Seperis (seperis) wrote,

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Took day off today--in advance, even! So it was a totally supervisor-okayed day off, and I am happy like a happy thing.

Happiness, in this case, leads to catching up on LJ in a serious, serious way. There was once a time I could not stop reading until I'd read *every Lj entry on my friendslist*. Those days are past. Now I cannot live if I don't read every *porn post*. Over time, I'm getting more comfortable with my role as an amateur pornographer and smut writer. It makes me happy.

WiPs Collection

Strangely, no matter how much I post, it never seems to get shorter.


One day. *waves fist at sky* One day, this story will come easily to me. I remember the good old days where I could whip out a few thousand words before dinner. These days, with this story, I get excited when I get five hundred words down that I don't want to erase. I've been working on it--God, has it been a year now? At Slumberparty, I'd just finished the first part. Now I'm at part v, and it still crawls by.

With another dopey smile, Clark's eyes fall shut, with a snort like a sleepy puppy. Lex doesn't move from his seat on the edge of the bed, watching the slow rise and fall of Clark's chest. The Clark of his world hadn't looked this young in years. Decades. Aged by the world, maybe, by being a superhero, by being a reporter, a husband to a driven woman, a son who lost his father too early. That's not all it was, though.

Touching the dark hair, Lex thinks of Clark's shuttered face in memory, years and years of it, the Clark that he'd hated so much it had been like acid, corroding everything it touched. It had never occurred to him until now that it ate at Clark just as surely, just as viciously.

In all those years of hating Clark, wanting to hurt him as deeply as he'd hurt Lex, he'd never guessed the hate would almost be enough to do it.

This Clark hadn't had a Lex who knew him too well, who could strike wounds that could never fully heal, be a living reminder of failure, a blighted friendship, and the thousand wrong choices they both made. Clark's sleep-smile widens as Lex strokes his hair, the rhythm a sharp counterpoint to the maelstrom in his head.

There'd been a time he'd have done anything not to hurt Clark, and an eternity after he'd done nothing else. This Lex had done something--said the right thing, like Lex never had, done the right thing, like Lex never quite could--and history had changed.

Working title: Breathe Dust

I don't know if anyone knows that svmadelyn has me on a time limit. I have until July fourth to continue the Somewhere snippet I posted a couple of months ago, or she starts--doing things. I don't know what those things are. I don't *want* to know, cause she's an *organizer* and she's saved a disturbing number of our AIM conversations. This scares me in so many ways.

Clark didn't leave, after.

Lex didn't expect him to, not really--Clark was as sensitive to political currents as anyone who'd lived in them for over a decade could be. He *knew*, and that's why Lex could breathe, even with Clark a room and a wall away, restlessly typing his nights away, going in front of a thousand cameras every day, smiling and laughing and acting so perfectly that Lex could almost forget that anything had changed.

That made it worse, somehow. That he *could* forget, that he could start to say something, make a joke, touch, and feel the world *stop* for just that second, when a brief flash of reality froze everything in place, reminding him that he's abdicated his rights to anything from Clark. They didn't share a room or a bed, they didn't share a life, and Lex had--forgotten, was out of practice, being lonely.

Two terms, five more years, and Clark will walk away without a backward glance. Lex knows that, but he doesn't know how he'll live through it.

Pretty When You're Mine

I'm beginning to think my strategy of writing far ahead of posting might be backfiring. Maybe if I posted as I wrote, it would be more--motivating.

He's not sure how long he lays there, just watching--the spalsh of moonlight slowly crawls up the bed, a hazy square of silver that seems destined for Lex, and Clark watches it flow over long legs, narrow hips, up the slim, boneless body that's collapsed into a liquid sprawl, just touching his chest when the blue eyes open, suddenly and completely awake, like Clark is at Marian's, when he's never sure what he'll wake up to. A flickering second where Lex doesn't even seem to be breathing, just watching, then that slow, thick smile. "I've missed you."

Clark takes it as an invitation, permission, and moves, almost too-fast but not quite, Lex-skin under his hand, so perfectly smooth, like Lex has never needed to shave. "I--"

"I have plans for you." And like he was never asleep, Lex is sitting up, no bleary-eyed groping, just pushing Clark down on his back, and kissing him with slow intensity. Hands on his shoulders push Clark into the pillows, and Clark is perfectly happy to just lay here, Lex straddling him with a pleased grin, like everything in the universe was here just for his entertainment. Life is so much *easier* like this, it's like he could just stay right here and be *this*.

The Yard

We will never speak of this story again. Like, *ever*, okay? Just wash it from your mind. Poof. There! Yay!

Other Things

I just wrote this to traumatize svmadelyn. *tongue in cheek* That's fun, isn't it?

This is how I entertain myself. No, really.

Looking-Glass Post-Story Snippet

Clark looks over the edge of the bassinet, interested despite himself. Babies have never made up a part of his life. "He really doesn't look like anyone."

Mom had called them this morning to tell them the baby was coming home, and though it had come at a *really inconvenient* time, still. A baby.

Lex snickers, leaning down to brush a careful finger over a tiny cheek. The baby barely stirs. "He'll look like someone eventually." Lex gives him a wicked look from beneath long lashes, and Clark bites his lip to keep from giggling. From across the room, the nanny watches them warily, but Martha's already taking her to her new quarters off the nursery. "Martha says we need to be at the christening tomorrow."

"Now that will be interesting." Despite himself, Clark studies the tiny features, trying to trace a resemblance. "You know, chances are it's yours."

"Maybe." Leaning over, Lex picks him up, cradling him expertly in the crook of his arm. "So, another brother." The baby yawns, curling trustingly into the fine wool of Lex's coat. He hadn't been very big at birth, but the last few weeks have seen a truly *epic* amount of weight put on. Clark's never seen anything so small eat so much. "Martha always wanted a baby."

"True." Mom had been thrilled, despite circumstances. The Kents had been very--reluctant, but Clark figured that Mom and her lawyers had worn them down finally. Watching Lex as he sits down, careful of the baby's sleep, Clark smiles, walking over to lean against the back of the couch. He definitely looks more like Lex--the fair hair is almost reddish in this light, and Clark reaches out to touch, just lightly. Just like Lex. "David Laurence Luthor. Davy. Laurie?"

"Laurie," Lex says firmly, glancing up. "Poor kid. He's going to be teased."

"He'll survive. He's a Luthor." There's nothing of Lana except the slant of his eyes. "I'm surprised Dad took it so well, though."

Lex snickers, tilting his head back to give Clark a grin. "By now, he knows this is the only way he's going to get an heir from me." Clark kisses him for that, a brush of lips across a high cheekbone, then soft pink lips. The baby--Laurie? Really?--makes a protesting noise, and Lex snickers into the kiss, pulling away with a promising smile. Lex always keeps his promises. Clark's face goes hot.

"Boys." Mom's voice from the door is indulgent, and Clark quickly straightens, giving his mother a bright smile. "Careful with the baby?"

"Of course," Clark says, circling the couch to brush a kiss on her cheek before sitting beside Lex. Mom comes over to take Laurie, holding him in a gentle cradle that makes Clark smile, leaning into Lex's warm body, head resting on his brother's shoulder, smiling more at the hand on his thigh, listening to his mother sing a lullaby he remembers from his own childhood.

Life, Clark Luthor thinks with sigh, will never get better than this.

I need more icons. Maybe I shall spend my day icon-hunting. Or making. Hmm. More toasters, perhaps.
Tags: fic: wip collective
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