Disclaimer/Notes: Characters belong to AOL Time Warner/DC Comics/Millar-Gough & Tollin-Robbins Productions
This is a short piece about encounters in barns with an audience. Please R&R.
@ New Orleans
It starts slow and it's dry and that's alright because he doesn't have much experience with this sort of thing. I mean, he's been about halfway around the block, played about two innings, danced to the first set, but never really traveled the wide, open countryside.
For just a moment, I wish it were I. There. Pinned against the wall, arms bruised and needy. Alright, not for just a moment. I wish it were me always. Both of them.
It's dry and there's a gentle wheeze from the other side and he's frightened, just a little because he thinks he might suck all the life out of his partner; I mean, he could literally choke him with all his fucking goofy super powers. I wish he hadn't told me about them.
I'm afraid of what that knowledge might lead me to do. Someday.
He tries his best to concentrate, make it wetter. He dives deeper, then pulls back again but just for a second because it tastes delicious and somewhere he can feel a finger going somewhere.
Tongue on tongue and it's odd and safe and viciously urgent and he's beginning to make those little sounds like a Muppet on crack and something's moving in circles and he swears the world is beginning to tilt.
I remember when we were little and playing outside and he fell out of the tree and was laughing and I should have known then he was different. I remember crying for him. What a fool I was.
It finally gets wetter and even more urgent and he wants to consume his opponent, own him, take him, bite into that flesh and keep eating until there was nothing left but truth. He digs in, fingers clenched, more sighs and more moisture and the temperature has reached 1000 degrees and he realizes he can smell dirt and maybe blood too.
I smell dirt and dust and I feel dirty. I think my make up is running.
It's not blood he hopes and presses on and it's raining or something like that and he's cold and there's that finger again and fuck he's harder than he's ever been and yet almost wants to cry because what does all this mean about him...what does this say about what he is? The mouth on his confirms what his mind and body have just realized and that's alright, at least for the moment, because the other tongue is like fresh suede and silk and summer wrapped up in a flowing current. Something like lemonade and everlasting gobstoppers and dreams and hatreds.
I know exactly what this is and who he is and who he is, too. I know my place. Sister, confidant, occasional flirt; always the voyeur, never the participant. Like I'm not good enough or something. I knew I should have taken Lionel up on his offer.
He's writhing beneath him and thrashing and pleading for everything, nothing, all, damnation, and validation. He's not sure what to do. A hand reaches up and moves back and forth, back and forth, in the most natural rhythm men know. Still, a pause, a catch, a space of doubts and he knows everything is about to become even more complicated and twisted and he wishes he were far way, squashed by gravity under a red sun.
But he's here, and he is crushed. Crushed by a molten pile of want and need and something he can't place and a voice is calling to him, easing him and making him think of softer days and simpler acceptance and possibly safety. He notices his shirt is off and he's sliding and he swears there's rants and threats coming from somewhere...but are they threats or commands? It doesn't matter because it's happening and the mouth is locked on his.
I think he's lost in it. Drowning, splashing, floating, whatever. It pisses me off, to be honest.
Everything is faster and rushed and he remembers it's time for dinner, in the yellow fringed room, with gravy running off the table and fuck it's late and he wants to run away from this but the straw is soft and the body beneath his is trembling. He wishes this wasn't real, wishes it was like his dreams where there is no schedule, no time and no one to lie to.
His parents are going to come looking for him if they don't hurry up. Morons. Is his hair prettier than mine? Does he kiss better? Is he smarter? What is it? Why is it? What Makes them so bonded, so connected, so enthralled? No one ever worshipped me they just pitied me. Oh, that poor tragic girl with her stone dead parents and slutty Aunt. That girl, star of a fairy tale turned nightmare...little lost Lana.
He pours more on, trying desperately to keep the well flowing...the stream won't stop though and he doesn't really want it to and the mouth is licking at his wildly and he can't stop, won't stop, will never stop.
The kissing just lingers and roams and I feel lonely and insane and I notice I am kinda horny too. Wonder what Pete is doing this fine evening. Probably drunk somewhere with Chloe. It sucks to be the good girl. I should run away, join a circus. Tart doing coke and sweat all day, dance the streets until they send me to Arkham. Anything, anything to be wanted, trapped, caught. I need to be caught, tamed, controlled, let free, beaten, caressed, fucked like Clark just fucked Lex.
He doesn't notice me watching. Or does he? I can't be certain. He said not to watch, just stay by the barn door. Look. Out. Like some kind of sentry. The sex patrol.
Part of me always thought Clark was a saint cum sadist.
He lies with him in his arms and it's sticky and they are beaming at one another and he doesn't care about dinner or homework or being a freak or anything at all. All he cares about is returning to the source.
I want to ask, I want to hope, I want to feel what they do. I realize they would never let me snuggle in between them, although I need to so damn badly. I want them to hold me and rub my back and ease my anger.
But this is not for me.
My father needs some help on a case file, I have to run some numbers at the Talon, and for some reason, I've forgotten how to swim.
Also, why not join
Level Three, the Smallville all-fic list?