of these rooms. Lex stepped through the doorway, and his father sat in an overstuffed spindly-legged chair by the newly heavily draped windows.
“Dad, here’s your brandy.” He set the glass on the table, and sipped at his own glass, hoping to leave quickly again when his father spoke.
“Alexander, come here.” It was as if someone had hooked him on an ice-cold iron pike. He stood facing the doorway and hoped his Lionel wouldn’t speak again. “Alexander.”
He turned slowly.“Yes.”
His father frowned at him. “I saw how you looked at that young man tonight, I saw your eyes all over him.”
Lex’s stomach dropped. His father spoke and everything changed, he wasn’t a grown man—he was a kid again, standing alone in his dad’s room and sweating, crying…
“You know Alexander, you know how hard I try, so hard to help you—to help both of us. I know that the Devil has his hooks in you and you have your hooks in me—I know it’s not your fault alone, son and I love you, I do love you so. That’s why I have to do what I can to help you, to cleanse you. You need to cast these demons out of you. Come here to me, son.” his father stood with his arms open, his lips trembling with emotion.
His feet were moving, he felt like he had no control. He felt like a robot, driven by cogs and wheels and wires…Lionel held out his hands. “Give me your tie.”
Lex was yanking his tie off and handing it to his father before he was aware—his mouth was dry and his stomach was twisting. Don’t let it be long—it was so hard to breath that it hurt, like trying to breath mud instead of air.
His father pointed at his shirt. “Take it off, please. I’ll fold it for you.”
Lex did that, wheezing slightly as he began breathing too fast. His father held his hands out and Lex gave him his hands. Both pairs of hands shook, his father wrapped the tie around his wrist, brushed his hair clear of his forehead, kissed it, and told him to kneel.
Lex dropped to his knees and waited. He heard the heels of Lionel’s shoes clack against the wooden floor and muffle when they tracked across the carpet to his desk. Sweat broke out on his back, and he shivered as it trickled over his skin. He heard a drawer slide open the top drawer, the one that ran the width of the desk. He heard it slide shut again with a dry papery sound, a little click as the lock engaged and the footsteps came closer.
The air next to his ear whined as Lionel whipped a thin flexible wooden rod back and forth, he pushed the footstool over to Lex. “Bend.” He said. "And pray.”
Lex leaned over the stool and braced himself. The first lash knocked him flat against the footstool- the second ripped through him like fire and he gasped, gasps turned to sobs, sobs turn to cries…his father whipped him and cried.
“Lex—help me cleanse you of this evil! Tear it out! I know what you’re suffering—tear it out son!”
Lex’s world was bright and burning. Behind his eyelids it was fiery red and every touch of the rod made starbursts of pain explode inside him. He heard the whistle of the rod, heard it strike the stool and tumble to the floor. His father’s fingers traced the bleeding welts and no matter how often it happened, every time was a fresh surprise, amazing how much it hurt to have fingernails trace each bloody path.
“I don’t *want* to hurt you," he heard murmured over and over as he brought fresh pain to him. He heard him groan—and he was yanked upright.
“Here, you slut- you abomination. This is what you want from them--” and Lionel pulled him face forward into his lap, his father’s grip tightened in his hair. He was pressed against those spotless white linen trousers, pressed against the heat of those spotless linen trousers. His head pounded, a pain settling right behind his eyes and his fathers voice wormed behind his pain, “Look what you do to me, how you torture me—your fault….”
######
He lay in bed, and tears ran down the sides of his face, but it was just reaction, they had no meaning, he hardly noticed them anymore. His mind was trained on his mother, he thought of her frequently, and especially at these times. It gave him strength to think of her, and her love for him.
Lonely...he was always a little lonely, trapped here with the devil like a fly in amber and nowhere to go. The only people that had ever loved him were dead or had run from him when they realized he was—wrong. Who wanted to bother with an ugly skinny thing like himself anyway? He hated the hair that made him stand out in a crowd, his fog colored eyes, he knew his mouth as ugly, scared, his skin was too pale and spotted like a fish and—and more than that. He was a freak—he was a freak and—and…he closed his eyes and shuddered, and the boy from the tent came to mind---there. Sometimes when he touched people he felt their minds, vague muddy thoughts, cloudy glimpses of desires, it came on suddenly and unexpected and he had no control but it was enough sometimes to perform a “miracle” yeah. Miracle. Shit. Sometimes it worked well enough to ferret out the darkest deepest secret hidden away.
He remembered when the curse struck him. His dad had brought him to Smallville the first time when he was barely nine--he *still* couldn’t believe his dad wanted to come back. To bring him here—to *live* here, in this awful town that tried to kill him twice, first with the meteorite storm—and then with an illness that made him pray for death a hundred times a day. He’d lost all his hair and burned in a fever for what seemed an eternity—nightmares walked and talked to him for days on end and he didn’t know what was real and what was not.
He remembered the revulsion on his dad’s face, and he’d been glad—he’d thought his freakish looks meant maybe he wouldn’t have to touch him anymore—but his mother had sat by his bedside and cried and cried at the loss of “his beautiful, beautiful hair,” and he’d prayed and wished and wished with all his heart it would come back--for her. He’d never forget how joyful her face was, how bright and shining her eyes when she felt the fuzz of hair beginning to cover his naked scalp. He could still remember how her fingers felt as they ran over his head. And he remembered how his dad called out “a miracle! It’s a miracle”, because his hair came back and his wounds had healed. The doctors were amazed. So was he—he’d been pretty sure he was going to die.
He touched his upper lip gently—still have this, the miracle didn’t take this. My little badge—hurt like hell… He’d never been beaten so bad, so hard, so long. Caught with a boy from his school and his father swore it was the Devil in him, swore he’d beat it out of him once and for all. It was always sinful and evil and the devil when it wasn’t *him*. And then it was sinful and evil and the devil *and* Lex’s fault when it was.
Spending a day or two throwing up was painful and scary, spiting blood was scary and loosing a tooth was no picnic either. Neither was listening to his mother sobbing and crying in the next room…Lex shook with anger. His dad, his dad made him angry—it wasn’t his fault, it wasn’t his moms fault, of course.
He tossed and turned for a long while before he finally started to drift off to sleep. Scotch didn’t seem to help the taste in his mouth, not that he should taste—anything by now…he needed to buy some wintergreen gum…Fuck. He hoped things were going to change--please. Maybe this was his chance to escape—somehow, someway. Smallville changed him when he was a baby, maybe it would change him again, maybe into someone who had a spine, he snorted.
That's right, Lex! Chin up! Next bit's the charm!
Stay tuned!
I have another heaping helping of fresh baked fic, just for you! Mmmmm! And for desert--WHAT! Still no porn!! Grrrrrrr even more. No memories, no ass-sex...what is this world coming to. I'm gonna have to fix that. We'll just have to make do with inappropriate touching instead.
Alexander Luthor stood in the front yard of the house his father was renting. He sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. So- the old man’s decided to come to roost here in Hicksville. Fine. It wasn’t like he had a choice and he guessed Dad had a plan—and sometime soon maybe he’d let him in on it too. He couldn’t believe he was giving up the money the tent shows brought in—there had to be another angle here.
Lex walked up to the wide porch, plenty of room to sit and catch a breeze, he thought. He paused on the step and lit a cigarette. Nice, he thought, the way the flowerbeds flanked the steps and wrapped around the side of the porch to run down either side of the house. He pulled in a deep lung full of smoke and let it leak out through his lips. Hope he got someone to tend to these, because neither one of us knows a damn thing about horticulture. The two story white house, with cheery yellow shutters and bright gingham curtains in every window looked so friendly, so...aggressively homey. Lex sneered. Dad would take care of that.
Every place was hell when you traveled with the Devil, He snickered. He might not believe in God, but it was hard not to believe in hell when you’ve lived there all your life. He heard Lionel calling for him somewhere in the house. He walked up the stairs, head high and back straight and a little smile on his face. He took a final quick puff and tossed the cigarette in the flowerbed. Really, it was a very nice house.
######
“The cook seems adequate,” Lionel murmured and pat his lips with the linen napkin. The meal had in fact been very good, Lex thought, the roast was juicy and tender and the vegetables not boiled to gray salty mush, the bread was delicious…the housekeeper had hired an excellent cook. Mrs. Ross seemed to be a fine and efficient person for a colored woman. This might work out nicely in some ways.
Lionel pushed away from the table. “Have the staff gone for the day?” he asked. Lex snorted. Staff. Jesus. Who did the man think he was? Two coloreds did not make a staff, well… except in Dad's mind. He remained seated, sipping at coffee and trying to ignore the weight of Lionel’s gaze. Hateful old bastard “Yes?” he sighed.
“Bring me a brandy in the study, son.” And walked out of the room.
All right, which of these unbearably hot little farmhouse rooms have been designated the Study? Pretentious prat.
He poured a few inches of scotch in a cut glass tumbler and splashed brandy into a snifter, because Lionel expected it. It suited some image he had of himself as a country squire. Who happened to masquerade as a man of God.
He walked through the downstairs, a typical small town shotgun style layout, the rooms opened off the main room, the dining room was right beyond the main room and divided from the kitchen by stairs to the top floor and a wall. Two rooms were off either side of the main room. The ‘study’ was one of these rooms. Lex stepped through the doorway, and his father sat in an overstuffed spindly-legged chair by the newly heavily draped windows.
“Dad, here’s your brandy.” He set the glass on the table, and sipped at his own glass, hoping to leave quickly again when his father spoke.
“Alexander, come here.” It was as if someone had hooked him on an ice-cold iron pike. He stood facing the doorway and hoped his Lionel wouldn’t speak again. “Alexander.”
He turned slowly.“Yes.”
His father frowned at him. “I saw how you looked at that young man tonight, I saw your eyes all over him.”
Lex’s stomach dropped. His father spoke and everything changed, he wasn’t a grown man—he was a kid again, standing alone in his dad’s room and sweating, crying…
“You know Alexander, you know how hard I try, so hard to help you—to help both of us. I know that the Devil has his hooks in you and you have your hooks in me—I know it’s not your fault alone, son and I love you, I do love you so. That’s why I have to do what I can to help you, to cleanse you. You need to cast these demons out of you. Come here to me, son.” his father stood with his arms open, his lips trembling with emotion.
His feet were moving, he felt like he had no control. He felt like a robot, driven by cogs and wheels and wires…Lionel held out his hands. “Give me your tie.”
Lex was yanking his tie off and handing it to his father before he was aware—his mouth was dry and his stomach was twisting. Don’t let it be long—it was so hard to breath that it hurt, like trying to breath mud instead of air.
His father pointed at his shirt. “Take it off, please. I’ll fold it for you.”
Lex did that, wheezing slightly as he began breathing too fast. His father held his hands out and Lex gave him his hands. Both pairs of hands shook, his father wrapped the tie around his wrist, brushed his hair clear of his forehead, kissed it, and told him to kneel.
Lex dropped to his knees and waited. He heard the heels of Lionel’s shoes clack against the wooden floor and muffle when they tracked across the carpet to his desk. Sweat broke out on his back, and he shivered as it trickled over his skin. He heard a drawer slide open the top drawer, the one that ran the width of the desk. He heard it slide shut again with a dry papery sound, a little click as the lock engaged and the footsteps came closer.
The air next to his ear whined as Lionel whipped a thin flexible wooden rod back and forth, he pushed the footstool over to Lex. “Bend.” He said. "And pray.”
Lex leaned over the stool and braced himself. The first lash knocked him flat against the footstool- the second ripped through him like fire and he gasped, gasps turned to sobs, sobs turn to cries…his father whipped him and cried.
“Lex—help me cleanse you of this evil! Tear it out! I know what you’re suffering—tear it out son!”
Lex’s world was bright and burning. Behind his eyelids it was fiery red and every touch of the rod made starbursts of pain explode inside him. He heard the whistle of the rod, heard it strike the stool and tumble to the floor. His father’s fingers traced the bleeding welts and no matter how often it happened, every time was a fresh surprise, amazing how much it hurt to have fingernails trace each bloody path.
“I don’t *want* to hurt you," he heard murmured over and over as he brought fresh pain to him. He heard him groan—and he was yanked upright.
“Here, you slut- you abomination. This is what you want from them--” and Lionel pulled him face forward into his lap, his father’s grip tightened in his hair. He was pressed against those spotless white linen trousers, pressed against the heat of those spotless linen trousers. His head pounded, a pain settling right behind his eyes and his fathers voice wormed behind his pain, “Look what you do to me, how you torture me—your fault….”
######
He lay in bed, and tears ran down the sides of his face, but it was just reaction, they had no meaning, he hardly noticed them anymore. His mind was trained on his mother, he thought of her frequently, and especially at these times. It gave him strength to think of her, and her love for him.
Lonely...he was always a little lonely, trapped here with the devil like a fly in amber and nowhere to go. The only people that had ever loved him were dead or had run from him when they realized he was—wrong. Who wanted to bother with an ugly skinny thing like himself anyway? He hated the hair that made him stand out in a crowd, his fog colored eyes, he knew his mouth as ugly, scared, his skin was too pale and spotted like a fish and—and more than that. He was a freak—he was a freak and—and…he closed his eyes and shuddered, and the boy from the tent came to mind---there. Sometimes when he touched people he felt their minds, vague muddy thoughts, cloudy glimpses of desires, it came on suddenly and unexpected and he had no control but it was enough sometimes to perform a “miracle” yeah. Miracle. Shit. Sometimes it worked well enough to ferret out the darkest deepest secret hidden away.
He remembered when the curse struck him. His dad had brought him to Smallville the first time when he was barely nine--he *still* couldn’t believe his dad wanted to come back. To bring him here—to *live* here, in this awful town that tried to kill him twice, first with the meteorite storm—and then with an illness that made him pray for death a hundred times a day. He’d lost all his hair and burned in a fever for what seemed an eternity—nightmares walked and talked to him for days on end and he didn’t know what was real and what was not.
He remembered the revulsion on his dad’s face, and he’d been glad—he’d thought his freakish looks meant maybe he wouldn’t have to touch him anymore—but his mother had sat by his bedside and cried and cried at the loss of “his beautiful, beautiful hair,” and he’d prayed and wished and wished with all his heart it would come back--for her. He’d never forget how joyful her face was, how bright and shining her eyes when she felt the fuzz of hair beginning to cover his naked scalp. He could still remember how her fingers felt as they ran over his head. And he remembered how his dad called out “a miracle! It’s a miracle”, because his hair came back and his wounds had healed. The doctors were amazed. So was he—he’d been pretty sure he was going to die.
He touched his upper lip gently—still have this, the miracle didn’t take this. My little badge—hurt like hell… He’d never been beaten so bad, so hard, so long. Caught with a boy from his school and his father swore it was the Devil in him, swore he’d beat it out of him once and for all. It was always sinful and evil and the devil when it wasn’t *him*. And then it was sinful and evil and the devil *and* Lex’s fault when it was.
Spending a day or two throwing up was painful and scary, spiting blood was scary and loosing a tooth was no picnic either. Neither was listening to his mother sobbing and crying in the next room…Lex shook with anger. His dad, his dad made him angry—it wasn’t his fault, it wasn’t his moms fault, of course.
He tossed and turned for a long while before he finally started to drift off to sleep. Scotch didn’t seem to help the taste in his mouth, not that he should taste—anything by now…he needed to buy some wintergreen gum…Fuck. He hoped things were going to change--please. Maybe this was his chance to escape—somehow, someway. Smallville changed him when he was a baby, maybe it would change him again, maybe into someone who had a spine, he snorted.
That's right, Lex! Chin up! Next bit's the charm!
Stay tuned!
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(no subject)
2/11/05 05:38 am (UTC)