Dis Pater Type Stuff...
9/7/05 08:32 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
roxy...yeah, very sorry, it just kept taking up space in my head and need it for other stuff. I hope you like it.
and it's rated 5. *blush* I keep forgetting to use the rating system.
This takes place quite a while after Clark visits Lex and Lucas on the balcony.
Lex bent over the gritty line of powder on the piece of glass, held a finger over one nostril and inhaled, hard. He held his nose and tipped his head back, sniffed hard and licked his lip, snickered a little to himself, thinking of Lucas, and what he was doing at the moment. Hard at work, making money, money, money. Building up the Luthor Empire, making a safe, happy little nestcagecell for dear brother. He grinned.
Making the world safe, one drug cartel at a time. Or was it the weapons guys today—what the fuck. Tomorrow they had a meeting with the government son of a bitches. The ones that were worried about Superman.
He laughed again, and swung off the couch. He wandered into the kitchen, the silk robe flowing around his legs, the tie trailing over the ground behind him. He twitched it like a tail and grinned to himself. So fucking funny…he floated in a warm haze, feeling calm and heavy and peaceful, like everything was the way it was supposed to be—and if it wasn’t so fucking what.
He leaned over, staring into the open fridge and scratched a hand down his bare chest and over his leg. He was pretty sure he’d stuck a bottle of champagne in here last night…ah. There it was.
He looked at the label. It was some half ass mediocre stuff that cost a small fortune and tasted like shit, but Lucas had taste in his ass. He giggled again. Lucas had taste in *his* ass.
The lightweight silk fabric streamed out behind him like a cape as he weaved his way back to collapse on the couch. He leaned back and closed his eyes, rubbing his hand slowly against the leather. This morning had been—spectacularly bad. Bad, bad, bad. Lucas had been so enraged about that Superman fuck. So fucking what—he took out a few concerns, so they didn’t make a million that week. So what if he burned some poppy fields or made sure a container ship or two didn’t make it into Metropolis’ ports…they were fucking bloody richer than—Midas. Everything they touched turned to…well shit, but it was gold-plated shit…he broke into uncontrollable giggles, and tipped the bottle up to his lips. He drank a little, scratched idly at an itchy spot under his chin, something was crusted there. He grimaced and ignored it--chased the itch down his throat to his ribs. He tried to drink again, misjudged the distance to his mouth and poured it over his naked chest, it ran into his lap and onto the couch and he laughed. Whoops. Looks like Lucas is gonna have to buy a new fucking couch. He got up to move out of the wet spot and flopped down again on the other end of the couch. It was too much trouble to move to the bedroom. He sighed and let his mind fuzz out again.
He turned eyes that went in and out of focus on the unbreakable glass balcony doors. He had no idea if the Angel could break them or not—he knew *he* couldn’t--he’d thrown everything he could heft at those doors. He laughed, breathy little snorting sounds and licked his too dry lips. The bottle was at the opposite end of the couch, too far. Too bored.
He touched his champagne sticky skin, rolling his fingertips across his chest, his nipples, lightly scratching his nails up and down his belly, mildly interested as his dick began to fill and lift slightly and hissed when he inadvertently pressed on a fresh bruise. He looked at the yellowing mark, and the trail of healing teeth marks wending their way down his belly and into his crotch. There was a little smear of blood under his navel. He winced at the remembered pain. That had kind of hurt. He stroked his dick, tacky with the drying fluid; he leaned his head against the high back of the couch, spread his legs and looked at his semi-erect penis. He ran his fingers over it, teasing himself a little, remembering Lucas pushing his legs up to his ears, moaning and groaning and stuttering out good, good when he’d tightened his ass around his dick. He knew how to get him off. He could make him come in a minute when he wanted to.
Lex floated on a cloud and jerked his dick slowly. He controlled it, the sex, the whole thing. He gasped and his dick flexed. He made Lucas do what he wanted in bed. And if he wanted Lucas to hurt him, he did that too. Lex arched and snarled, jerked harder. If he wanted Lucas to fuck him until it hurt them both, that’s what he did—he squeezed the tip of his dick—if he wanted to, he made him beg for a kiss—he jerked forward and pre-come spilled from the slit as he watched--and he loved it when Lucas punished him for making him beg, for showing how much he had to have him…he closed his eyes and pumped hard, squeezed himself hard and remembered Lucas biting bloody trails down his body, shoving his fingers one by one into his ass, pouring that shit champagne over his hand and pushing, pushing until he was up to the wrist in him and it hurt so bad he screamed and they both came at the same time….
Lex opened his eyes. Come was cooling on his chest and legs. He stood unsteadily and fished a joint out of an antique cigarette box on the table. There was come on the table too. He grinned and lit the joint. Inhaled gratefully.
He picked up the remote for the TV and turned it on as he wandered around the entertainment room, rubbing at the mess on his chest and dribbling ashes over the carpet. He looked at the floor, a fond smile o his face. He remembered picking out that carpet—he’d loved the color. He dropped the joint on the floor and wandered off.
“—Luthors.”
He drifted towards the TV, what the fuck now? His heart beat harder for a moment—was something going on with Lucas?
He calmed when he realized it was some stupid celeb program—as he watched, an old clip with Lucas and him played on the screen. He even remembered that night—it was a nightclub in Gotham—yep, there was Bruce pushing past him and looking disgusted. Lucas laughing, and yes, he was laughing too. The girls on their arms were a bare step up from hookers and they both looked drunk—fucking stoned out of their minds. The scene cut to another clip---he looked bad in this one, skinny...he ran his hands down his chest and felt ribs like ladders and smiled. His eyes looked like black holes in his too pale face. Lucas looked big—bigger than life. He was heavier than when they’d lived in Smallville, thicker, more thug like, but handsome and smug.
“Fuckable.” Lex laughed wildly at his own comment, and the voiceover caught his attention.
“ –the Luthors are Metropolis’ bad boys. Lex, head of Luthor Corp and his brother Lucas used to regularly shut down the clubs, swimming in seas of Cristal and sex. But in recent times, the openly gay Lex Luthor has become more and more reclusive, rarely seen, while Lucas, the family playboy, has become more prominent. Some say that it’s actually Lucas Luthor who runs LuthorCorp, and Lex is merely a figurehead.”
fuck him—fucking… He grinned coldly and tried to shut the TV off. He fumbled the control, and the sound blared. “There are rumors that the Luthor brothers are this generation’s version of the Kray Twins, involved in mob activities and dirty dealing of every stripe. There’s been no hard cold facts but investigative reporters Clark Kent and Lois Lane of the Daily Planet seem determined to discover the truth.”
The camera panned over—Lex fell off the couch. Fuck… Clark. He hated seeing him on the screen—it always felt like he was staring at him, hating him so hard he could feel it. He staggered to his feet, and the man on screen spoke calmly.
“Alexander and Lucas Luthor are criminals. Plain and simple. They don’t deserve to run free, destroying and corrupting this city, and perverting the youth of our city.” Lex felt hysterical laughter bubbling up…who was perverting whom?
The screen filled with Lucas’ face.
“I have no idea why Clark Kent hates us so—he certainly has a hard on for us, that’s for sure. He needs to get over himself.” Hard on was bleeped out but Lex knew what he’d said and a twisted smile pulled the corners of his mouth up.
Lucas laughed and moved on, and the report continued, some other Metropolis celebrity was being showcased.
Lex turned off the TV. He looked at himself, pulled the sticky silk robe tight around himself and felt his stomach flip slowly. He reached into the pocket of his robe and pulled out a handful of pills. He dumped them on the vintage Bauhaus coffee table, while sucking on the bottle, pushed the pills around with one fingertip. He hummed as he made his choice, pretty rolling things all smooth and round and…he picked out a couple and gulped them, washed them down with the remainder of the flat champagne, and made a face. He set the bottle on the table, knocked it over and spilled the last dregs out.
Fuck.
Lucas was going to have a fit....
He wanted to scratch himself, rip and scratch from the inside out; suddenly it all hurt so fucking much it made him faint. He wandered around the room and moaned and moaned. Fuckers, he was supposed to be feeling good now—what the fuck happened….
He leaned against the cool glass doors of the balcony and the door creaked in the frame and swung open. He stumbled out, and onto the tiled concrete, cool under his bare feet. A little wind whipped up the robe and he staggered closer to the edge, and looked down.
It was a sign, he knew it. Once, Clark came to the balcony. Only he’d recognized him. Lucas didn’t. He’d just seen the mask Clark wore. Poor Clark. He wore so many and it was all his fault. Or maybe fault wasn’t the word to use. After all Clark was a hero, Superman, who punished the evil and rescued the good. Lex pulled a chair up to the edge of the balcony. Would Clark have become a hero if he hadn’t been…he remembered the words Clark had spit that night he come to the balcony. Enjoy your life while you can—I will destroy you, the way you destroyed…the way you destroyed a good friend of mine,” .
Lex gasped as a bubble of pain swelled in his chest. Had Clark meant…him—or had he meant—Lex groaned, had he meant himself?
He was on the edge of the wall now, leaning out and wind was stronger, snatching at the robe. He leaned out more and more, dizziness making his stomach swoop and roll and then, he let go….
He was falling, falling in a dream, hitting clouds and puffing through them and they felt like rain--
He was falling, his heart was nearly bursting and he was screaming I don’t want to die it was a mistake--
He was falling and tears flew out of his wind seared eyes, the breath was being snatched out of his mouth and Clark flew with him, watching him, snarling die freak die--
He was falling and calling for Clark and Clark was there but just a beat too late Clark reached out to grab him and screamed Lex when he missed and the pain was—
Falling, and he was screaming I’m sorry, I’m sorry—
Falling and whispering Lucas, help--
9-07-2005
and it's rated 5. *blush* I keep forgetting to use the rating system.
This takes place quite a while after Clark visits Lex and Lucas on the balcony.
Lex bent over the gritty line of powder on the piece of glass, held a finger over one nostril and inhaled, hard. He held his nose and tipped his head back, sniffed hard and licked his lip, snickered a little to himself, thinking of Lucas, and what he was doing at the moment. Hard at work, making money, money, money. Building up the Luthor Empire, making a safe, happy little nestcagecell for dear brother. He grinned.
Making the world safe, one drug cartel at a time. Or was it the weapons guys today—what the fuck. Tomorrow they had a meeting with the government son of a bitches. The ones that were worried about Superman.
He laughed again, and swung off the couch. He wandered into the kitchen, the silk robe flowing around his legs, the tie trailing over the ground behind him. He twitched it like a tail and grinned to himself. So fucking funny…he floated in a warm haze, feeling calm and heavy and peaceful, like everything was the way it was supposed to be—and if it wasn’t so fucking what.
He leaned over, staring into the open fridge and scratched a hand down his bare chest and over his leg. He was pretty sure he’d stuck a bottle of champagne in here last night…ah. There it was.
He looked at the label. It was some half ass mediocre stuff that cost a small fortune and tasted like shit, but Lucas had taste in his ass. He giggled again. Lucas had taste in *his* ass.
The lightweight silk fabric streamed out behind him like a cape as he weaved his way back to collapse on the couch. He leaned back and closed his eyes, rubbing his hand slowly against the leather. This morning had been—spectacularly bad. Bad, bad, bad. Lucas had been so enraged about that Superman fuck. So fucking what—he took out a few concerns, so they didn’t make a million that week. So what if he burned some poppy fields or made sure a container ship or two didn’t make it into Metropolis’ ports…they were fucking bloody richer than—Midas. Everything they touched turned to…well shit, but it was gold-plated shit…he broke into uncontrollable giggles, and tipped the bottle up to his lips. He drank a little, scratched idly at an itchy spot under his chin, something was crusted there. He grimaced and ignored it--chased the itch down his throat to his ribs. He tried to drink again, misjudged the distance to his mouth and poured it over his naked chest, it ran into his lap and onto the couch and he laughed. Whoops. Looks like Lucas is gonna have to buy a new fucking couch. He got up to move out of the wet spot and flopped down again on the other end of the couch. It was too much trouble to move to the bedroom. He sighed and let his mind fuzz out again.
He turned eyes that went in and out of focus on the unbreakable glass balcony doors. He had no idea if the Angel could break them or not—he knew *he* couldn’t--he’d thrown everything he could heft at those doors. He laughed, breathy little snorting sounds and licked his too dry lips. The bottle was at the opposite end of the couch, too far. Too bored.
He touched his champagne sticky skin, rolling his fingertips across his chest, his nipples, lightly scratching his nails up and down his belly, mildly interested as his dick began to fill and lift slightly and hissed when he inadvertently pressed on a fresh bruise. He looked at the yellowing mark, and the trail of healing teeth marks wending their way down his belly and into his crotch. There was a little smear of blood under his navel. He winced at the remembered pain. That had kind of hurt. He stroked his dick, tacky with the drying fluid; he leaned his head against the high back of the couch, spread his legs and looked at his semi-erect penis. He ran his fingers over it, teasing himself a little, remembering Lucas pushing his legs up to his ears, moaning and groaning and stuttering out good, good when he’d tightened his ass around his dick. He knew how to get him off. He could make him come in a minute when he wanted to.
Lex floated on a cloud and jerked his dick slowly. He controlled it, the sex, the whole thing. He gasped and his dick flexed. He made Lucas do what he wanted in bed. And if he wanted Lucas to hurt him, he did that too. Lex arched and snarled, jerked harder. If he wanted Lucas to fuck him until it hurt them both, that’s what he did—he squeezed the tip of his dick—if he wanted to, he made him beg for a kiss—he jerked forward and pre-come spilled from the slit as he watched--and he loved it when Lucas punished him for making him beg, for showing how much he had to have him…he closed his eyes and pumped hard, squeezed himself hard and remembered Lucas biting bloody trails down his body, shoving his fingers one by one into his ass, pouring that shit champagne over his hand and pushing, pushing until he was up to the wrist in him and it hurt so bad he screamed and they both came at the same time….
Lex opened his eyes. Come was cooling on his chest and legs. He stood unsteadily and fished a joint out of an antique cigarette box on the table. There was come on the table too. He grinned and lit the joint. Inhaled gratefully.
He picked up the remote for the TV and turned it on as he wandered around the entertainment room, rubbing at the mess on his chest and dribbling ashes over the carpet. He looked at the floor, a fond smile o his face. He remembered picking out that carpet—he’d loved the color. He dropped the joint on the floor and wandered off.
“—Luthors.”
He drifted towards the TV, what the fuck now? His heart beat harder for a moment—was something going on with Lucas?
He calmed when he realized it was some stupid celeb program—as he watched, an old clip with Lucas and him played on the screen. He even remembered that night—it was a nightclub in Gotham—yep, there was Bruce pushing past him and looking disgusted. Lucas laughing, and yes, he was laughing too. The girls on their arms were a bare step up from hookers and they both looked drunk—fucking stoned out of their minds. The scene cut to another clip---he looked bad in this one, skinny...he ran his hands down his chest and felt ribs like ladders and smiled. His eyes looked like black holes in his too pale face. Lucas looked big—bigger than life. He was heavier than when they’d lived in Smallville, thicker, more thug like, but handsome and smug.
“Fuckable.” Lex laughed wildly at his own comment, and the voiceover caught his attention.
“ –the Luthors are Metropolis’ bad boys. Lex, head of Luthor Corp and his brother Lucas used to regularly shut down the clubs, swimming in seas of Cristal and sex. But in recent times, the openly gay Lex Luthor has become more and more reclusive, rarely seen, while Lucas, the family playboy, has become more prominent. Some say that it’s actually Lucas Luthor who runs LuthorCorp, and Lex is merely a figurehead.”
fuck him—fucking… He grinned coldly and tried to shut the TV off. He fumbled the control, and the sound blared. “There are rumors that the Luthor brothers are this generation’s version of the Kray Twins, involved in mob activities and dirty dealing of every stripe. There’s been no hard cold facts but investigative reporters Clark Kent and Lois Lane of the Daily Planet seem determined to discover the truth.”
The camera panned over—Lex fell off the couch. Fuck… Clark. He hated seeing him on the screen—it always felt like he was staring at him, hating him so hard he could feel it. He staggered to his feet, and the man on screen spoke calmly.
“Alexander and Lucas Luthor are criminals. Plain and simple. They don’t deserve to run free, destroying and corrupting this city, and perverting the youth of our city.” Lex felt hysterical laughter bubbling up…who was perverting whom?
The screen filled with Lucas’ face.
“I have no idea why Clark Kent hates us so—he certainly has a hard on for us, that’s for sure. He needs to get over himself.” Hard on was bleeped out but Lex knew what he’d said and a twisted smile pulled the corners of his mouth up.
Lucas laughed and moved on, and the report continued, some other Metropolis celebrity was being showcased.
Lex turned off the TV. He looked at himself, pulled the sticky silk robe tight around himself and felt his stomach flip slowly. He reached into the pocket of his robe and pulled out a handful of pills. He dumped them on the vintage Bauhaus coffee table, while sucking on the bottle, pushed the pills around with one fingertip. He hummed as he made his choice, pretty rolling things all smooth and round and…he picked out a couple and gulped them, washed them down with the remainder of the flat champagne, and made a face. He set the bottle on the table, knocked it over and spilled the last dregs out.
Fuck.
Lucas was going to have a fit....
He wanted to scratch himself, rip and scratch from the inside out; suddenly it all hurt so fucking much it made him faint. He wandered around the room and moaned and moaned. Fuckers, he was supposed to be feeling good now—what the fuck happened….
He leaned against the cool glass doors of the balcony and the door creaked in the frame and swung open. He stumbled out, and onto the tiled concrete, cool under his bare feet. A little wind whipped up the robe and he staggered closer to the edge, and looked down.
It was a sign, he knew it. Once, Clark came to the balcony. Only he’d recognized him. Lucas didn’t. He’d just seen the mask Clark wore. Poor Clark. He wore so many and it was all his fault. Or maybe fault wasn’t the word to use. After all Clark was a hero, Superman, who punished the evil and rescued the good. Lex pulled a chair up to the edge of the balcony. Would Clark have become a hero if he hadn’t been…he remembered the words Clark had spit that night he come to the balcony. Enjoy your life while you can—I will destroy you, the way you destroyed…the way you destroyed a good friend of mine,” .
Lex gasped as a bubble of pain swelled in his chest. Had Clark meant…him—or had he meant—Lex groaned, had he meant himself?
He was on the edge of the wall now, leaning out and wind was stronger, snatching at the robe. He leaned out more and more, dizziness making his stomach swoop and roll and then, he let go….
He was falling, falling in a dream, hitting clouds and puffing through them and they felt like rain--
He was falling, his heart was nearly bursting and he was screaming I don’t want to die it was a mistake--
He was falling and tears flew out of his wind seared eyes, the breath was being snatched out of his mouth and Clark flew with him, watching him, snarling die freak die--
He was falling and calling for Clark and Clark was there but just a beat too late Clark reached out to grab him and screamed Lex when he missed and the pain was—
Falling, and he was screaming I’m sorry, I’m sorry—
Falling and whispering Lucas, help--
9-07-2005
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9/8/05 04:00 am (UTC)(no subject)
9/8/05 05:46 pm (UTC)Which has nothing to do with why I love you. Much. *g*
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9/8/05 08:31 pm (UTC)