Summary: Some families are nightmares.

Warnings: Rated R. m/m, non-con, incest

Spoilers: Prodigal

He dreams vividly, each of the three nights he stays with the Kents. It begins and ends the same way, each time. Only how it unfolds varies. And, oddly enough, what he is wearing.


It starts, as so many things have, in the study. He is alone, sitting behind the desk. It is quiet, even peaceful. A clock ticks. Shadows move across the floor. He waits.

When they arrive, they come through the doorway together, strangely united.


The first time, they slink across the room with jackal smiles and stand on either side of the desk, bookends of malice.

He is in control. Or so he thinks. Eyes them with indifference. Saunters to the bar and pours himself a cognac, without offering any. Petty, but he enjoys it.

In control. For a moment. And then not.

Suddenly he is listing dizzily to one side. His fingers slip, and the glass tumbles from his hand, not shattering. It is a dream, so there are no inconvenient shards of glass flying through the air. Just rough hands on him, loosening his clothes. His gray shirt flutters to the floor like a wrong-colored surrender flag. And then he is being forced down.

Fingers dig into his hips. Pull him apart. His father's grip--he would know it anywhere--as he is dispossessed from the inside out. Lucas is against his face, blazing a slick trail along his cheek, laying siege to his mouth.

They tell him, "You aren't one of us. You never were."

And laugh as they fuck.


The next night, there is no menace, no cognac, only honey. They sit on the sofa, the three of them, their legs brushing whenever they shift, watching, breathing one another in, as if it is a necessity. They don't talk, but then, they don't have to. Their connection, this shared blood, is beyond all words.

And yet, he is still surprised when Lucas kisses him. Even more so when his father does. But soon, he cannot imagine ever going without this, as he turns from one to the other, greedily, naturally, for more. And more.

When his father enters him, he flowers open, unexpectedly. Lionel starts to move, and for the first time, Lex believes in acceptance.

Lucas watches, eyes darkened, heavy-lidded, and slips to his knees. He smiles and buries his head in Lex's lap. And Lex has to cry out. Filling and being filled. And nothing could possibly be better, until Lucas slides up his body and sinks onto him. He is wearing Lex's discarded shirt, and the lavender silk brushes Lex's arms, his chest, his belly, as Lucas rises and falls above him.

"Ours. Ours," his father and brother whisper against his skin.


In the end, though, they do not even look at him. Or blink when he speaks. Or seem to realize he is there at all.

They lace their fingers together and drift over to the fireplace, complete within themselves. They undress without hurry. Share soft little touches, proprietary kisses. Sink to the carpet and bend to one another, as if there is nothing else.

He looks on, suffocated and aroused. The suit he wears seems to shrink with every cry, every caress. It is fusing to his bones, stark and white, the color of grief. Of death.

But they say nothing. They cannot see outside themselves. They have no thought of anyone.


He is jolted awake, each night, sick to his stomach, the inevitable wet spot on the borrowed sleeping bag.

And every time, he flops onto his side, turning his back, like a shield, to Clark who sleeps peacefully on the bed above him. These dreams are merely symbolic, he realizes, even obvious. And yet, he feels the need to protect. To deny. What he needs and can never have. What he should not want at all.

It is no wonder, really, that he never dreams of red.


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