King of Hell

YOU GUYS ARE SUCH GOOD WRITERS

*agressively banging my fist on the desk* AAAAHHHHHH-

Ooc. /)//c//(\ aaaaaa you liked it? We worked so harddd.

OOC: Parts of this has been about a year in the planning.

#been plotting for a while #thank you Lex's bank accounts #ooc

Ooc. Huge huge props to @trigon-demonking who has had a feast cooking!

Say what you like about Brucie Wayne, but the man sure could throw a party. Although by all rights, Lex shouldn't have even been here; a deliberate snub from Wayne, which meant that Lex had no choice but to show their face. And who refused a chance to step foot in Wayne Manor anyway?

So he'd gone arm in arm with a very reluctant employee- Dorothy something -making use of her press pass to get in.

Lex had made a big show of slipping in, grinning at Wayne from across the hall. He didn't even like Galas, rubbing shoulders with fools for so little gain, but it did feel good to rub it in Wayne's face. Sipping Wayne's expensive drinks, and eating his fancy canapés.

Revenge tasted fine as a hors d'oeuvre, Lex decided, waiting and watching for a delicious opportunity when Clark Kent- loathsome, troublesome thorn in Lex's side, but very pretty -was not at Wayne's hip. Instead, Lex brushed past Kent, waiting to relish a shiver or shudder from the man.

"So you're not working tonight?" Lex probed. Then, heady- bored- this side of daring, they streaked a hand along Kent's waist. "I do have a job for you though..."

@official-clark-kent

Clark had known of Lex's presence since they stepped into Wayne Manor, and wasn't that an unpleasant thing, that his awareness of a person he didn't much like had broadened so? But the beat of Bruce's heartsong, strong in his ear, soothed him, and he forced himself to ignore the sound of Lex making his way around, how they swam through the crowd like a shark. It was somewhat easy to stick near Bruce for a time, but when he'd slipped off for a moment and Dottie came forward to say hello, Clark had scooted them to the kitchens, given her a breather from the gala and their boss. Had meant it when he said he'd keep Lex focused on him instead of her. Knowing what he was offering. She'd be furious and guilty if she knew the extent of things. So would Lois, for that matter. But Clark cared, and it was his choice, sort of, and he wanted to keep them safe. He could do it. So when Lex sidled up to Clark's side later, the shark having found its preferred meal, he sighed, let himself be bitten and dragged bloody off to a shadowed corner. Allowed Lex to crowd him back, even as the rising panic sloshed in his lungs, drowning him and his voice. "Lex, we shouldn't do this," he whispered, somewhat hoarse. "Not here. It'd be bad for your image if we're caught, with you being my boss and all."

Even with the deliciously demure reluctance, Lex still was allowed to crowd a man taller, stronger than him back and away. Like a dog cutting cattle from the herd with a nip to its heels. Truthfully, this was the real pleasure for him; that Clark Kent didn't want Lex, not at all, not one bit.

And here Lex was, taking a bite even in the home of Clark's partner.

"Your concern for me is so touching," they cooed, cornering Kent towards a sideroom. Herding him into the room, Lex's eyes dilating in the dark, the only cut of light coming from the hallway. So black they nearly flashed.

And Clark Kent was strong. A thorn that irritated Lex to no end. Prickled them with articles and accusations. And here was Lex reaching his hand up to some country jock's well-muscled shoulder and pressing down. Putting him in his place.

"On your knees, handsome," Lex prompted, voice welled with eagerness. They shifted, leaning back against the desk and drawing their skirts up and out of the way.

Clark's jaw ticked lightly, and he slowly, deliberately dropped to his knees, giving a longing glance towards that sliver of light. His too-blue eyes glittered behind the lenses of his glasses before closing in defeat, fingers curled tight into his palms. Better his nails cut into his hands, than shred the knees of his suit's pants on accident. Distantly, he heard Bruce's heartsong, oddly echoed. It was as if Clark had stepped entirely away from his body, to get some space from the act he was about to initiate. Was it getting closer?

Gotham taught her first lesson deep, sharp, sure; that no one in this world was above, nor beneath pain. Bruce had first learned it on his knees at eight years old, blood clinging to his hands like a gentle touch. He had seen it in his children, in his enemies, in his friends, in Clark explaining in hoarse, aching tones that he hadn't wanted to hurt Lex Luthor.

Even when Lex Luthor's fascination for pain clung like blood, seeped into the skin. Even when Bruce and Clark had spoken, and then concluded with quiet, defined bitterness that there was no legal recourse that did not place Clark's secret identity beneath too much scrutiny.

In Metropolis, justice meant to bring something into the light. To tell secrets in the open. Front page news.

However, in Gotham, Justice was illegal. Justice was a thug. A brute. A bruiser with knuckle-dusters and winged kuramaken. A shadow with talons and a grapnel. A local monster that dragged you off into the dark. Dangled you and your life above the cracked concrete and hissed in your ear.

This was Gotham. This was the Bat's City. This wasn't just his City - this was his home. This was his friend. His loved one. Kneeling not in blood, but still in pain.

Lex had little more warning than Bruce's shadow in the doorway, before the door closed with a crack. Little more than the sudden plunge of darkness, before a bare hand wrapped tightly around their throat and pulled- seized- strangled Lex towards the shadows with a low, growl grinding against Lex's neck:

"No. I don't think so."

He pulled Lex's arm tight into the small of their back, a savage restraint nearing towards a broken bone. Teeth baring in the black room. A foot swiping clean to drop Lex into his grasp, bruising where he pinned Lex.

The voice continued, low and eerie in the pitch, "You're going to leave. This house. This city. This man. Alone." The first, he could help Lex with- and with practiced, deliberate, carefully inflicted violence, he broke the window with Lex's back.

Not a far fall to the ground, but still- justifiably painful. Yes. Justified. Justice.

If there had been darkness at the door, Lex had missed it. Instead, hands fisted in the fabric of his skirts, attention fixed on the miserable set of Clark Kent's mouth. Reaching out with clever fingertips to probe and pull and pry, purring, "open up, handsome."

The light went out. Door like a thunder clap. Black swept in and Lex's head jerked up in alarm- the rush of movement in the room, just a rustle and then pain.

Punishing. Pinning. Pulling them back, legs giving a fearful kick as fingers squoze down on his throat.

Bare skin, sharp and scraping, hand clenching on Lex and dragging him into the dark. Something sudden, painful in the curve of Lex's shin. He toppled back against the savage shadow snarling in his ear.

"No."

Strangled, unable to protest, to claim- not even enough air to try to squeak that Kent liked it, enjoyed it, asked for it--

No breath. Not enough in the blood to think of anything beyond the breathless buzz of fear.

The Bat. The Bat. The Bat with his claws ripening bruises, hauling Lex with a command in blackened tones. Lex fought Gods. Lex fought sky-sent. Superman. Strength contained in arrogance that turned Lex's gut to nausea. This wasn't some alien conqueror. This was no God, alight in the air, cape rippling in the wind. No careful, alien consideration. No God.

This was a devil. The Bat. Claw cragged. Wolf humid command rankling- leave this city, leave this house, leave this man, leave this meat behind, leave this meal, leave it. Pain belonged to other people in this place. Other creatures.

Lex fought Gods and never Devils.

The Bat raised Lex overhead and discarded him. Shattered them, and percussive, Lex struck the ground, whatever breath they had left beaten out of them by the impact.

It was only afterwards, struggling to scrape air back into their lungs that Lex tasted it: a sob, another, spilling the breath from them again. Crying in a shaking heap, thrown from a window.

It took him so long to find the wherewithal to sit. Longer to stand. Waiting for the wraith to come down from the dark window, and finding that the Bat hadn't followed him.

"What the fuck," Lex wheezed. Voice a strained whine. Scrabbled to find their phone, hammering a number into it- "Oh my God. Fuck. Fuck. New Jersey's so fucked up..."

Relief at the line connected. "Earn your goddamn pay and help me now. The Bat threw me from a window. He's in the manor. Kill him. Kill him, kill the fucking bat, that's an order."

//Inside, Hunter danced with Dick Grayson in the ballroom, silver and gold, moon and sun in orbited eclipse.// //Outside, there came a voice, both through the phone and behind the defenestrated person half-sprawled on the ground.// "My pay has been earned. The meta containment cube you requested my assistance with has been built. And you can't afford the price of the Bat's head." //There Deathstroke stood, in full regalia, masked. The ease of his movement as he stalked forward could never be emulated by a machine, even one as sophisticated as Sidra. He reached out and plucked the phone from Lex's hand, ending the call, then dropped it and hauled Lex gracelessly to their feet.// "Up you get." //He gave Lex a couple of fortifying pats on the shoulders, brushed dirt and grass from the purple skirt, retrieved and fixed upon Lex's face the now-cracked glasses he'd lost flying out the window.// "There."

Lex's body was stiff- broken ribs, they knew, daddy's favorite present -standing with Slade Wilson's help. Baring his teeth through pain, Lex flinched at the pats to sore shoulders, expression twisting with frustration, malignant pain and irritation.

"Thank you." Lex grunted. "Your high-priced retainer is worth something at least," they adjusted their glasses. "You'll need to move quickly with the next phase, get the Kryptonian locked down before refocusing religious fervor in Santa Prisca. Hardly need the interference."

Lex sniffed, removing their eyeglasses to inspect them for dirt. "I am one of three people who can afford the Bat's head on a stick." He raised his head to scoff at Slade. "Tell me, what's the use of buying a dog who won't fetch?"

Their voice failed them. Caught by an abrupt nova of impact, then a second, that Lex only noticed seeing blood blossom out from the point where the bullet had entered.

He dropped. Shot. Twice. A ragdoll onto the grass and shining specks of glass; fury and disbelief twitching on their face.

//Slade stepped forward, pointing the barrel of the silenced pistol at Lex's face. His voice came out, low and mocking, smooth but for the bite of bitterness.// "I'm someone else's dog." //And then the third shot rang out. Lex was no more. As promised. The veil was getting thinner, and it was almost time.// //As he picked up his brass, the mercenary glanced towards the ballroom. Through the large windows, Slade spotted himself- Hunter- with Dick. How they finished their dance, how his lips spread in a happy grin as he was attacked with kisses from his little bird.// //The ability to form more than one of himself was a gift, he'd been told as lava edged his veins. For efficiency's sake. But Slade had been using it for ages now, spending part of his time with Dick and part of his time doing his master's work. The meta containment cube, built on Lex's dime, was complete. But it wouldn't hold Superman.// //It was never meant to hold Superman.//

trigon-demonking

Trigon's mark appeared on Slade's forehead and turned the man's eye Red.

"Well Done, My Good And Faithful Servant."

A deep growl of a voice flooded the man's mind. An all-too-familiar burn embraced the mercenary as runes coated Slade's body, his master taking the voice box.

Deathstroke's body shook with laughter as the voice shifted from what was clearly his own to something deeper. Something that would give any living person pause, instilling dread in all who heard it.

As the runes finished etching themselves into Slade's form he disappeared, as did the laughter. In his wake the silence was almost worse- leaving those who'd witnessed to wonder where he'd gone to lurk instead.

There was a tireless rhythm to it; Bruce's body ached strangely, Clark was in dire need of comfort and quiet. And yet, three gunshots had happened. Bruce hesitated only long enough to hide his identity, cowl, cape, armor, anger- then alighted the window to the grounds.

At most the fall had a lethality risk of 11.4%. Less, throwing Lex back first and to grassy terrain. Good surface area to dissipate force. Not just survivable but deliberately so.

Lex Luthor had survived their fall.

Which made his corpse on Bruce's lawn troubling. More troubling was jet black and orange armor.

Most troubling was the magma bright Mark of Skath blazoned on his forehead. Burning in Bruce's vision even as Deathstroke dissipated from the scene.

"Trigon," Bruce murmured.

#closed rp #thread end

So he'd gone arm in arm with a very reluctant employee- Dorothy something -making use of her press pass to get in.

"So you're not working tonight?" Lex probed. Then, heady- bored- this side of daring, they streaked a hand along Kent's waist. "I do have a job for you though..."

@official-clark-kent

And here Lex was, taking a bite even in the home of Clark's partner.

"On your knees, handsome," Lex prompted, voice welled with eagerness. They shifted, leaning back against the desk and drawing their skirts up and out of the way.

In Metropolis, justice meant to bring something into the light. To tell secrets in the open. Front page news.

This was Gotham. This was the Bat's City. This wasn't just his City - this was his home. This was his friend. His loved one. Kneeling not in blood, but still in pain.

"No. I don't think so."

Not a far fall to the ground, but still- justifiably painful. Yes. Justified. Justice.

The light went out. Door like a thunder clap. Black swept in and Lex's head jerked up in alarm- the rush of movement in the room, just a rustle and then pain.

Punishing. Pinning. Pulling them back, legs giving a fearful kick as fingers squoze down on his throat.

"No."

Strangled, unable to protest, to claim- not even enough air to try to squeak that Kent liked it, enjoyed it, asked for it--

No breath. Not enough in the blood to think of anything beyond the breathless buzz of fear.

Lex fought Gods and never Devils.

The Bat raised Lex overhead and discarded him. Shattered them, and percussive, Lex struck the ground, whatever breath they had left beaten out of them by the impact.

It was only afterwards, struggling to scrape air back into their lungs that Lex tasted it: a sob, another, spilling the breath from them again. Crying in a shaking heap, thrown from a window.

It took him so long to find the wherewithal to sit. Longer to stand. Waiting for the wraith to come down from the dark window, and finding that the Bat hadn't followed him.

"What the fuck," Lex wheezed. Voice a strained whine. Scrabbled to find their phone, hammering a number into it- "Oh my God. Fuck. Fuck. New Jersey's so fucked up..."

Relief at the line connected. "Earn your goddamn pay and help me now. The Bat threw me from a window. He's in the manor. Kill him. Kill him, kill the fucking bat, that's an order."

Their voice failed them. Caught by an abrupt nova of impact, then a second, that Lex only noticed seeing blood blossom out from the point where the bullet had entered.

He dropped. Shot. Twice. A ragdoll onto the grass and shining specks of glass; fury and disbelief twitching on their face.