Title: Cold-Blooded
Part: 1/1
Rating: R (one f word, and brief sexual situations)
Author: Emileigh (blackrosesfalling@yahoo.com)
Fandom: Smallville (my very first SV fic!)
Spoilers for Hourglass
Disclaimer: I don't own anything SV affiliated.
This is dedicated to Meixia, she knows why.
Luthors have frost running through their veins instead of blood. It's a cheap exchange, Lex knows, but the frost is far more sustaining then plasma and white blood cells. It makes him feel like he's not even human, that with rime running through his viscera, he is something else. Something that doesn't even belong on earth. The feeling he gets from that is beyond his comprehension.
It's like the sensation that comes with driving the pity cars he collects from his father. It's like driving it till the speed limit signs are nothing but distant blurs. He can just keep driving, press the car to its limits, to his limits. Because it doesn't mean anything. It doesn't have to.
Sometimes the need to keep driving is as strong as the ice in his veins, stronger then the need for life, stronger then the need for love. It's like he doesn't have to pretend that the cars he's driving now already have their destinations and arrival times. Sovereignty is his drug. He already intimately knows the brutal hunger it creates. He's a willing slave to it.
To him, it's like dancing up to one of those crazy, young things in the dark, back street clubs of Metropolis. It's dangerous, like computer hacking his dad's files. He knows he can't show too much of what he knows, or he might loose access to the cipher that unlocks it all.
So he lets his body sway to the music, he must look a little silly, like a fucking leather wearing, drunken q-tip, but it doesn't matter. Because someone's always dancing with him. His brain is tired of rationalizing why, tired of running on coldness and ice. Sometimes his insides hurt beyond healing. His liquid ice blood is always there, obstructing his confusion and pain, freezing all sentimentalities like it's second nature. Later on it's instinct.
In Smallville, it's different. The ice inside of him has warmed so much that he can now peacefully cease to exist. He can slip into the subdued confinements of his head; he can drift away on reveries and delusions at free will. Clark Kent has seeped into his blood stream, leaving his imprint and his heat across the detritus terrain of his soul.
In Lex's rare good dreams, there's an extra weight in his bed. There's a tongue moving over his scarred mouth, lingering down his chest, landing over his heart to feel the ice pumping vibration. It makes him feel exposed; like he can't hide anymore, it makes him feel that he doesn't even want to. The tongue is moving over his thigh, across his cock, within his being.
But at the deeper hours of the night, the shadows are back inside his brain. Diluting everything with its darker promise. Guarantees of ultimate sovereignty but with a price. A despair so deep inside of himself it's like cancer.
In Lex's bad dreams there's the nauseating reminder of Cassandra, the shock on her face as she died. Watching her choke and asphyxiate again and again, and not being able to do anything, not caring enough to do anything. That is the greatest torture yet.
Yet somehow there's the heady scent of sunflowers and blood coming through it all, pushing away the sick, death smell of the old people's home, calling to him and consuming his senses with the force of a tidal wave. Its scent calls him home like nothing else has, Clark can't compare.
When he wakes up in the morning, the shreds of his dreams, an intoxicating mix of sex and sunflowers, is already long gone. Instead there's the painfully familiar heartbeat in his chest, pounding inside of him like some ancient, primal drum. The exchange of blood for ice has never before felt so real, so permanent.
As he gets ready for his day, his father's words float unconsciously back into his thoughts.
"When Napoleon Bonaparte was condemned to Elba, he said 'Glory is fleeting, but obscurity is forever'. By then, Lex, he was already planning his escape, little did he know that he would be defeated and that he would die sick and alone."
Lex rethinks the words as he shrugs on his jacket. He mumbles, "Shut up dad," before walking out the door.
Part: 1/1
Rating: R (one f word, and brief sexual situations)
Author: Emileigh (blackrosesfalling@yahoo.com)
Fandom: Smallville (my very first SV fic!)
Spoilers for Hourglass
Disclaimer: I don't own anything SV affiliated.
This is dedicated to Meixia, she knows why.
Luthors have frost running through their veins instead of blood. It's a cheap exchange, Lex knows, but the frost is far more sustaining then plasma and white blood cells. It makes him feel like he's not even human, that with rime running through his viscera, he is something else. Something that doesn't even belong on earth. The feeling he gets from that is beyond his comprehension.
It's like the sensation that comes with driving the pity cars he collects from his father. It's like driving it till the speed limit signs are nothing but distant blurs. He can just keep driving, press the car to its limits, to his limits. Because it doesn't mean anything. It doesn't have to.
Sometimes the need to keep driving is as strong as the ice in his veins, stronger then the need for life, stronger then the need for love. It's like he doesn't have to pretend that the cars he's driving now already have their destinations and arrival times. Sovereignty is his drug. He already intimately knows the brutal hunger it creates. He's a willing slave to it.
To him, it's like dancing up to one of those crazy, young things in the dark, back street clubs of Metropolis. It's dangerous, like computer hacking his dad's files. He knows he can't show too much of what he knows, or he might loose access to the cipher that unlocks it all.
So he lets his body sway to the music, he must look a little silly, like a fucking leather wearing, drunken q-tip, but it doesn't matter. Because someone's always dancing with him. His brain is tired of rationalizing why, tired of running on coldness and ice. Sometimes his insides hurt beyond healing. His liquid ice blood is always there, obstructing his confusion and pain, freezing all sentimentalities like it's second nature. Later on it's instinct.
In Smallville, it's different. The ice inside of him has warmed so much that he can now peacefully cease to exist. He can slip into the subdued confinements of his head; he can drift away on reveries and delusions at free will. Clark Kent has seeped into his blood stream, leaving his imprint and his heat across the detritus terrain of his soul.
In Lex's rare good dreams, there's an extra weight in his bed. There's a tongue moving over his scarred mouth, lingering down his chest, landing over his heart to feel the ice pumping vibration. It makes him feel exposed; like he can't hide anymore, it makes him feel that he doesn't even want to. The tongue is moving over his thigh, across his cock, within his being.
But at the deeper hours of the night, the shadows are back inside his brain. Diluting everything with its darker promise. Guarantees of ultimate sovereignty but with a price. A despair so deep inside of himself it's like cancer.
In Lex's bad dreams there's the nauseating reminder of Cassandra, the shock on her face as she died. Watching her choke and asphyxiate again and again, and not being able to do anything, not caring enough to do anything. That is the greatest torture yet.
Yet somehow there's the heady scent of sunflowers and blood coming through it all, pushing away the sick, death smell of the old people's home, calling to him and consuming his senses with the force of a tidal wave. Its scent calls him home like nothing else has, Clark can't compare.
When he wakes up in the morning, the shreds of his dreams, an intoxicating mix of sex and sunflowers, is already long gone. Instead there's the painfully familiar heartbeat in his chest, pounding inside of him like some ancient, primal drum. The exchange of blood for ice has never before felt so real, so permanent.
As he gets ready for his day, his father's words float unconsciously back into his thoughts.
"When Napoleon Bonaparte was condemned to Elba, he said 'Glory is fleeting, but obscurity is forever'. By then, Lex, he was already planning his escape, little did he know that he would be defeated and that he would die sick and alone."
Lex rethinks the words as he shrugs on his jacket. He mumbles, "Shut up dad," before walking out the door.