Disclaimer a Go Go: The Smallville characters do not belong to me, weep
weep. Sue if you must, but you ain't gonna get much. This is my first
Smallville fic (look for my X-Men fic under the name AsphyxiaBronte) so
read/review is cherished and encouraged! Shout outs to every one of the
lovelies on TWoP's HoYay boards, natch!!!!
This is short, but I'm working on more stuff. Just wanted to get something up to fuel my creativity. That's all. Long live the HoYay. Word.
Drowning My Sorrows
I drink the best, of course. Why wouldn't I? Or more accurately, why shouldn't I? I can do anything I want, have anything I want. I'm Lex goddamn Luthor, after all. No one says no to me. No one.
Almost.
It's the Almost that hurts the most. It's the Almost that makes me drain bottle after bottle of obscenely expensive single malt, cognac, Merlot…anything I can get my hands on. It's the Almost that has faces. My father, cold, heartless, cruel. My mother; beautiful, angelic, fading more every day. Him. Oh god, Him. He makes everything else go black, disappear. Everything vanishes except his eyes.
Goddamn bastard. I want to hate him more than anything in the world. I want to hate him more than my father, more than the nameless crowds that look at me as if I carry the plague, more than anyone who has ever betrayed me.
Because he hasn't betrayed me. And I know he won't. He is the pinnacle of trust, of innocence, of beauty. And for that, I must hate him. If I don't…I think I would love him.
Fuck this. Fuck all of it. I'll drink every bottle of alcohol in the state if it will help me forget him. Of course, I'll drink every bottle anyway. Because I'll never forget him. And I don't want to.
God, listen to me. I've become a blithering, self-contradicting mess. It seems like all I do is think one thing and say another. What in hell has happened to me? Please, don't answer that. Like everything I ask these days, I already know the answer. I need to hate him. If I don't, I'm finished. If I make myself hate him, I can use the pain to be as ruthless as I need to be. Sure. It sounds so easy. I need another drink.
She used to call me her angel. Her wish come true. She had blue eyes…or green…Fuck, no, they were blue. Blue eyes…Red hair…The same red hair. She held me so close and whispered words of love. Words that I haven't heard since. Oh yes, boo hoo hoo for the poor little rich boy. Spare me the eye rolling. She was before all that. She was the only person to whom that never mattered. She was my world. I have to look at her picture now. I can't see her when I close my eyes anymore. I can't hear her voice. Every day, she becomes more of a creation in my mind. If I could just see her one more time, I'd never let her go.
Fuck, how can I be crying? She's been gone for so long…You'd think I would have dealt with it by now. But that's the thing. I don't deal, do I? I dull the pain, I replace it with hate, with power. I'm a coward. I'm alone. I need her back…I need him to love me…I need…
I need another bottle.
Dreaming is the worst. I've got to find something that will stop the dreams. Dreams of him touching me, his strong hands on my trembling body, cool and soft against my skin. His lips brushing against mine - how could it be anything less than lighting…or the electric chair? It would be just as deadly. God, I can't get his face out of my mind. What would he taste like? What would he say when I touched him the way I want him to touch me? Would he be as hard? Would he be as yearning? Would his innocence slip away as quickly as my facade would?
Questions, questions, nothing but questions. Answered a thousand times in bed alone, holding myself as tightly as I want him to, expelling all my love and hate and passion in heaving spurts, all the time his face burned into my psyche. Answered a thousand times yes, yes, oh God, yes. Harder, faster, more, forever…
Dreams. Alcohol soaked, flammable, dangerous dreams.
And I know that she would love me still. She would always love me.
Dreams. I have to stop them. Drown them. Line up the shots, alcohol or bullets.
I can't care anymore.
This is short, but I'm working on more stuff. Just wanted to get something up to fuel my creativity. That's all. Long live the HoYay. Word.
Drowning My Sorrows
I drink the best, of course. Why wouldn't I? Or more accurately, why shouldn't I? I can do anything I want, have anything I want. I'm Lex goddamn Luthor, after all. No one says no to me. No one.
Almost.
It's the Almost that hurts the most. It's the Almost that makes me drain bottle after bottle of obscenely expensive single malt, cognac, Merlot…anything I can get my hands on. It's the Almost that has faces. My father, cold, heartless, cruel. My mother; beautiful, angelic, fading more every day. Him. Oh god, Him. He makes everything else go black, disappear. Everything vanishes except his eyes.
Goddamn bastard. I want to hate him more than anything in the world. I want to hate him more than my father, more than the nameless crowds that look at me as if I carry the plague, more than anyone who has ever betrayed me.
Because he hasn't betrayed me. And I know he won't. He is the pinnacle of trust, of innocence, of beauty. And for that, I must hate him. If I don't…I think I would love him.
Fuck this. Fuck all of it. I'll drink every bottle of alcohol in the state if it will help me forget him. Of course, I'll drink every bottle anyway. Because I'll never forget him. And I don't want to.
God, listen to me. I've become a blithering, self-contradicting mess. It seems like all I do is think one thing and say another. What in hell has happened to me? Please, don't answer that. Like everything I ask these days, I already know the answer. I need to hate him. If I don't, I'm finished. If I make myself hate him, I can use the pain to be as ruthless as I need to be. Sure. It sounds so easy. I need another drink.
She used to call me her angel. Her wish come true. She had blue eyes…or green…Fuck, no, they were blue. Blue eyes…Red hair…The same red hair. She held me so close and whispered words of love. Words that I haven't heard since. Oh yes, boo hoo hoo for the poor little rich boy. Spare me the eye rolling. She was before all that. She was the only person to whom that never mattered. She was my world. I have to look at her picture now. I can't see her when I close my eyes anymore. I can't hear her voice. Every day, she becomes more of a creation in my mind. If I could just see her one more time, I'd never let her go.
Fuck, how can I be crying? She's been gone for so long…You'd think I would have dealt with it by now. But that's the thing. I don't deal, do I? I dull the pain, I replace it with hate, with power. I'm a coward. I'm alone. I need her back…I need him to love me…I need…
I need another bottle.
Dreaming is the worst. I've got to find something that will stop the dreams. Dreams of him touching me, his strong hands on my trembling body, cool and soft against my skin. His lips brushing against mine - how could it be anything less than lighting…or the electric chair? It would be just as deadly. God, I can't get his face out of my mind. What would he taste like? What would he say when I touched him the way I want him to touch me? Would he be as hard? Would he be as yearning? Would his innocence slip away as quickly as my facade would?
Questions, questions, nothing but questions. Answered a thousand times in bed alone, holding myself as tightly as I want him to, expelling all my love and hate and passion in heaving spurts, all the time his face burned into my psyche. Answered a thousand times yes, yes, oh God, yes. Harder, faster, more, forever…
Dreams. Alcohol soaked, flammable, dangerous dreams.
And I know that she would love me still. She would always love me.
Dreams. I have to stop them. Drown them. Line up the shots, alcohol or bullets.
I can't care anymore.