Spoilers: A little of "Metamorphosis"
Pairing: Clark/Lana/Lex (sort of)
Disclaimers: Don't own any of them (but boy do I wish I did) Archive: Sure, just let me know
Author's Comments: This is only slightly slashy, but it's the first of a series. Summary: Puberty is a bitch. For some, can even be dangerous.
Clark gaped at the vision of resplendent perfection that slowly mounted the stairs toward him. What was she doing here this late? How had she gotten in?
"Lana," he started as she came closer. "What are you doing here? It's almost-"
She shushed him by putting a finger to his lips. He could already feel the effects of her Kryptonite necklace working on him, and his knees began to buckle. Or was that due to the fact that she was touching him?
"I couldn't deny my feelings any longer, Clark. I just had to see you. I just had to touch you..." She reached out and grabbed his crotch though his baggy jeans. He gasped and fell to his knees, as much from the shock of her actions as from the effects of the necklace.
She sank with him, planting her lips on his. He was helpless to stop her (not that he wanted to), or to do anything else, for that matter. He tried to focus on the softness of her lips on his, the fear welling within him as he grew increasingly light-headed, actuality beginning to lilt and distort around him. Just before he was about to pass out, she backed away and lifted the necklace over her head.
"Sorry Clark, I forgot about this." She frowned slightly, tossing the necklace away like someone who just realized they left the iron on after leaving the house. He gave her a consternate stare, his equilibrium returning. How did she know? He didn't get a chance to ask before her mouth sought his again, hungrily sucking on his bottom lip as she massaged the quickly-growing bulge in his jeans...
His eyes fluttered open and Lex was kneeling behind Lana, making kissing gestures at him. He was lifting Lana's skirt from behind and reaching between her legs, his eyes never leaving Clark's. Lana moaned at whatever he was doing, and Lex gave Clark a quick wink. Clark's eyes closed and opened again, and Lex was gone.
What was that about? Lana was unzipping his jeans, reaching in to grip his tortured hardness...
Clark tossed about in the bed that came perilously close to being too small for him, his breathing ragged and the sheets damp with his perspiration. There was a tent-like bulge at his crotch, and not even realizing what he was doing he took hold of the burgeoning flesh between his legs, squeezing gently at first, then kneading in a steadily increasing rhythm.
His hand worked in a blur as the erotic images of the dream continued to play in his mind. His halting breaths turned to gasping moans as the pleasure rose into gut-wrenching, almost painful bolts of ecstasy...
The cum shot out of his organ like a bullet, blasting a hole through the sheet and knocking a chunk of plaster out of the ceiling. This woke Clark abruptly and he sat upright on the dank mattress, staring in disbelief at the lacerated sheet. It was morning, and he could make out small falling particles in the stream of sunlight that shone through his window. Particles that looked a little too large to be dust. He lifted his stare to the ceiling.
"Oh shit!" he gasped aloud as a couple of small bits of plaster fell in his lap. The chunk missing from the ceiling lined up perfectly with the hole over his crotch. Had he really done that? "They're going to kill me!"
"Clark? You okay up there?" came his mother's voice from downstairs.
"Fine, mom!" he yelled quickly, praying she wouldn't come up to investigate. How was he going to explain this? He couldn't tell his parents he had done this damage by whacking off! He pulled the sheet off himself and swung his feet onto the wood floor, trying to remember what had caused him to...
Images of the dream returned to him and he smiled. Oh yeah. Lana. She'd actually wanted him! She'd behaved so wantonly...
"Let's go, Clark! We've got a lot to get done today!" His father called in a voice that told he'd better be downstairs in five minutes or less, snapping him out of his reverie, a good thing since he was starting to swell again.
"Coming!" Clark got up and grabbed the sheet, balling it up and throwing it in the closet. He'd deal with that later. He looked up at the ceiling again. Maybe Jonathan could fix it before his mom saw it.
He used is superior quickness to shower and dress, trying to figure out how he was going to tell his father without involving his mother. He wanted to just forget about it and hope it didn't happen again, but he knew better than that. The way his hormones had been raging lately, he'd bring the house down on all of them.
"Morning, son!" His father greeted him cheerfully as he walked into the kitchen.
"Morning." Clark mumbled. He glanced over at his mother uncomfortably. "Morning, mom."
"Come on and sit down, honey." Mrs. Kent kissed him on the forehead as he seated himself. She put a plate piled high with bacon, eggs, hash browns and toast in front of him. "You want juice or milk?"
"Milk," he answered, same as always. He didn't know why she even bothered to ask.
She set the milk down in front of him and went out into the yard, giving Clark the opportunity he needed.
"Sleep good, son?" Mr. Kent asked with a grin. Clark looked up at him quickly, trying to mask his paranoia.
"Um... yeah." Clark muttered, mentally telling himself to calm down. He took a mouthful of bacon. "Dad?" he began tentatively.
"Um... can I... talk to you about something?" His voice dropped a pitch. "Personal?"
Jonathan studied his son. He could tell by his demeanor that it was something he didn't necessarily want Martha to know. He dropped his fork and gave him his full attention. "Sure Clark. Go ahead."
"I want to show you something first." Clark said, getting up. "Upstairs."
Puzzled but curious, Jonathan followed him up to his room. Clark went to the closet first and pulled out the sheet, holding it up so Jon could see the hole in it.
Jon frowned slightly, unimpressed. "What happened?"
Clark waited a beat for him to get it, then lowered his eyes. "I had a wet dream," he said in a low voice.
Jon stood looking at him, then at the sheet, still not understanding. Then what his son was trying to tell him hit him like a brick, and his eyes widened. He grabbed the sheet, inspecting it carefully. "You did this?" he whispered, suppressing a snicker.
"That's not all." Clark chose to ignore his father's strained expression as he continued to stare in fascination at the perforated material. He finally looked at Clark, who then looked up at the ceiling. Jon followed his gaze to the small gouge right above Clark's bed.
His jaw dropped. He caught himself before speaking, not wanting it to sound too serious (even though it was). His first instinct had been to laugh-until now. What he finally uttered was, "Wow, son. That must have been some dream." What he was thinking was, Holy Shit.
"I'm really sorry, Dad." Clark was saying. "I didn't do it on purpose."
"I know that, son." Jon turned toward him. Poor Clark looked so embarrassed he put his arm around him and gave his right shoulder a squeeze. "And it's perfectly normal to have those kinds of dreams." He sighed, glancing at the ceiling again. "Believe me, you'll have plenty of them in your lifetime." He regarded Clark again, realizing, not for the first time just how close he was to manhood. At six-foot-three, he was nearly 3 inches taller than Jon already, and he certainly towered over everyone in his freshman class, and he wasn't even done growing yet. His youthful features had matured into a strong jawline, tremendous, expressive eyes, and cheekbones so pronounced you could almost cut things with them. "God, you've grown up fast."
Clark wasn't listening. He had come to a realization that sank his heart like a stone, one that went far beyond putting holes in sheets and plaster. "What am I going to do? I'm never going to be able to touch a girl. Ever."
Jon tried to comfort him. "Now, son-"
"What if I hurt her, Dad?" He looked into his father's face, the immense hazel eyes wide and distraught. His voice dropped to a whisper of despair. "Or worse?"
"Clark," Jon was trying desperately to think of something to say, but the truth was, Clark had a very valid point. "You're new at this. Maybe as you get older you might be able to... control it."
Clark's left eyebrow arched. "Have you ever been able to 'control it', Dad?"
Jon sighed in resignation. "No. But then again I don't have the abilities that you have."
Clark was not convinced. He gave his father a glazed look, positively heartbroken. "I'm doomed to be alone forever." He turned slowly and walked out of the room, completely out of character with his usual blurring away in anger. Jon wanted to follow him but what could he say? He looked up at the ceiling once more. He'd better get that fixed before Martha noticed.
Jon felt his son's pain almost as acutely as if it were his own. If Clark could do that to the ceiling, what would he do to human flesh and bone? Would he ever be able to safely make love to a human woman? Was this the price of being alien, of being so "gifted"?
He cursed himself. He was the father, dammit. He was supposed to fix it, whatever it was. But he couldn't fix Clark. He couldn't make him normal... human.
He wanted to consult his wife but know Clark would be furious with him if he did.
Picking up the sheet, he went downstairs to find his son.