Disclaimer: Not mine. But DC gave them such lovely psychosexual issues.

Thanks to Te, who pushes me around when I need it.
 

Lex has bite marks on his collar bone. They're not fresh, but there are fresh ones, only a few minutes old, on his neck and the rim of his ear. Delicate, capped teeth, utterly feminine, antithetically British. Small, primitive leisons claiming him.

The tiny glimpses of the bites that he catches in the mirror remind him of his mother's jewellery. The pink-ruby earrings that brushed the clean line of her neck in the evening. Matching necklace and tiara. Subtler than it should have been against the red of her hair. The edge of her perfume on her jewellery and her gloves. They were everything he claimed when she died. Her jewels somewhere in his Metropolis penthouse right now. They're not among the things on offer to Victoria.

And Lex can feel his father looking at him, the was he used to look when he found pieces of his wife's jewellery secreted in his adolescent son's bed. Lex's body in its hospital-sterile pyjamas, wrapped up tight around a single glove.

His father's fingers, holding the points of his skull when he woke up. One earring in the palm of his other hand.

There wasn't even a lecture for that moment, just a quirk of the man's eyebrows and a closed hand. His father still has that earring, as far as Lex knows.

His father's fingers are on his neck now, holding him still the same way he's holding the glass. Capable of smashing either one, but. Interested. Touching. Small, reading touches along the fresh bites on his neck, tracing them up to his ear. Holding the lobe of his ear.

Lex noticed, sometime around his mother's death, that there are three or four things Lionel doesn't say for each thing he does. Things Lex is expected to understand, and that he won't be allowed to challenge.

The latest one seems to be, You look like your mother.

It's not a fighting point. He does look like her. The hair he used to have was hers. The lines of his nose and ears are hers.

He remembers her wrapping one of her scarves around his newly-bared scalp, trying to replicate the missing colour. Red Tibetan silk, black threads in it. It was more vivid than his hair had been, but not much. He looked in the mirror, and he looked so much like her that she dropped the edges of the scarf that she'd been holding in place, and it fell.

He remembers his father kissing his mother's neck in the morning, sweeping her hair up to reach her skin.

Just his father's breath on his neck is enough to remind him of it. Their two-person universe was seperate from the one Lex shared with his mother, and inaccessible from the parallel single-person universes which he and his father occupy

The kiss that comes lets him remember, for a moment, the silk smell of her scarf on his head, and the illusion they'd made of a single person.

The translucence of his eyelids is enough to show him the hand moving in front of his face, even before the rim meets his lips. Cognac slides into his mouth out of warm glass.

The glass moves away before he expects it, and he's left leaning forward into the nothing-taste of the air. Eyes open, mouth open, tongue almost pressed between his lips. It's all he can do not to stagger, but he's held upright by his father's arm around his shoulder. Up and upright, very still while the glass moves out of view.

Almost-warm, wet touch of it to the back of his skull.

Breath slides out of his mouth before he can quite realize that it's going to be a sound instead of an exhalation.

"Hmm?"

"Dad."

"Yes."

Lionel's forehead nudges the base of Lex's skull. It cues some primal instinct to duck, protect the shell that protects his brain, maybe the only really valuable part of him. In the land of basic survival, he's not going to be dragging down mammoths, but he might outsmart one, if he's lucky. Or very, very basic.

He's forgotten how naked the back of his neck is until the moment his father closes a hand over it.

He can keep standing, at least. But Lionel's stronger than he is, and the grip he's using is appropriate for young, badly-behaved housepets.

The image of himself as a Sphinx cat is going to take years to get rid of.

And on some level, he does want. Wants this, the sheer force of Lionel Luthor's want thrown at him. This whole visit is an acknowledgement that Lex is necessary, that however sarcastically it's announced, he does have his father's attention.

The teeth touching his vertebra make every inch of his skin tense.

Close on him, pushing closer to the bone, until he's arching into the blind pain of that bite. Pulled tight by the arm now reaching across his chest, pressing as though Lionel expects it to hurt.

If he were a woman, it would hurt. Even the thought of that kind of pressure on soft breasts gives him a disturbing ghost-ache that he probably shouldn't examine too closely.

"Dad."

Lionel lets him go. Teeth and arm go in the same instant, and he steps away. Hands in his pockets in precisely the right way to impress the universe with what he's wearing. He isn't smiling.

Lex is trying desperately to pretend he isn't hard.

Lionel says, "Where are you sleeping these days?"

It's not a question he wants to answer. Too loaded, too much of a query into the state of his life, his sex life, and his business arrangements. But through there is such an amazingly simple answer; it doesn't even require words, just a jerk of his head towards the door. Not Victoria's. His bedroom.

He has to want this.

And he must, because he walks, across the room and through the door and into his bedroom and to the foot of his bed without stopping. He must want this, because he just stands there until Lionel comes. Stands behind him, swirling even in the stillness of the house, and touches the back of his neck again. His own bite mark.

Tongue on it, the ghost of lips. It's stupidly tender, not something that belongs between them at all. His father hasn't touched him that gently twice in his entire life. Some other love that Lionel carries just underneath his skin, for which Lex makes an object.

He wishes his own motivations were nearly that clearly defined and neatly freudian.

He wasn't even half-hard for Victoria yet, but he's aching now. Pushing against the front of his pants in a way that's shortly going to be awkward to deny. Some part of him just loves these touches, the wet softness and the individuality of them. He's not being gnawed on, only tasted.

Some other part of him desperately wanting the red silk edges of the body he never had. Gemstones locked out of reach.

Supposed to look like her.

And maybe. His father's scarf, wrapped inside the swirl of his coat, isn't difficult to catch. It wraps around Lex's palms, makes a layer between his skin and the bed's footboard where he's gripping it. His father's fingers brush at his waist, tugging his shirt loose, and on some level Lex does understand what's happening. He bends forward when he's pushed, lifts his weight off each arm at the right moments, ducks to let the shirt slide over his head.

Naked back. Huge hands touching it. Edgeless nails, so white he can almost feel their lack of colour. Writing calluses on the right one. Hard edges of them that catch Lex's skin and tear at it.

Silk. Lionel's taken it out of Lex's hands. For a second he wonders whether it's going around his throat, and whether the publicity surrounding the Luthor heir's unfortunate death by sexual misadventure will have any serious effects on the company's profits next quarter. Then concentrates on breathing when he feels it slide behind him, body-warm and sharp-threaded on its edge.

It pours down his skull and spine. Red silk, and for just a second, even with the erection and the muscle lines Lex knows he's showing, he is her. Scarlet, silky, missing girl.

The kiss he gets after is seven kinds of inevitable. It turns him, rolls him back on his hips against the bedframe, pushes his father against him. The scarf's still there, clutched between his father's hands and his skull. Hot, almost.

If he is. Then he can. Pool of thin wool and silk-satin lining that forms when he pushes Lionel's overcoat off his shoudlers and it falls. Heavier breath of his suit coat, the snake of his tie. Raw, hand-dyed, some minor work of art almost lost in the moving oceans of Lionel's wardrobe. Shirt. Belt.

Shoes that he has to actually kneel to take off. Buried in discarded clothing, looking up, showing the profile that isn't hers for a necessary moment.

"Get up."

On his back, on his bed, under his father. Both of them only naked to the waist, kissing through this current level of obscenity. His father's tongue in his mouth, sliding and hot, sharper than the alcohol he had earlier. His father's knee between his thighs. Disturbingly childish, half-frantic. Some suggestion of the awkward lover who must have existed some time two or three decades ago. It's gone, though, by the time Lionel next shifts. When his trousers are gone, and Lex's are trapped around his thighs, and he's being deliberately held down while Lionel takes his mouth.

He's naked and he wants. Aching without actually knowing what he wants clearly enough to ask for it. Nothing he can ask for, not without breaking. Has to wait, see what Lionel wants, then give before Lionel can take it.

Stretch when he's stretched. Arm above his head flexing, mouth on the underside fascinated by his nakedness. Spread when he's touched. There's a bare calf against his that he can trace with his toes.

He can kiss back.

Arch when he's slicked.

Disturbing instincts, again. Crawling along his skin, making him understand the ways he needs to open, like her/not like her, naked like she never was, harder than he can ever remember her being. There are instants he can use to scream out which of them he is.

The fingers in him keep searing towards something he understands. Gut-twist reminder of how good it is every time it hurts.

His father on top of him doesn't look old enough. Too young under the silvering hair and the cut lines of his face. Lionel never quite looks at him, always just past him, to his shoulder or his neck, some stretch of his skin. The mouth that drops to suck the fading bite-marks on his neck looks like a boy's, looks more like Clark's more than any adult's should. There's this want in him that doesn't slip even when Lionel holds him down, pushes him wide, and takes him.

The slick burn of the first thrust isn't enough to make him whimper, but Lex can't swallow the breath it forces out of him. God, deep in him, angled sharp enough to force his eyes wide. Silk-twist against his scalp that he arches against.

Reminder that he isn't losing anything. He's giving it first, better, harder than Lionel can want it. Exactly how Lionel wants it. His skin, his body, his smell, his knees hooked around his father's hips, his chest-growls that get louder every time Lionel thrusts hard enough. Hand locked on his wrist, loose enough that he could shake it off, but holding. Careful of every bone in spite of the rough fuck.

Leaving marks, but only the right ones. Careful love like jewellery. Diamonds, rubies. On your back for very rich men ...

Lex laughs. Out loud, convulsively, still growling underneath it. Arms and legs both wrapped around his father, pulling him down. Hissing into his ear, "Dad."

Lionel pushes him down. Holds him flat, both shoulders against the bed, holds still in him, looks at him hard. "Jesus, Lex."

He pulls out. It leaves Lex aching and needing to pull in on himself, but he doesn't. It'll still hurt later, when he can deal with it. Sprawled out on his own bed, in the mess of rucked-up seven hundred thread-count comforter, half-fucked and so obviously himself that it might be Lionel's cue to go blind.

And he still needs, but this is its own kind of good. He can leave now, take a shower, beat off and store his genderfucked electra complex for the next therapist he decides to torment with the state of his psyche.

Halfway up when Lionel catches his shoulder and slams him back to the bed.

"Roll over."

It's clear, if nothing else. On his belly, not even hands and knees, showing his skull, his back, his ass, and spread open.

Lionel fucks him that way. Hard.

Until Lex is finally just grunting with it, obviously male in a way that he always comes back to. Less assertive than his father's growls, if only Lex is being given to understand which of them is currently being fucked. If it feels good, this is mostly a function of his own diseased brain. Nothing to do with the cock inside him rubbing his prostate as efficiently as a hand on his cock. A great deal to do with the way his whole body opens up to a single open-mouthed kiss on his shoulder.

He stays belly-down until he comes, breathing loud without managing to even say anything as damaging as daddy. Then rolls onto his side and feels Lionel take him again, knee up to his chest, head down. A rough, body-wet handful that he only gradually recognizes as his father's scarf rubs the back of his neck.

"Fucking beautiful."

"Mmmm?"

"You're mine, Lex."

Too damn sure of himself. "I'm hers."

Teeth again. And Lionel laughs at him. It rolls against Lex like every jerk of the cock inside him, rips along the side of his face while Lionel bends him forward to the mattress, holds him down, and comes.

Lex is shaking. He throws it off in a second, but it involves throwing Lionel off too. Getting up and walking in spite of the body-ache nagging at him.

When he glances back, Lionel's still there, back and shoulder to him, sprawling across the bed like a settled, unnerving animal. Watching him, but not obviously, and if he wants anything, it's not immediately clear.

If he wants to stop Lex from going through his pockets, all he has to do is get up.

Wallet, two credit cards, basic identification. It's all Lex carries himself, and he only needs both cards because this far out from Metropolis it's hard to find a card everyone will accept. Platinum plastic that never seems to warm to body-temperature. His father's watch. His keys. The earring.

Lex holds it up. Some part of him is disturbed or twistingly triumphant that he's made his father carry it for this long.

Lionel looks up. "That one is, in fact, yours. I have its companion at home."

Lex drops it into the pile of crumpled wool. Gets up and walks out.

He doesn't think he could wander through the house this naked. There's Victoria out there, and Amy. Possibly Clark, because Lex can't remember at the moment whether he ordered any form of Kentish organic flora today. But the sitting room door's closed, and there's alcohol out there. Naked man with brandy snifter, a newly discovered Magritte painting. Naked man is being swallowed by a French Horn.

He needs another drink.

He's on his way to being very drunk when Lionel comes out, fully dressed and smirking. When he was still sober enough to think about details, Lex sat in the window so that every bite mark on his neck would catch the light.

Lionel offers him the earring. Rubies almost disembodied on their platinum backing, too flexible to be stone.

Lex says, "Keep it."

Lionel nods. He pockets the earring, then picks up the bottle and pours Lex what's now his fourth drink in twenty minutes. Sets the bottle down and pulls a red smear out of his pocket.

He drops the scarf across Lex's thigh before he leaves him alone.

Lex manages to get most of his next drink all over it.
 
 

 

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