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Entry tags:
SV: A Fine Romance NC-17
Title: A Fine Romance
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Whitney/Bruce
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 4085
Summary: there will always be a new game to play
Notes/Warnings: Purest PWP. This takes place in my AU Smallville verse, where Whit never died and Bruce and Lex know each other very well, and Bruce is kind of a freak…well, that is more or less canon.
Smoke hung under the low ceiling, thick and rank. It was hard enough to see as it was, and the stench of cheap tobacco was fighting with the scent of alcohol, fresh and ancient, not to mention the reek of bodies, lots and lots of bodies….
Whit was almost inclined to leave--almost. But the idea of couple of cold—or luke-warm--beers sounded too good to turn down. Besides, he had a lot to think about. His fingers traced over the edges of a many-folded sheet of note book paper.
He shrugged and wended his way through the gyrating crowd, to a small table in the rear of the bar. He liked its position, under a stone arch. It was hot back there with the breeze of the fans unable to reach that spot but it was dark and separate and that's what he wanted. He hoped he wasn't going to run into anyone from his squad, he wanted privacy, wanted to be alone and just think. He had about enough of the language to make himself understood and that was all he needed. He set his beer down and took the letter out again. He could feel his forehead draw tight with frustration, anger. This thin bit of paper was the only answer he could give Lana and her tape…letting her go hurt, but not in the way she expected. Unlike Lana, he'd save his struggle to come to terms with his feelings until he met her in person. There was just no way he could explain this to her, or understand it himself until he was home again.
"Let me guess."
Whit looked up; annoyed—and stopped, mouth open. For one sharp split second, he'd thought the guy hanging over his table was Clark. But no…he actually looked nothing like Clark, he was just—big, and dark like Clark, with piercing blue eyes that reminded him of Clark's green eyes in the way they looked right into you, through you…the guy was probably a reporter, but he was wearing a linen suit that was obviously expensive.
"Bad news from home?" The look on the guy's face was at odds with the concern in his voice. Completely faked. The guy didn't give a shit about 'bad news' but there was an interest in his eyes Whit had lately come to recognize.
Whit shrugged, laughed—sharp and bitter. "I guess you could say that. My 'girlfriend' decided that we made much better friends than lovers. Nice of her to let me know now."
The other guy gave him a sympathetic look not at all echoed in his eyes. "Know what you mean," he said, "I've been there…too many times," he finished wryly and Whit laughed again, but this time he really felt the humor he'd pretended.
"Yeah. Barely a note from her since I've been gone, but tons of cards and stuff from some guy I just barely got to know before I left town…" Whit shook his head, took a deep drink of the bitter, dark beer he'd been clutching. "Life's weird some times."
"Yes. My friend…communicates with me from time to time…always nice to be reminded of home." He fiddled with a thin leather braid around his wrist as he talked, twisting and loosening it around his thick fingers. Whit blinked, realized he'd zoned out on the wristlet's movement. He glanced up at the man's face and was startled to see a rather dark look in his eyes, totally at odds with the mild expression, and soft voice. The man held his hand out. "Bruce" he said, and Whit took it.
"Whitney," he said and following Bruce kept his last name to himself. "Most people call me Whit—I prefer it myself."
"Really? But Whitney, it's an elegant name. It's lyrical, leaves the mouth like a sigh. Nice."
Whit felt a flush tint his face, he was suddenly a bit hotter, his mouth dry, and he thought of Clark, lobbing that basketball, shot after shot, against the barn wall, sweating…Whit was as hard as he'd been that day he'd watched Clark sweat and had had no idea why. Not then.
Bruce smirked, had the nerve to run his tongue, the pointed tip of it, into the tiny opening of the bottle, let it trace the opening… two fingers stroked slowly up and down the bottle's neck, two thick fingers and Whit imagined what they'd feel like working him open….
He dropped his eyes and felt the flame rushing up the back of his neck. He was so hard it was painful, not to mention angry at being played.
"What?" Bruce purred. "Something wrong? Lots of people have a hard time adjusting to the heat. Where are you from?"
"Kansas," Whit bit out and the man looked surprised.
"I know someone from Kansas. We're…we were close, once. Where specifically, if you don't mind my asking?"
"You've never heard of it, promise. Smallville. The name says it all."
Bruce leaned back and his expression went flat, unreadable. "You're right. Never have. So, Whitney. Unless I'm reading this wrong, you might like to come back to my room some time. I keep some shitty American beer on hand, if you'd be interested. Look," he said, standing. "Here's my address. Just…come whenever you want. If I'm not there, someone will get me. But I'm almost always there."
The smile he gave Whit curled one side of his mouth. His blue eyes had gone a smoky cobalt and Whit managed to swallow the groan that wanted to come loose. Something about this guy…was fucking scary. Whit thought hard. It was plain what Bruce had on his mind, but Whit wasn't sure if he was up to it. He didn't know anything—a few furtive handjobs behind a bar, a little fumbling in the shower on his own didn't exactly add up to experience but Bruce projected something that made his bones light up, that same thing he got around Lex—the bastard. God he hated that, that thing he could barely control. Around Lex, he burned. Around Clark…Clark he wanted to seduce, to win all for himself, every bit of the sweet innocent guy Clark was. Lex, he wanted to throw down and fuck until he screamed. He wanted to bite and mark, shove his arm right up to the elbow in him, rip out what made him so fucking—fucking--
He was breathing harder, his cheeks were burning. Bruce was smiling like he knew what was going on his mind. Whit got that with Bruce, it would go in a different way…very much so. He found himself wondering how different.
Bruce said something and was gone before Whit could even exhale. He turned the card over in his hand. It was a fucking expensive card. Creamy to the touch, black lettering slightly raised against his fingertips. On impulse he raised it to his face and caught the scent of some cologne, realizing what he'd done made him flush again. He had no doubt that meeting up with Bruce would be the craziest thing he could possibly do—crazy and probably dangerous, on an epic level.
WWWW
Whit was working his way through a concrete warren—the streets wove in and out of each other like a Celtic knot. He darted through traffic that moved in fits and starts, breathing in burning diesel and oil, deafened by the squawk of car horns. He dodged a car and leaped up onto a curb, wiping sweat out of his eyes and wondering why he'd even wasted his time showering that morning. He grimaced at the ticklish feel of sweat running down his ribs and wet fabric clinging to his skin with every movement.
Whit tried to relax, exhaled slowly. Swell neighborhood, he thought and hoped that Bruce's apartment was going to be a lot nicer than what he could see around him. He clutched the card and sighed. He had one more night before he needed to report back to camp. If he didn't find Bruce soon, he was going to give it up. Hell, he should give it up. He still felt this was a bad idea….
He turned down another twisty street, and was about to risk asking a stranger if they knew where the address on the card was when he heard a shout. On the upper floor of a solid looking old building, he caught sight of a balcony, louvered doors open wide and Bruce in linen pants and a skin tight a-shirt was waving to him.
"There's a door in the alley-way, Whitney—come on up."
WWWW
Whit carefully made his way up the narrow staircase, eyes out for an open doorway. Three floors up, Bruce was waiting for him, with a smirk and a bottle of beer, beads of water rolling down its side and dripping onto the tiled floor.
"Bet you're ready for this," he smiled, and there was Clark again. Small, sweet, smile, blue eyes that he could easily see as green…dark hair falling across a wide forehead. The impulse to brush the hair away almost overwhelmed him and Whit felt relieved when Bruce threw his hair back and the smile resettled into that smart-ass smirk. Bruce jerked his chin towards the door way and Whit walked in.
There was little in the room, a couch and a desk and a short bookshelf. A bed behind an openwork screen. The couch faced the desk and a laptop was open and turned towards it. There were low tables scattered here and there…"Nice," Whit said. "Clean." He set the now empty bottle down on the nearest table and waited.
Bruce snorted. "Sit down." Whit looked towards the couch, went past it and sat on the bed.
Bruce laughed. "Okay." He took a beer from the small fridge in the corner of the room. "I had food and all, maybe we can eat later."
"This isn't a date," Whit growled.
"Maybe not, but hungry is hungry."
"Yeah, whatever," Whit muttered and leaned back on the bed. He'd been nervous when he'd thought it was just about sex, but now, when it was turning into something like…a date, or friends hanging out instead of a hook-up, he was terrified. All of this was crazy and nuts and he felt like he was falling headfirst down the rabbit hole.
Bruce emptied his own bottle, Whit noticed without wasting time fellating it as he had in the club—Whit was a sure thing, after all. Bruce licked his lips and sank to his knees at the edge of the bed, a fluid move that ended with his elbows resting on the mattress. He pressed a hot, dry, little kiss to Whit's calf. Whit shuddered—his instinct was to pull away, but he forced himself to still. Bruce murmured in approval, smoothed his hand up Whit's calf. The feather-light touch tickled the hair on Whit's leg. The gentle sweep of fingers slowed, curled around Whit's kneecap. Bruce's thumb stroked the skin, sent a warm shiver from Whit's knee to his dick, the slight pressure loosened the tense set of his legs. He'd never been touched this way before, like it…mattered, like he was worth touching. Bruce spoke, so low Whit couldn't catch it, and moved his hand higher up Whit's thigh, until his fingertips were tracing the edge of Whit's shorts.
"I'm going to take these off," Bruce said, tugging at the hem of his shorts and then slipping fingertips under the fabric, tracing a loop on the sensitive inner skin of Whit's thigh, higher as Bruce's hand pushed the material up. He sucked an open-mouthed, toothy kiss high as he could reach, fingertips just stroking the sweat-tacky skin of his balls and Whit's head dropped back, his hips jerked and trembled, his knees dropped open. Bruce laughed, soft and sly. "I knew you'd be this responsive. I could see it in your face, yesterday at the bar. Hear it in the way you breathed…" He sucked harder, pulling blood to the surface and Whit's legs fell wider, a quiet groan rolling off his tongue. His dick struggled to rise against the fabric of his shorts, pulsing in time to Bruce biting and sucking at his tender skin. He wanted to blame it on not being laid in while—a long while—but that was only half of it. Since Clark, he'd wanted this, wanted to know. What it felt like to have sex with a man. Or…not just that. What it'd be like to give up control to someone else….
A sharp sudden pain brought a yelp out of him. He lifted his head and Bruce was smiling at him. "I want you here with me when we do this. I want all of your attention—understand?" His thumb came down on the spot he'd bit and Whit yowled—it hurt, but there was also a sudden spurt of wetness darkening the fabric of his shorts. He shook and groaned. Bruce licked the darkened spot, his tongue hot and wet even though the khaki. It felt even better when Bruce closed his teeth over his aching dick.
"Hey." Bruce lifted away from the bed and peeled off his skin tight a-shirt. Whit made himself look. The first time he'd openly looked at a man, was invited to look. Bruce was wide, his chest thick with muscle. He looked like a clenched fist—hard. Ready to strike. Dark hair sketched whorls around his nipples, made a triangle in the center of his chest, lead in a straight black line to his waistband, pointing right to his dick. Whit felt a bit of pleased lust that Bruce was definitely as hard as he was, his erection a thick bulge against his zipper. Bruce caught his line of sight and smirked, palmed himself. Slid his pants down out of the way and caught his dick as it bobbed free of the material. Whit twisted his head away, embarrassed at how hot he found the sight, Bruce's dick, dark, thick in his hand, the head glossy with precome.
"Whitney. Don't look away. I want you to watch me."
Whit didn't hear the sound he made when he turned back to Bruce but it had an effect on the man. Bruce's hand stuttered over his erection and he blinked, slow and even, before stepping out of his sandals and the wrinkled puddle of his trousers on the floor. "I wasn't sure what I wanted when you came in but now I am. I want to fuck you," he purred and Whit moaned.
"Can I, should I get…" He pulled at his shirt, blushed and wondered why in the hell he was asking a stranger for permission to get naked in front of him. A stranger who was already naked and looking at him like he was a rack of ribs…God.
"Go ahead. All of it. And then, show me."
Whit's hands shook as he worked buttons like he'd just learned the art. He yanked at his zipper and thrust his clothes away like they burned him, and then he was naked in front of Bruce. He dropped back to the bed and shoved up to collide with the headboard. And remembered Bruce saying, 'show me'…he spread his legs, dying inside, skin bright red and mortified but there was no ignoring what Bruce said….
"That's good, good boy. That's what I want."
Whit shivered in pleasure—still god-awful mortified by his actions and…and at how much it turned him on that Bruce seemed pleased.
"Wait," Bruce said, and moved out of Whit's line of sight. Whit refused to follow him with his eyes. He kept them locked on a spot on the wall and fought off his escalating sense of embarrassment—hard to do when he was splayed open, his own hands on his thighs holding himself open. His dick twitched, smearing gleaming little streaks on his skin. He was so fucked….
"Good boy. Give me your hands."
Whit gasped, dropped his legs without thinking and held his hands out to Bruce.
"Mmmm. You're. Obedient." He chuckled, took Whit's hands and crossed his wrists, one over the other. Before Whit was really aware of what Bruce was doing, his hands were trussed together and then fastened to the headboard, so tight he couldn't move them, couldn't do anything but lay exposed to Bruce's gaze…his dick jumped hard, and for a moment it felt like he'd come. Shit. He screwed his eyes shut. Oh man. Oh shit.
"I'm not going to hurt you, Whitney, not much. I won't do anything you won't like." Bruce's voice rumbled out against Whit's throat, low, rough, full of promises that Whit wasn't sure he wanted Bruce to keep. He yelled when Bruce touched his dick.
"Like that? Have you done this before, Whitney?"
"Yeah, yeah, I have—no, shit, not really. A few times. Maybe three."
Bruce didn't reply. He stretched himself along Whit's body, his hand falling between Whit's legs. His thumb pushed back, rubbing little circles behind his balls, making Whit tense and shiver. "Don't…"
"The time for 'no' is past, Whitney. Now, it all belongs to me." Bruce's thumb pressed against his tight opening, and Whit whimpered. Afraid, of pain, of being touched in places no one was supposed to touch, of giving up so completely.
Bruce laughed into his ear, licking around the shell. "Relax…it'll be better if you do. This is happening, one way or another." Whit jerked, moaned and his legs fell wider, he lifted his hips up to Bruce and let him in.
It felt—odd. Intrusive. And good. Warm and shivery waves of sensation slithered up his spine. He couldn't decide if it hurt or felt good, even though his muscles seemed to have decided it was amazing. He felt himself opening, shamed that it took so little to override any desire he had not to let Bruce do this to him. When his fingers slid in, stretching him wide, all he could think was more, deeper. Bruce swiveled his fingers, crooked them and pressed and Whit gasped so fast and deep, he almost choked. It felt like…fireworks inside him, warm sparkly fireworks that made him shudder and groan. Bruce spread his fingers and Whit's hips thrust up; he pushed back down on them and liked the movement so much he did it again, and again, until he was fucking himself on Bruce's fingers.
"God. Let me…" Bruce moved back on to his knees, and did something blocked from Whit's view by the end of the bed. When he rose, pushed his fingers back inside, it was different, smoother, a moment of coolness that quickly turned hot—wet. "Better?"
It was. it was better, so much so that he couldn't stop moaning, screwing down on Bruce's fingers. It was so fucking good and he knew it could get better. "Come on, come on, please—"
"What," Bruce smirked, too fucking cool and controlled. "What do you want?"
"You know, damn it--don't make me say it."
"I should," Bruce said, "I should make you beg for it and tell me what you want…in detail. But…" He slid strong hands under Whit's legs, pulled them over his thighs. Whit yelled again—legs wide, his hole clenching at the fleeting kiss of cool air and then Bruce rubbed the head of his dick around and around that fluttering ring of muscle and Whit knew he was going to lose his mind.
"Hungry," Bruce muttered. "You want this. you want me in you." He sounded surprised, as if he'd expected Whit to beg him to stop.
"Please, now, please--" Whit shouted and Bruce's control cracked a bit. He groaned and pushed in, one long unstoppable slide in and Whit screamed.
It was good, shockingly good and his nerves fired endlessly, showers of hot sparks jerking him this way and that. Before he could draw in a breath, could even remember he needed to breathe, Bruce's hand, big like Clark's, wrapped around his dick. He started to jerk Whit off, a fast, smooth, roll of constant sensation. Between his dick in Bruce's hand, and Bruce's dick in his ass, he just couldn't shut up, he couldn't stop yelling. He'd be embarrassed if he wasn't close to dying from how fucking good it was.
Bruce snorted. "You're not dying," and Whit realized he'd been screaming that all out loud. But…Bruce's hands on him trembled, he was sweat-wet and red from forehead to chest—his cool definitely cracked. Whit felt proud of that, he was doing that to Bruce…fuck yes.
"Damn it, damn it…" Bruce kept muttering it over and over and Whit laughed out loud, right before he tightened all over, lost his voice, lost his mind. Being filled like he was, tightening down on Bruce—made him come harder than he'd ever come before, he was sure of it. He clenched and released, clenched and released. Come splattered his chest and his legs, Bruce and the bed…he imagined what it'd be like with Clark and yelped, shook and tried to come again.
Bruce shuddered, a long roll of muscular contraction that Whit could feel in his own skin. He came quietly, his eyes finally moving from Whit's face to some distant point. There was a smile on his face Whit bet Bruce didn't know was there and then his eyes closed, slowly and he said something soft, one word. Whit wished that he could have caught it. He'd loved to have plucked whatever it was right out of Bruce's brain and pulled it apart the way Bruce had just pulled him apart.
Bruce let his hands down, and untied them. The cracking ache that shot up both his arms surprised him, as did the sudden wave of exhaustion that tried to pull him under.
"Go ahead, go to sleep," Bruce whispered, Whit's hands in his. Whit felt safe, like he was wrapped up in Clark's ridiculously long arms and legs—tumbled into sleep before he even knew it.
WWWW
In the morning, Bruce was waiting on the balcony, a carafe of coffee on the little table and a local paper spread out in front of him, nibbling on toast like it was an average day…he glanced up at Whit. "Breakfast." Jerked his chin at the empty chair. "I'll take you back to camp after you eat."
Whit felt a little awkward—this man had seen him screaming and begging last night and now he was supposed to just sit—Whit winced as he sat and Bruce smirked, some how, not unkindly. "You don't have to," Whit said.
Bruce poured them both coffee, waited until Whit took a sip of his before drinking too. "But I want to. So…did last night clear up some things for you?"
Whit blushed a furious red, but only said, "I guess so." He shifted and gasped, mostly in surprise than in real pain at the sudden fierce ache that it brought. Bruce watched him, a surprisingly warm expression on his face and when he lifted his hand Whit leaned towards him, hardly aware that he did so. The sun caught on the braided wristlet as Bruce traced the curve of Whit's lip with his thumb—his mouth dropped open immediately and it was sheer will power that kept him from chasing that thumb, sucking it into his mouth.
Bruce sat back and twisted his thumb into the braided leather strip, smirked at the way Whit followed the movement with his eyes, the way the pink tip of his tongue came out to wet his suddenly dry lip. "Whitney…"
Whit jerked, fixed his gaze on Bruce. "I—" There was nothing to say, really, so Whit concentrated on the coffee, relishing the bitter burn, and doing his best to ignore the wall of Bruce across from him.
He heard the clink of china against china as Bruce set his cup down and surprised him by sighing. "Whitney. I would keep you. But I think you have unfinished business." He held up a hand when Whit wanted to protest—that thing with Lana was done, finished, not to mention the ego of this guy, who did he think he was—
"Find out Whitney, because the next time I see you, I won’t let you go so easily."
"Yeah. Okay." Whit gulped more of the coffee, winced as it burned his mouth, and watched the sun rise over the staggered rooftops.
1-8-2011
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Whitney/Bruce
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 4085
Summary: there will always be a new game to play
Notes/Warnings: Purest PWP. This takes place in my AU Smallville verse, where Whit never died and Bruce and Lex know each other very well, and Bruce is kind of a freak…well, that is more or less canon.
Smoke hung under the low ceiling, thick and rank. It was hard enough to see as it was, and the stench of cheap tobacco was fighting with the scent of alcohol, fresh and ancient, not to mention the reek of bodies, lots and lots of bodies….
Whit was almost inclined to leave--almost. But the idea of couple of cold—or luke-warm--beers sounded too good to turn down. Besides, he had a lot to think about. His fingers traced over the edges of a many-folded sheet of note book paper.
He shrugged and wended his way through the gyrating crowd, to a small table in the rear of the bar. He liked its position, under a stone arch. It was hot back there with the breeze of the fans unable to reach that spot but it was dark and separate and that's what he wanted. He hoped he wasn't going to run into anyone from his squad, he wanted privacy, wanted to be alone and just think. He had about enough of the language to make himself understood and that was all he needed. He set his beer down and took the letter out again. He could feel his forehead draw tight with frustration, anger. This thin bit of paper was the only answer he could give Lana and her tape…letting her go hurt, but not in the way she expected. Unlike Lana, he'd save his struggle to come to terms with his feelings until he met her in person. There was just no way he could explain this to her, or understand it himself until he was home again.
"Let me guess."
Whit looked up; annoyed—and stopped, mouth open. For one sharp split second, he'd thought the guy hanging over his table was Clark. But no…he actually looked nothing like Clark, he was just—big, and dark like Clark, with piercing blue eyes that reminded him of Clark's green eyes in the way they looked right into you, through you…the guy was probably a reporter, but he was wearing a linen suit that was obviously expensive.
"Bad news from home?" The look on the guy's face was at odds with the concern in his voice. Completely faked. The guy didn't give a shit about 'bad news' but there was an interest in his eyes Whit had lately come to recognize.
Whit shrugged, laughed—sharp and bitter. "I guess you could say that. My 'girlfriend' decided that we made much better friends than lovers. Nice of her to let me know now."
The other guy gave him a sympathetic look not at all echoed in his eyes. "Know what you mean," he said, "I've been there…too many times," he finished wryly and Whit laughed again, but this time he really felt the humor he'd pretended.
"Yeah. Barely a note from her since I've been gone, but tons of cards and stuff from some guy I just barely got to know before I left town…" Whit shook his head, took a deep drink of the bitter, dark beer he'd been clutching. "Life's weird some times."
"Yes. My friend…communicates with me from time to time…always nice to be reminded of home." He fiddled with a thin leather braid around his wrist as he talked, twisting and loosening it around his thick fingers. Whit blinked, realized he'd zoned out on the wristlet's movement. He glanced up at the man's face and was startled to see a rather dark look in his eyes, totally at odds with the mild expression, and soft voice. The man held his hand out. "Bruce" he said, and Whit took it.
"Whitney," he said and following Bruce kept his last name to himself. "Most people call me Whit—I prefer it myself."
"Really? But Whitney, it's an elegant name. It's lyrical, leaves the mouth like a sigh. Nice."
Whit felt a flush tint his face, he was suddenly a bit hotter, his mouth dry, and he thought of Clark, lobbing that basketball, shot after shot, against the barn wall, sweating…Whit was as hard as he'd been that day he'd watched Clark sweat and had had no idea why. Not then.
Bruce smirked, had the nerve to run his tongue, the pointed tip of it, into the tiny opening of the bottle, let it trace the opening… two fingers stroked slowly up and down the bottle's neck, two thick fingers and Whit imagined what they'd feel like working him open….
He dropped his eyes and felt the flame rushing up the back of his neck. He was so hard it was painful, not to mention angry at being played.
"What?" Bruce purred. "Something wrong? Lots of people have a hard time adjusting to the heat. Where are you from?"
"Kansas," Whit bit out and the man looked surprised.
"I know someone from Kansas. We're…we were close, once. Where specifically, if you don't mind my asking?"
"You've never heard of it, promise. Smallville. The name says it all."
Bruce leaned back and his expression went flat, unreadable. "You're right. Never have. So, Whitney. Unless I'm reading this wrong, you might like to come back to my room some time. I keep some shitty American beer on hand, if you'd be interested. Look," he said, standing. "Here's my address. Just…come whenever you want. If I'm not there, someone will get me. But I'm almost always there."
The smile he gave Whit curled one side of his mouth. His blue eyes had gone a smoky cobalt and Whit managed to swallow the groan that wanted to come loose. Something about this guy…was fucking scary. Whit thought hard. It was plain what Bruce had on his mind, but Whit wasn't sure if he was up to it. He didn't know anything—a few furtive handjobs behind a bar, a little fumbling in the shower on his own didn't exactly add up to experience but Bruce projected something that made his bones light up, that same thing he got around Lex—the bastard. God he hated that, that thing he could barely control. Around Lex, he burned. Around Clark…Clark he wanted to seduce, to win all for himself, every bit of the sweet innocent guy Clark was. Lex, he wanted to throw down and fuck until he screamed. He wanted to bite and mark, shove his arm right up to the elbow in him, rip out what made him so fucking—fucking--
He was breathing harder, his cheeks were burning. Bruce was smiling like he knew what was going on his mind. Whit got that with Bruce, it would go in a different way…very much so. He found himself wondering how different.
Bruce said something and was gone before Whit could even exhale. He turned the card over in his hand. It was a fucking expensive card. Creamy to the touch, black lettering slightly raised against his fingertips. On impulse he raised it to his face and caught the scent of some cologne, realizing what he'd done made him flush again. He had no doubt that meeting up with Bruce would be the craziest thing he could possibly do—crazy and probably dangerous, on an epic level.
Whit was working his way through a concrete warren—the streets wove in and out of each other like a Celtic knot. He darted through traffic that moved in fits and starts, breathing in burning diesel and oil, deafened by the squawk of car horns. He dodged a car and leaped up onto a curb, wiping sweat out of his eyes and wondering why he'd even wasted his time showering that morning. He grimaced at the ticklish feel of sweat running down his ribs and wet fabric clinging to his skin with every movement.
Whit tried to relax, exhaled slowly. Swell neighborhood, he thought and hoped that Bruce's apartment was going to be a lot nicer than what he could see around him. He clutched the card and sighed. He had one more night before he needed to report back to camp. If he didn't find Bruce soon, he was going to give it up. Hell, he should give it up. He still felt this was a bad idea….
He turned down another twisty street, and was about to risk asking a stranger if they knew where the address on the card was when he heard a shout. On the upper floor of a solid looking old building, he caught sight of a balcony, louvered doors open wide and Bruce in linen pants and a skin tight a-shirt was waving to him.
"There's a door in the alley-way, Whitney—come on up."
Whit carefully made his way up the narrow staircase, eyes out for an open doorway. Three floors up, Bruce was waiting for him, with a smirk and a bottle of beer, beads of water rolling down its side and dripping onto the tiled floor.
"Bet you're ready for this," he smiled, and there was Clark again. Small, sweet, smile, blue eyes that he could easily see as green…dark hair falling across a wide forehead. The impulse to brush the hair away almost overwhelmed him and Whit felt relieved when Bruce threw his hair back and the smile resettled into that smart-ass smirk. Bruce jerked his chin towards the door way and Whit walked in.
There was little in the room, a couch and a desk and a short bookshelf. A bed behind an openwork screen. The couch faced the desk and a laptop was open and turned towards it. There were low tables scattered here and there…"Nice," Whit said. "Clean." He set the now empty bottle down on the nearest table and waited.
Bruce snorted. "Sit down." Whit looked towards the couch, went past it and sat on the bed.
Bruce laughed. "Okay." He took a beer from the small fridge in the corner of the room. "I had food and all, maybe we can eat later."
"This isn't a date," Whit growled.
"Maybe not, but hungry is hungry."
"Yeah, whatever," Whit muttered and leaned back on the bed. He'd been nervous when he'd thought it was just about sex, but now, when it was turning into something like…a date, or friends hanging out instead of a hook-up, he was terrified. All of this was crazy and nuts and he felt like he was falling headfirst down the rabbit hole.
Bruce emptied his own bottle, Whit noticed without wasting time fellating it as he had in the club—Whit was a sure thing, after all. Bruce licked his lips and sank to his knees at the edge of the bed, a fluid move that ended with his elbows resting on the mattress. He pressed a hot, dry, little kiss to Whit's calf. Whit shuddered—his instinct was to pull away, but he forced himself to still. Bruce murmured in approval, smoothed his hand up Whit's calf. The feather-light touch tickled the hair on Whit's leg. The gentle sweep of fingers slowed, curled around Whit's kneecap. Bruce's thumb stroked the skin, sent a warm shiver from Whit's knee to his dick, the slight pressure loosened the tense set of his legs. He'd never been touched this way before, like it…mattered, like he was worth touching. Bruce spoke, so low Whit couldn't catch it, and moved his hand higher up Whit's thigh, until his fingertips were tracing the edge of Whit's shorts.
"I'm going to take these off," Bruce said, tugging at the hem of his shorts and then slipping fingertips under the fabric, tracing a loop on the sensitive inner skin of Whit's thigh, higher as Bruce's hand pushed the material up. He sucked an open-mouthed, toothy kiss high as he could reach, fingertips just stroking the sweat-tacky skin of his balls and Whit's head dropped back, his hips jerked and trembled, his knees dropped open. Bruce laughed, soft and sly. "I knew you'd be this responsive. I could see it in your face, yesterday at the bar. Hear it in the way you breathed…" He sucked harder, pulling blood to the surface and Whit's legs fell wider, a quiet groan rolling off his tongue. His dick struggled to rise against the fabric of his shorts, pulsing in time to Bruce biting and sucking at his tender skin. He wanted to blame it on not being laid in while—a long while—but that was only half of it. Since Clark, he'd wanted this, wanted to know. What it felt like to have sex with a man. Or…not just that. What it'd be like to give up control to someone else….
A sharp sudden pain brought a yelp out of him. He lifted his head and Bruce was smiling at him. "I want you here with me when we do this. I want all of your attention—understand?" His thumb came down on the spot he'd bit and Whit yowled—it hurt, but there was also a sudden spurt of wetness darkening the fabric of his shorts. He shook and groaned. Bruce licked the darkened spot, his tongue hot and wet even though the khaki. It felt even better when Bruce closed his teeth over his aching dick.
"Hey." Bruce lifted away from the bed and peeled off his skin tight a-shirt. Whit made himself look. The first time he'd openly looked at a man, was invited to look. Bruce was wide, his chest thick with muscle. He looked like a clenched fist—hard. Ready to strike. Dark hair sketched whorls around his nipples, made a triangle in the center of his chest, lead in a straight black line to his waistband, pointing right to his dick. Whit felt a bit of pleased lust that Bruce was definitely as hard as he was, his erection a thick bulge against his zipper. Bruce caught his line of sight and smirked, palmed himself. Slid his pants down out of the way and caught his dick as it bobbed free of the material. Whit twisted his head away, embarrassed at how hot he found the sight, Bruce's dick, dark, thick in his hand, the head glossy with precome.
"Whitney. Don't look away. I want you to watch me."
Whit didn't hear the sound he made when he turned back to Bruce but it had an effect on the man. Bruce's hand stuttered over his erection and he blinked, slow and even, before stepping out of his sandals and the wrinkled puddle of his trousers on the floor. "I wasn't sure what I wanted when you came in but now I am. I want to fuck you," he purred and Whit moaned.
"Can I, should I get…" He pulled at his shirt, blushed and wondered why in the hell he was asking a stranger for permission to get naked in front of him. A stranger who was already naked and looking at him like he was a rack of ribs…God.
"Go ahead. All of it. And then, show me."
Whit's hands shook as he worked buttons like he'd just learned the art. He yanked at his zipper and thrust his clothes away like they burned him, and then he was naked in front of Bruce. He dropped back to the bed and shoved up to collide with the headboard. And remembered Bruce saying, 'show me'…he spread his legs, dying inside, skin bright red and mortified but there was no ignoring what Bruce said….
"That's good, good boy. That's what I want."
Whit shivered in pleasure—still god-awful mortified by his actions and…and at how much it turned him on that Bruce seemed pleased.
"Wait," Bruce said, and moved out of Whit's line of sight. Whit refused to follow him with his eyes. He kept them locked on a spot on the wall and fought off his escalating sense of embarrassment—hard to do when he was splayed open, his own hands on his thighs holding himself open. His dick twitched, smearing gleaming little streaks on his skin. He was so fucked….
"Good boy. Give me your hands."
Whit gasped, dropped his legs without thinking and held his hands out to Bruce.
"Mmmm. You're. Obedient." He chuckled, took Whit's hands and crossed his wrists, one over the other. Before Whit was really aware of what Bruce was doing, his hands were trussed together and then fastened to the headboard, so tight he couldn't move them, couldn't do anything but lay exposed to Bruce's gaze…his dick jumped hard, and for a moment it felt like he'd come. Shit. He screwed his eyes shut. Oh man. Oh shit.
"I'm not going to hurt you, Whitney, not much. I won't do anything you won't like." Bruce's voice rumbled out against Whit's throat, low, rough, full of promises that Whit wasn't sure he wanted Bruce to keep. He yelled when Bruce touched his dick.
"Like that? Have you done this before, Whitney?"
"Yeah, yeah, I have—no, shit, not really. A few times. Maybe three."
Bruce didn't reply. He stretched himself along Whit's body, his hand falling between Whit's legs. His thumb pushed back, rubbing little circles behind his balls, making Whit tense and shiver. "Don't…"
"The time for 'no' is past, Whitney. Now, it all belongs to me." Bruce's thumb pressed against his tight opening, and Whit whimpered. Afraid, of pain, of being touched in places no one was supposed to touch, of giving up so completely.
Bruce laughed into his ear, licking around the shell. "Relax…it'll be better if you do. This is happening, one way or another." Whit jerked, moaned and his legs fell wider, he lifted his hips up to Bruce and let him in.
It felt—odd. Intrusive. And good. Warm and shivery waves of sensation slithered up his spine. He couldn't decide if it hurt or felt good, even though his muscles seemed to have decided it was amazing. He felt himself opening, shamed that it took so little to override any desire he had not to let Bruce do this to him. When his fingers slid in, stretching him wide, all he could think was more, deeper. Bruce swiveled his fingers, crooked them and pressed and Whit gasped so fast and deep, he almost choked. It felt like…fireworks inside him, warm sparkly fireworks that made him shudder and groan. Bruce spread his fingers and Whit's hips thrust up; he pushed back down on them and liked the movement so much he did it again, and again, until he was fucking himself on Bruce's fingers.
"God. Let me…" Bruce moved back on to his knees, and did something blocked from Whit's view by the end of the bed. When he rose, pushed his fingers back inside, it was different, smoother, a moment of coolness that quickly turned hot—wet. "Better?"
It was. it was better, so much so that he couldn't stop moaning, screwing down on Bruce's fingers. It was so fucking good and he knew it could get better. "Come on, come on, please—"
"What," Bruce smirked, too fucking cool and controlled. "What do you want?"
"You know, damn it--don't make me say it."
"I should," Bruce said, "I should make you beg for it and tell me what you want…in detail. But…" He slid strong hands under Whit's legs, pulled them over his thighs. Whit yelled again—legs wide, his hole clenching at the fleeting kiss of cool air and then Bruce rubbed the head of his dick around and around that fluttering ring of muscle and Whit knew he was going to lose his mind.
"Hungry," Bruce muttered. "You want this. you want me in you." He sounded surprised, as if he'd expected Whit to beg him to stop.
"Please, now, please--" Whit shouted and Bruce's control cracked a bit. He groaned and pushed in, one long unstoppable slide in and Whit screamed.
It was good, shockingly good and his nerves fired endlessly, showers of hot sparks jerking him this way and that. Before he could draw in a breath, could even remember he needed to breathe, Bruce's hand, big like Clark's, wrapped around his dick. He started to jerk Whit off, a fast, smooth, roll of constant sensation. Between his dick in Bruce's hand, and Bruce's dick in his ass, he just couldn't shut up, he couldn't stop yelling. He'd be embarrassed if he wasn't close to dying from how fucking good it was.
Bruce snorted. "You're not dying," and Whit realized he'd been screaming that all out loud. But…Bruce's hands on him trembled, he was sweat-wet and red from forehead to chest—his cool definitely cracked. Whit felt proud of that, he was doing that to Bruce…fuck yes.
"Damn it, damn it…" Bruce kept muttering it over and over and Whit laughed out loud, right before he tightened all over, lost his voice, lost his mind. Being filled like he was, tightening down on Bruce—made him come harder than he'd ever come before, he was sure of it. He clenched and released, clenched and released. Come splattered his chest and his legs, Bruce and the bed…he imagined what it'd be like with Clark and yelped, shook and tried to come again.
Bruce shuddered, a long roll of muscular contraction that Whit could feel in his own skin. He came quietly, his eyes finally moving from Whit's face to some distant point. There was a smile on his face Whit bet Bruce didn't know was there and then his eyes closed, slowly and he said something soft, one word. Whit wished that he could have caught it. He'd loved to have plucked whatever it was right out of Bruce's brain and pulled it apart the way Bruce had just pulled him apart.
Bruce let his hands down, and untied them. The cracking ache that shot up both his arms surprised him, as did the sudden wave of exhaustion that tried to pull him under.
"Go ahead, go to sleep," Bruce whispered, Whit's hands in his. Whit felt safe, like he was wrapped up in Clark's ridiculously long arms and legs—tumbled into sleep before he even knew it.
In the morning, Bruce was waiting on the balcony, a carafe of coffee on the little table and a local paper spread out in front of him, nibbling on toast like it was an average day…he glanced up at Whit. "Breakfast." Jerked his chin at the empty chair. "I'll take you back to camp after you eat."
Whit felt a little awkward—this man had seen him screaming and begging last night and now he was supposed to just sit—Whit winced as he sat and Bruce smirked, some how, not unkindly. "You don't have to," Whit said.
Bruce poured them both coffee, waited until Whit took a sip of his before drinking too. "But I want to. So…did last night clear up some things for you?"
Whit blushed a furious red, but only said, "I guess so." He shifted and gasped, mostly in surprise than in real pain at the sudden fierce ache that it brought. Bruce watched him, a surprisingly warm expression on his face and when he lifted his hand Whit leaned towards him, hardly aware that he did so. The sun caught on the braided wristlet as Bruce traced the curve of Whit's lip with his thumb—his mouth dropped open immediately and it was sheer will power that kept him from chasing that thumb, sucking it into his mouth.
Bruce sat back and twisted his thumb into the braided leather strip, smirked at the way Whit followed the movement with his eyes, the way the pink tip of his tongue came out to wet his suddenly dry lip. "Whitney…"
Whit jerked, fixed his gaze on Bruce. "I—" There was nothing to say, really, so Whit concentrated on the coffee, relishing the bitter burn, and doing his best to ignore the wall of Bruce across from him.
He heard the clink of china against china as Bruce set his cup down and surprised him by sighing. "Whitney. I would keep you. But I think you have unfinished business." He held up a hand when Whit wanted to protest—that thing with Lana was done, finished, not to mention the ego of this guy, who did he think he was—
"Find out Whitney, because the next time I see you, I won’t let you go so easily."
"Yeah. Okay." Whit gulped more of the coffee, winced as it burned his mouth, and watched the sun rise over the staggered rooftops.
1-8-2011
no subject
I'm also surprised nobody commented on this! It's very well-written, and I like the tension you've managed to write in it :)
no subject
no one reads my stuff here, but the fic got a pretty good response at LJ, where people know I used to write borderline BDSM Bruce.
Anyhoo, thanks so much for brightening my day!! *HUGS*