by velvetglove

Written for Slodwick's 1000-word Picture Challenge. Many thanks to my darlings, Alax and Dana, for beta. I beg prettily for kind or constructive words.

It was her idea, her fault. She'd invited herself along.

Lex held a graduation party for the Class of 2005 at the mansion, paper lanterns and lots of champagne. Hanging from Clark's neck during a slow dance, Chloe tilted her head to kiss him, but he turned, letting her wet mouth slide over his cheek. Too many glasses of spiked punch later, she fled the house, unable to bear the sight of Clark holding Lex's hand. It wasn't even a surprise; it just hurt more at some times than others.

She stumbled over Lucas halfway down the stairs from the terrace and let his hands steady her. Sobbing against his shoulder and feeling sorry for herself, she knew she'd had too much to drink when she pleaded, "Do you think I'm pretty?"

"You're pretty."

He smelled good, like Lex. Fingering the collar of his shirt, not meeting his eyes. "Clark doesn't think so." She tried to kiss him.

He stopped her with a hand at her jaw, looked at her with amusement and a little pity. "Clark's gay." Then a kiss, slow and wet, kindling something low in her gut. She straddled his thighs and he moved his legs further apart, spreading her. She moaned into his mouth because he was hard, for her.

Deep, drunken kissing; slow spirals in her mouth. Hand flat against his belly, sliding down, until he caught her wrist. "Not here," he said. "Can you stand?" Inside, he held her coat while she fit her arms into the sleeves.

"I'll take you home."

Lucas' Jag used to belong to Lex, a hand-me-down, and the only way she'll have Clark is if Lex tires of him. At the bottom of the driveway, she stayed in her seat. "Where are you going?"

"Baton Rouge."

"I'll come, too."

She couldn't imagine he'd say yes, and he didn't. He just shrugged.

Stumbling through her father's dark house, toothbrush and a random handful of laundry tossed into a thrift-store suitcase. A moment's hesitation, hand on the car door, but he looked unconcerned and merely said, "You ready?"

She dozed, still drunk, while he drove fast, like his brother. His voice woke her a few times talking of card games and fixes, hints of structured violence like something in a movie. Maybe she'd write a story, a piece with an unnamed source. A story would make more sense than this, whatever she's doing.

He held the car door open as she blinked awake. "Are we there?"

"No, just stopping for the night."

She walked barefoot to the room, leaving her shoes in the car.

Her headache receded with long draughts of cold water straight from the faucet. Lucas backed her into the wall and she watched in the bathroom mirror as they kissed.

She whispered, "I'm really drunk."

"Want to stop?"

She considered, then decided, "No." His tongue slid alongside hers, slick and muscular. Mouth on her throat, dress off her shoulders, hands cupping her breasts. Teasing a nipple between his teeth, Lucas whispered, "You've done this before, right?"

Which part? "Yes."

"Good," Lucas said, lifting her skirt. Dropping to his knees, he tugged her panties off her hips, pushing her against the sink. He looked up, licked up the inside of her thigh, and her breath broke into sobs. Tongue hot and sharp, slitting her open, so wet she thought she might be bleeding. Arching into the pressure of his mouth, the back of her head struck the mirror with a crack.

He stripped off her dress, stripped the bed down to the sheets, and spread her out with a pillow lifting her ass. Licking a stripe across the palm of her hand, he wrapped it around his cock and she felt the blood surge under his skin. Impatient, she grunted, "In me," meeting his thrust with a sharp intake of breath. Room tilting on its axis, and every nerve ending buzzing; he thrust in again and again and she split around him like ripe fruit, hooking her heels behind his thighs. Trying to hold her pounding head steady while lifting her hips; too drunk, but too good to stop. Wanted it brutal, only remembered to breathe when she needed air to scream.

He turned her over, up on her knees, and slammed into her again, hands on her hipbones hauling her back onto his cock. Eyes met in the mirror over the dresser, watching the wet slide of his cock pulling her inside out. Arching like a cat, she rocked back onto him hard, never hard enough until he pushed her down, hand between her shoulder blades, the new angle taking her apart. Grinding against her, in deep, he shouted something not quite her name.

He pulled her to him and fell asleep fast. Barely conscious and already sore, come cooling between her legs, she knew it was stupid but felt connected to him anyway.

The maid knocks at 9:30. Chloe wakes sprawled across threadbare sheets, alone, with a splitting headache and a juicy rawness between bruised thighs. The car's gone and she knows he won't be back.

He's stranded her here, nowhere. Fucking Luthor bastard. At least he paid for the room.

Her shoes are in his car.

She's not sure whether to call Dad or Lex, but chooses Dad. He's angry and disappointed and he'll wire money for the bus. Walking two blocks on hot asphalt to the Quik-Mart, the twenty from her pocket buys flip-flops, a coke and a microwave burrito. The air smells of garbage, spilled fuel, and fried food. Eating over a trashcan, she doesn't bother to pick up her napkin when it blows out of her hand.

She'd forgotten her suitcase in the room; it's outside when she returns from the store, set out by the maids.

She forces herself to pick it up; trash from the curb and it's hers. It's her.

Suitcase bangs against her shin but she won't cry. There's no story to tell, just a bus to catch.

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