Three-Stone Kitten So our first time was to be in the loft. If I’d had to wager a guess, I would have gone with the mansion. Or one of my cars. Anywhere but a loft in a barn 100 feet away from where Clark’s parents were watching the evening news and playing Skip-Bo. And I would have thought that Clark would be the one to initiate it, since I don’t exactly make a habit of seducing underage farmboys. Underage anyones. I’d like to think I had other options available to me than taking advantage of the innocents. However, to the best of my knowledge, I could hardly be responsible for my actions if Clark were to make the first move. Nobody could. It would be one of those afternoons of playing pool after a produce delivery, and I would be leaning over to take the winning shot and there would be Clark, suddenly plastered to my back, clutching strong arms around me, whispering wonderful, stupid things to me about wanting me all of this time, and needing me, needing to touch me, and please could he? Even in my fantasies I would put up the proper amount of token protest, with the you’re too young, don’t know what you want and how I certainly don’t want to be on the receiving end of Jonathan’s shotgun. The businessman in me knows, though, that I would never stand a chance against Clark’s negotiating skills, and having him on the pool table would be the best transaction I’d ever made. Everybody would walk away from this deal satisfied. Scenario A: completely acceptable. And yet? Here I am, so very, very fucked. If one didn’t know that I was Lex Luthor, eternally cool and self-controlled, one would think I was some horny teenager trying to cop a cheap feel off of his best friend. Except that horny teenagers are usually more smooth. And less fumbling. But, from the best of my knowledge, and for a reason I can’t even begin to contemplate, most horny teenagers are not trying to score with Clark. Clark, who is golden and warm, like some kind of sun god. Clark, who is looking at me as if I’ve suddenly given him all the answers to a mid-term he hasn’t studied for. Who thinks I know everything, and who is dead wrong, because being with someone I actually feel something for is uncharted territory and fucking unreal. Anybody would be thrown off balance by this. Except I’m not anybody. I’m a Luthor and I’m knocked on my ass and paved over. I’m a Luthor and... I’m already spinning this. Of course this wasn’t intentional. I was coming up to the loft for some friendly conversation with a good friend, a friend who knows that I occasionally come up for conversation and still made the decision to be touching himself there. Stroking himself. And yes, while I am also at this time, touching him in that precise place, stroking, it is by no fault of my own. When green eyes snapped open to meet mine over the railing, _expression like I was his most erotic fantasy come to life, still stroking...there’s no fucking way I could deny him that. If it helps my case at all, I’ve done this before to myself and others, and this is without question not my best work. I’m too all over the place, unfocused like some slobbering drunk. But it’s Clark and if this is my only chance to touch him then, while I might not be making the best of it, I’m making the most of it. I can’t look at him because what if I was wrong? What if I was not his fantasy come to life and he was just thirsty for the ice-cold lemonade Martha had given me to bring up? I focus instead on the hand on his cock. Hand which had abandoned pitcher and glasses somewhere. Hand which had been moist and cool from condensation, now more moist and something more like burning hot. My hand. My other hand...somewhere. Everywhere. Scrabbling around in the general vicinity of his chest, hip, maybe his armpit. I’m fucking losing it from touching this kid and it’s too quiet and I was. So. Very. Wrong. Colossal mistake. I’m not getting out of this gracefully. Fuckfuckfuck. Large hands gripping my head, forcing me away. I’ve made a huge, fucking... I wasn’t wrong. Eyes on mine flash hot and I’m expecting spontaneous combustion any second. I shudder and release a breath I had been purposely holding to stifle the sex babble that tends to escape my mouth at moments like these. Then, oxygen deprivation becomes an issue because when I’m hauled up from my half-perch on the couch to straddle strong thighs and I’m catching my breath for an different reason entirely. I’ve lost my grip on his cock, which I’m assuming is also acceptable since it was Clark who pried my fingers loose and “Not yet.” was hot and moist in my ear. Then a tongue, hot and moist in my mouth and... Jesus. Clark’s mouth and I’m fumbling here too and how is he so fucking cool while I’m about to die of mortification at the needy sounds I’m making? I’m needy for this and that would blow my mind if it weren’t already obliterated by the drag of rough fingers across my scalp. Incredibly hot, and what am I, some kind of amateur? My hands fly to his head to mirror the action, because I can vaguely recall mirroring being a good negotiating strategy. See? I’m just like you. You can trust me. It occurs to me that this isn’t exactly negotiation even though sex can be a good negotiating strategy too, but it’s Clark and this is something else altogether. Something I’m having trouble cataloging. My hands are fisting in his hair. I...have to see him...have to make sure. I yank his head back and our mouths separate with a slurping sound. It sounds like sex, and Clark....looks like sex. Lips. Red, swollen and glossywet. Mid-kiss open. Eyes half-closed and he looks trashed. Stoned out of his mind. What he doesn’t look is confused or worried or freaked the fuck out. He doesn’t look any of the things I can feel in my own eyes and I don’t want him to see so I close them. Hands slide from my head on a trail of sweat to rest on my shoulders. My hands unclench to mirror that too. They miss their target. Don’t stop until they reach the dip of his elbows between our bodies. “Lex.” My eyes fly open of their own accord, and all I see is calm and Clark. But his eyes are soft and something and have I ever seen that look before, on anybody? Not before, not ever and yet, inexplicably, right now.. I need some space. I nearly clap my hands over my mouth, sitcom-style. I said that out loud. Note to self: keep inner-monologue inner. Hands on my shoulders grip harder. “Lex, stop. You’re just--” I shake my head. I know what he thinks I mean, and I might very well mean just that, but I don’t want to think about it. Now is not a time for thought. It is a time for action, preferably of the sexual sort, and I’m back in his mouth. Back on his cock. I’m getting my bearings back. My shit is finally together and Clark doesn’t know what hit him. I have to do this for him. That other...the rest of what he wants, the softness and tenderness and that which shall not be named...I’m skeptical that I can ever live up to his expectations in that respect. I know my limitations. But this...this I can do. I have to try, have to pour everything I have into rolling tongues and slick skin and maybe he will see me, see something in me that vaguely resembles what he needs. And, god, I want to give him that. For now he gets...just this. It’s all I have to give right now and there could be more buried somewhere under my legacy of a lifetime’s worth of cold indifference. Maybe having someone who wanted more from me could change everything. Change me.. It could happen, because there are harsh fingers bruising my back and it feels like... Something more. More than it should be and how could I think this could be anything less because it’s Clark.. Coming. Groaning into my mouth. Wetstickyhot coats my hand and something shimmers around him. The rest of my life has been ruined for me. It will never be better than this. Then I’m tensing, quivering, and ...Get me. Know me. I’m just like you. What I see on his face remarkably resembles the reflection of myself I see in his eyes and I’m praying, begging that he knows what this is. Gets what this means, this whatever it is that I’m feeling. He could, in turn, share the secret with me, tell me what it is I’m trying to say, because fuck-all if I know. If I were forced to define it, in this instant between coital and post-coital, I’d have to say that this is it. That defining moment everyone talks about but never notices except in retrospect, when it’s too late. The moment where choices are made, and paths diverge, but my mind is blown and I can’t fathom anything besides being this, with him. There is no choice to make, because what other path could there possibly be? It’s Clark, and I belong at his side, as if I’ve always been there and always will be. <<