A/N: Chloe, POV. Implied Slash. i.e. This is where a few glasses of wine and rumination of Clark/Lex gets you….
There's a beauty about them that she can't quite understand.
Arousal- that's there for certain. The feeling that arises from watching two beautiful forms writhe together, their similarities as jarring as their differences. Male to male. Dark to light. Binaries become so fruitless as both occupy the definitions in different manners. It's racy and hot and edgy and she can't help but react. It pulls her, dark and deep, and she doesn't give a thought to resisting as her legs rub against each other, voyeur denim reliving tension.
But there's something peaceful about it as well, watching their bodies move together in seeming synchronicity. She's not close enough to know whether breaths and thrusts work in tandem, but she can guess that they do. It's enough that she eschews the endgames and subterfuge that have been for so long signifiers of identity.
Tonight, they're just two people, two bodies, giving pleasure in the loft of a barn.
For a fraction of a moment she gives a thought to joining them. She knows she won't be resisted, for all that it matters, but a third party would mar the tableau.
She's a connoisseur of art. And in Smallville, where examples of the higher aesthetics are few and far between, she's not one to decline reviewing a commission.
So she waits…and watches…and rises and falls.
And walks away from the scene satisfied…sad…satiated.
Sentient.