Title: No Sleep for the Wicked
Disclaimer: Of course they're mine. I purchased them off ebay a few days ago. Sorry, I don't share though.
Rating: NC-17 for implications, though there is nothing graphic.
Warning: Heavy hints at incest, slash and general darkness.
Summary: Lionel has a late-night visitor.
He awakens with a start, something instinctive alarming him, even through the slight haze of a broken dream, that he isn't alone in the room. His eyes closed-not that opening them would do him much good but it makes focusing easier-he tries to hear, to feel the danger. The silence is heavy, only heightened by the soft crackles of the dying fire and his breathing. This room is his sanctuary and the smells are all familiar, all his. Burning wood, light traces of his cologne-Pasha, if he isn't mistaken-and remnants of the Glenlivet he'd had before turning in for the night. Nothing strange, nothing unknown but there is someone else in the room, he can swear there is, and he mentally curses his weakness.
He has never cared much for dark. He wasn't afraid of it of course, but he didn't necessarily enjoy it. Now he isn't allowed the luxury of a choice. He'd accepted it and learned to live with it- inevitability is an excellent teacher-better yet, managed to turn it into a deceptive armor. People let him get away with things they never would've allowed while he could still see and he uses this with pleasure.
Yet there are moments when it becomes just a touch too much. When the constant, inescapable dark is almost tangible, wrapping tightly against his skin, his face, shocking, suffocating, and it takes a life-worth of experience to keep it from turning into an indubitable panic attack.
Lying motionless, open, vulnerable, he feels something akin coming and the need to move is overwhelming. He reaches for the cane-his weapon of necessity if not choice-but long, slender fingers wrap around his wrist, pinning it to the pillow. He struggles for a moment but the strength is surprising and effortless and something that feels too much like fear makes his heart pound faster.
He considers screaming but that's too undignified, too much like admitting defeat, and it probably won't do him any good, so he asks instead, "Who is this?"
Silence. But it's not as intolerable and if he concentrates on it, he can breathe a little easier.
"I'll call secu..."
"No." Quiet and calm and he sighs deeply. He recognizes the voice and there should be relief but there is something haunting in a tiny two-letter word that makes his throat clench. A tiny weakness that no one would see, no one could see. Except for some unknown reason he is positive that the other man does and that should anger him. It doesn't, only makes him tenser, but the best defense is a good offense and he can fake it with the best. Hell, he is the best.
"Damn it, Lex, what the hell do you..." A brush of fingers against his lips freezes the words in his mouth. It takes him a moment to understand why a light touch has such an effect but the realization tightens something in his chest. Lex never touches him. He barely tolerates Lionel touching him and he never, ever initiates the touch unless he absolutely has to.
The digits against his mouth are sliding up, against his jaw, into his hair in a gentle caress. It's almost... sensual. He swallows.
"Shhhhh." Hand travels lower, light, soothing, knowing strokes and he knows whose hand it is but he can't help it, can't control his body from betraying him. He is not some stupid little teenager, his self-control is fucking legendary, yet here he is, barely touched and getting aroused faster than he had in a long time.
He can't keep from thinking that maybe his body is reacting exactly because he knows whose hand it is.
He can, however, ignore it, push it aside. His body might be weak but his mind is strong. Stronger than his son's. This is just another game, another mindfuck that he'll win because he is not ready to lose yet. He believes it, has to, or he is as good as overthrown and the fact that Lex knows it as well as he does, only makes the stakes in the game all that much higher.
"Lex, are you drunk?" It should come out an alpha-male growl, harsh and laced with ridicule but instead it's unsure and a little shaky and he hates himself for it. A soft chuckle, a slight shift of the body next to him and he feels a warm, humid breath against his face, his lips. It doesn't smell like alcohol or weed, just coffee and something that reminds him of himself too much for comfort. Pasha. Lex hates Pasha. His memory provides him with a picture of Lex, his expression disdainful and amused, nothing outrageously visible but subtle, in the slight curve of his lips and the arch of the eyebrows.
And he shudders.
"Are you uncomfortable, father?" Arrogant, no, cocky, because Lex already knows the answer and revels in it. The hand stops moving a fraction of an inch away from his cock, laying heavily against his stomach, and he can feel the warmth, the addiction, seeping through the silk of the sheet. He bites the inside of his cheek to keep himself from moving, from arching into that warmth. Tantalus was an amateur; he wanted and couldn't but he reached. He wants and can but won't.
But he can't willfully move away either. There is tension in the air that is making it heavier, thicker, almost too thick for breathing and his thoughts are scattering and he has to stop this now.
"I don't know what you think you're doing, Lex, but..."
Another deceptively smooth chuckle that feels remarkably like a slap.
"A fearful oracle, my friend, from God." Quiet, almost dreamy, voice that sounds ill-fitting, inappropriate, and Lionel can't even focus enough on the words, can't recognize. "*Canst tell it; or must others ask in vain?/ Most readily; for Loxias said of old...*" Pause, heavy with confusion and tension and maybe anger. "You know exactly what I'm doing, father." Lex is succeeding in throwing him off game because he feels that he missed something significant, some important implication. They are both aren't moving, aren't saying anything for longer than he could believe someone could comfortably say nothing and the sudden comprehension makes his skin prickle with goose bumps as the next line of the verse is finally there, in his mind.
"I've never..." It comes out before he can stop it and whatever Lex is doing is ripping his control into shreds.
"No. But I'm not blind, father."
And he had wanted. Oh, hell, he'd wanted. Not this, he'd wanted the opposite, he'd wanted to take Lex, force him to submit to his will this way, not just physically or emotionally but completely, yet had never dared because there is no way back from something like this. He had never dared to cross that border and the realization that Lex had known, all those years he'd known, is horrifying. Though probably not as bad as comprehension that this moment proves that Lex has the means and the power to do what he couldn't.
It doesn't even matter if Lex will go through with the silent threat.
Lionel just lost the war in the battle he didn't realize he was fighting against one person he never considered an enemy.
The feeling of helplessness is terrifying, washing through him in cold waves that stop somewhere deep inside. He should move away, there is nothing really holding him in place but a hand that burns against his skin and he knows he'll feel the traces of it for the rest of his life, like the *fleur-de-lis*, that indelible mark of the condemned.
And the fingers start to move again, underneath the soft silk, a little harder, just the way he likes it and he reacts with a shiver. He feels heavy and hot and now he is sure that there is something else he is missing but he doesn't dare to even think it. He tries to hide it under some meaningless words, worthless threats that he himself can't remember a moment later, everything becoming one mindless blur.
Lex doesn't seem to notice, doesn't stop moving, and starts speaking again as soon as Lionel falls silent in the same dreamy, seductive manner. "*...and I/With mine own hands should spill my father's blood./And therefore Corinth long ago I left,/ And journeyed far, right prosperously I own;/And yet 'tis sweet to see a parent's face.*" And then he presses. Nothing drastic, nothing harsh, just a not too hard press with a heel of his palm, against the flank of his waist and Lionel is swallowing a scream as sharp pain rakes through his body. Peculiarly, he's relieved, for it grounds him and he knows he just received a temporary reprieve because Lex decided that their tonight's tete-a-tete is over.
He doesn't notice when Lex slides both of his hands away and gets out of his reach, but he hears a chuckle through his own harsh panting.
"Inazuma. What do you know, you're human after all, Father." Calm, slightly curious but somewhere deep there is mockery that hits Lionel like a freight train and he isn't nearly incapacitated enough to believe that the last statement had anything to do with human vital points. And, yes, if there was even a tiny doubt in his mind what this night visit was about, it's rotting in hell right about now.
"My blindness wasn't proof enough, Son?" He sounds weak and indistinct even to himself but manages enough venom in the last word to poison a small country.
"Of course not. I have no real proof that you're not faking it. Oh, I almost forgot. I had a very nice chat with Dr. today. He seemed awfully concerned about the sudden increase in the amount of painkillers you've been taking." He doesn't reply to that, doesn't know how because they both know it's a lie. He stopped taking painkillers a long time ago. "By the way, how was your Glenlivet this evening? Not too bitter I hope?" Cold, so fucking cold-which Lionel can handle, can appreciate-but triumphant. He ponders if his relief was terribly premature and he waits for panic, terror, anything but there is this assurance in his mind that this would be too effortless, too uncomplicated for his son and Lex would never take an easy way out.
Right before he falls deeper into the blackness, he wonders if Lex is smirking, can't feel it, can't even imagine it, because he's never seen Lex with a smirk like that and maybe blindness isn't such a curse after all.
Sophocles (c.496 B.C.?406 B.C.). Oedipus the King. *
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